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H. M.


The Gospel.

Mark the soft falling snow

And the diffusive rain!

To heaven, from whence it fell,

It turns not back again;

Till, watering earth

Through every pore,

It calls forth all

Her secret store.

Arrayed in beauteous green,

The hills and valleys shine,

And man and beast are fed

By providence divine:

The harvest bows

Its golden ears,

The copious seed

Of future years.

“So,” saith the God of grace,

“My gospel shall descend,

Almighty to effect

The purpose I intend;

Millions of souls

Shall feel its power,

And bear it down

To millions more.”

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