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Rh Whose streams our inward thirst appease, And heal the sinner's worst disease, If he but bathe therein.

Oh, to be sprinkled from the wells Of Christ's own sacred Blood excels Earth's best and highest bliss: The ministers of wrath divine Hurt not the happy hearts that shine With those red drops of His.

Ah, there is joy amid the Saints, And hell's despairing courage faints, When this sweet song we raise: Oh, louder then, and louder still, Earth with one mighty chorus fill, The Precious Blood to praise!

 

, sing, ye Angel bands, All beautiful and bright; For higher still, and higher, Through the vast fields of light, Mary your Queen ascends, Like the sweet moon at night.

A fairer flower than she On earth hath never been; And, save the throne of God, Your heav'ns have never seen A wonder half so bright As your ascending Queen.

O happy Angels! look, How beautiful she is! 