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Rh And though our eyes are ever blest His face unveil'd to see. He comes to you a hidden guest, To make you blest as we. Then, little children, fear ye not To join our joyous strain; And sing the Lamb without a spot On Calvary's mountain slain."

 

the winter's day had dawn'd, When London streets were still, And through the close-shut window-frame The morning air came chill, A barefoot child pass'd down the street, With cresses on her head; And as her mother paus'd to kneel, With wond'ring look she said:

"O mother! will you tell me why. When we pass by this way, You fold your hands and bend the knee As if you stopp'd to pray? The street is soil,—except ourselves No creature can I see; And surely to these empty walls You would not bend the knee?" "These are no empty walls, my child," That mother made reply; "The temple of the Lord of hosts We now are passing by. 