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Precious Bible

8, 7, 8, 7, 7, 7


Precious Bible, what a treasure,

Does the word of God afford!

All I want for life or pleasure,

Food or medicine, shield or sword.

Let the world account me poor,

Having this, I want no more.


Food to which the world's a stranger,

Here my hungry soul enjoys;

Of excess there is no danger,

Though it fills, it never cloys.

On a dying Christ I feed,

He is meat and drink indeed.

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