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Come Thou in whom our toil is weet,

Our hadow in the noon-day heat,

Before whom mourning flieth fleet.

Bright Sun of Grace! Thy unhine dart

On all who cry to Thee apart,

And fill with gladnes every heart.

Whate'er without Thy aid is wrought,

Or kilful deed, or wieft thought,

God counts it vain and merely naught.

O cleane us that we in no more,

O'er parchèd ouls Thy waters pour;

Heal the ad heart that acheth ore.