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SHOT, like an arrow, thro’ the air,
My life is flying. Where, oh where?
The sudden flights on which I go,
And what the aim I may not know.
Ah, when this troubled heart is dead,
When the mark the shaft has sped;
Then should my soul unerring know
The mark to which I trembling go.
Then speeding toward this unknown mark
Need I go trembling thro’ the dark?
No. For one thing I surely know,
It was God’s hand that bent the bow.
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