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409t Little Marlborough


And must this body die?
This mortal frame decay?
And must these active limbs of mine,
Lie mould'ring in the clay?

Corruption, earth, and worms
Shall but refine this flesh,
Till my triumphant spirit comes
To put it on afresh.

God, my Redeemer, lives,
And often, from the skies,
Looks down and watches all my dust,
Till He shall bid it rise.

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