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Church, on earth, with answering love, Echoes her mother's joys above: These yearly feast-days she may keep, And yet for endless festals weep.

In this world's valley, dim and wild, That Mother must assist the child; And heavenly guards must pitch their tents, And range their ranks in our defence.

The world, the flesh, and Satan's rage, Their differing wars against us wage; And when their phantom-hosts come on, The Sabbath of the heart is gone: