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18 There sweet Jesus reigns, and angels fair His throne surround; Blessed saints who bore his cross are there, With glory crown'd. Then, my soul, be thou in every hour To God thy Saviour given, And be now on earth a Passion-flower, To bloom in heaven.

 

little babe is dead, it lies Its coffin small within, And clos'd are both its pretty eyes, And waxen white its skin. Ah, where is now the thing that play'd Like light around its face, Which all its infant movements made So full of life and grace?

And can this be the merry child That was so fond of me, Who never saw me but he smil'd And clapp'd his hands in glee? It seems, and yet it seems not him; 'Tis like him and 'tis not: Oh, what has made his look so dim, Or can I have forgot?

No, darling, thou hast not forgot; Our own sweet babe we see: 