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88 Pisgah


And let this feeble body fail,
And let it faint and die;
My soul shall quit this mournful vale,
And soar to worlds on high.

Shall join the disembodied saints,
And find its long-sought rest,
That only bliss for which it pants,
In my Redeemer's breast.

In hope of that immortal crown,
I now the cross sustain,
And gladly wander up and down,
And smile at toil and pain.

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