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L. M.


Through His Poverty Made Rich.

On the dark-wave of Galilee

The gloom of twilight gathers fast;

And o’er the waters heavily

Sweeps cold and drear the evening blast.

Still near the lake, with weary tread,

Lingers a form of human kind;

And on his lone, unsheltered head,

Flows the chill night-damp of the wind.

Why seeks he not a home of rest?

Why seeks he not the pillowed bed?

Beasts have their dens, the bird his nest;—

He hath not where to lay his head.

Such was the lot he freely chose,

To bless, to save, the human race;

And through his poverty there flows

A rich, full stream of heavenly grace.

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