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Rh

SK, is it well, O thou consumed of fire,

With those that mourn for thee,

That yearn to tread thy courts, that sore desire

Thy sanctuary;

That, panting for thy land's sweet dust, are grieved,

And sorrow in their souls,

And by the flames of wasting fire bereaved,

Mourn for thy scrolls;

That grope in shadow of unbroken night,

Waiting the day to see

Which o'er them yet shall cast a radiance bright,

And over thee?