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38

To weep thy woe my cry is waxen strong:—

But dreaming of thine own restored anew

I am a harp to sound for thee thy song.

My heart to Bethel sorely yearneth yet,

Peniel and Mahanaim; yea, where'er

In holy concourse all thy pure ones met.

There the Shechinah dwelt in thee; and He,

God thy Creator, lo, He opened there

Toward the gates of Heaven the gates of thee.

And only glory from the Lord was thine

For light; and moon and stars and sunshine waned,

Nor gave more light unto thy light divine.

O I would choose but for my soul to pour

Itself where then the Spirit of God remained,

Outpoured upon thy chosen ones of yore.