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C. M.


The Hymn of the Last Supper.

The winds are hushed; the peaceful moon

Looks down on Zion’s hill;

The city sleeps; ’tis night’s calm moon,

And all the streets are still.

How soft, how holy, is the light!

And hark! a sweet, low song,

As gently as these dews of night,

Floats on the air along.

Affection’s wish, devotion’s prayer,

Are in that holy strain;

And hope and love and trust are there,

And triumph, won through pain.

’Tis Jesus and his faithful few

That soul-deep hymn who pour;—

O Christ! may we the song renew,

And learn to love thee more.

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