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The early trees put forth | Their new an tender leaf | hushed is the moaning wind | That told of winter's greif.
The early scattered drops | Descend with heavy fall, | And to the waiting earth | The hidden thunders call.
The God of glory comes | In gnetleness and might, | To comfort and alarm, | To succour and to smite.
He comes to fill with light | The weary waiting eye: | Lift up your head rejoice | Redemption draweth night. Amen.
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