Page:The seven great hymns of the mediaeval church - 1902.djvu/58

28 Bore with me in defilement, And from defilement laved, When in His trength I truggle, For very joy I leap, When in my in I totter, I weep, or try to weep: But grace, weet grace celetial, Shall all its love diplay, And David's Royal Fountain Purge every in away.

O mine, my golden Syon! O lovelier far than gold, With laurel-girt battalions, And afe victorious fold! O weet and bleed Country, Shall I ever ee thy face? O weet and bleed Country, Shall I ever win thy grace?

I have the hope within me To comfort and to bles! Shall I ever win the prize itelf? O tell me, tell me, Yes!