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 I know, to die—to part, will cloud The brightest spirit o'er; And yet, wouldst thou for ever weep, When he can weep no more?

Fix not thy sight, so long and fast, Upon the shroud's despair; Look upward unto Zion's hill, For death was also there! And think, ' The death, the scourge, the scorn, My sinless Saviour bore— The curse—the pang, too deep for tears— That I should weep no more!'