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hey loved to hear. The memory of their earthly throne Still to our holy temple clings, But here the kneeling suppliants own One only Lord, the King of kings. Hark! while our hymn of grateful praise The solemn echoing vaults prolong, The far-off voice of earlier days Blends with our own in hallowed song: To Him who ever lives and reigns, Whom all the hosts of heaven adore, Who lent the life His breath sustains, Be glory now and evermore! HYMN.--THE WORD OF PROMISE (by supposition) An Hymn set forth to be sung by the Great Assembly at Newtown, [Mass.] Mo. 12. 1. 1636. [Written by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, eldest son of Rev. ABIEL HOLMES, eighth Pastor of the First Church in Cambridge, Massachusetts.] LORD, Thou hast led us as of old Thine Arm led forth the chosen Race Through Foes that raged, through Floods that roll'd, To Canaan's far-off Dwelling-Place. Here is Thy bounteous Table spread, Thy Manna falls on every Field, Thy Grace our hungering Souls hath fed, Thy Might hath been our Spear and Shield. Lift high Thy Buckler, Lord of Hosts! Guard Thou Thy Servants, Sons and Sires, While on the Godless heathen Coasts They light Thine Israel's Altar-fires! The salvage Wilderness remote Shall hear Thy Works and Wonders sung; So from the Rock that Moses smote The Fountain of the Desart sprung. Soon shall the slumbering Morn awake, From wandering Stars of Errour freed, When Christ the Bread of Heaven shall break For Saints that own a common Creed. The Walls that fence His Flocks apart Shall crack and crumble in Decay, And every Tongue and every Heart Shall welcome in the new-born Day. Then shall His glorious Church rejoice His Word of Promise to recall,-- ONE SHELTERING FOLD, ONE SHEPHERD'S VOICE, ONE GOD AND FATHER OVER ALL! HYMN READ AT THE DEDICATION OF THE OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES HOSPITAL AT HUDSON, WISCONSIN JUNE 7, 1877 ANGEL of love, for every grief Its soothing balm thy mercy brings, For every pang its healing leaf, For homeless want, thine outspread, wings. Enough for thee the pleading eye, The knitted brow of silent pain; The portals open to a sigh Without the clank of bolt or chain. Who is our brother? He that lies Left at the wayside, bruised and sore His need our open hand supplies, His welcome waits him at our door. Not ours to ask in freezing tones His race, his calling, or his creed; Each heart the tie of kinship owns, When those are
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