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 Death hath no power to hurt you more, Whose own is Life's eternal store,— Who sow their seed, and, sowing, weep, In everlasting joy shall reap: What time they shine in heavenly day, And every tear is wiped away.

O City blest o'er all the earth, Who gloriest in the birth! Whose are His earliest Martyrs dear, By kindred and by triumph here. None from henceforth may call thee small;— Of rival towns thou passest all; In whom our Monarch had His Birth,— O City blest o'er all the earh!