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S. M.


The Bow in the Cloud.

Out of the depths of woe,

To Thee, O Lord, I cry;

Darkness surrounds Thee, but I know

That Thou art ever nigh.

Like them whose longing eyes

Watch till the morning star,

Though late and seen through tempests, rise,

Heaven’s portals to unbar,—

Like them I watch and pray;

And though it tarry long,

Catch the first gleam of welcome day

Then burst into a song.

Glory to God above!

The waters soon will cease;

For lo, the swift returning dove

Brings home the sign of peace.

Though storms Thy face obscure,

And dangers threaten loud,

Thy holy covenant is sure;

Thy bow is in the cloud!

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