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hath his own. To thee the light
 * That broods in tender eyes—

To me the darkness and the blight
 * Of lonely wasting sighs.

In fields where fruits and flowers press,
 * With manna thou wert fed;

In many a thorny wilderness
 * My bleeding feet were led.

God's face shone through the stars for thee,
 * And life came tender-wise;

Through sorrow's mists He looked at me—
 * My portion, sacrifice.

For thee there shone in distant gleams
 * Illimitable day;

I drank from Marah's bitter streams,
 * And went my lonely way.

I would not change! To each his own;
 * The rugged steeps I trod

Familiar to my feet have grown,
 * And yet may lead to God.