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Thy golden censers filled with odors
Shall make thy actions with their ends to meet.
WHEN with the virgin morning thou dost rise, Crossing thyself, come thus to sacrifice; First wash thy heart in innocence, then bring
Pure hands, pure habits, pure, pure every thing.
Next to the altar humbly kneel, and
Give up thy soul in clouds of frankincense.
THE night is come like to the
Depart not thou, great God, away,
Thou, whose nature cannot sleep,
Whose eyes are open while mine close.
Let no dreams my head infest
SIR THOMAS BROWNE.
LORD, when I quit this earthly stage, Where shall I fly but to thy breast? For I have sought no other home, For I have learned no other rest.
I cannot live contented here, Without some glimpses of thy face; And heaven without thy presence there
Would be a dark and tiresome place.