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L. M.



Thy servant’s sandals, Lord, are wet

With Jordan’s wave but lately met,

And in that sacred river fall

The olden thoughts, the spirit’s pall.

He stands upon the holy land,

And angels take his trustful hand;

The Jordan sanctifies his breast,

And Christ now leads him to his rest.

His rest? his battle! he must win

Fair Zion’s gate through ranks of sin;

Why are these words, this solemn show,

If sin be not his deadly foe?

There gathers here no heavenly host;

No fiery tongues of Pentecost,—

No gentle dove with winnowing wings

The spirit to thy servant brings.

The still, small voice hath called him here,

And thus is God himself most near:—

My people, lift your hearts in prayer,

And keep your God forever there.

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