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 The sacred ransomed number Now bright with endless sheen, Who made the Cross their watchword Of Nazarene: Who, fed with heavenly nectar, Where soul-like odors play, Draw out the endless leisure Of that long vernal day: And through the sacred lilies, And flowers on every side, The happy dear-bought people Go wandering far and wide. Their breasts are filled with gladness, Their mouths are tun'd to praise, What time, now safe forever, On former sins they gaze: The fouler was the error, The sadder was the fall, The ampler are the praises Of Him Who pardoned all. Their one and only anthem, The fulness of His love, Who gives, instead of torment, Eternal joys above: Instead of torment, glory; Instead of death, that life Wherewith your happy Country, True Isarelites! is rife.