Keep Us, Lord, So Awake In The

Let Not Thy Divining Heart Forethink Me Any Ill; Destiny May Take Thy Part, And May Thy Fears Fulfill.

Love's Mysteries In Souls Do Grow, But Yet The Body Is His Book.

Since You Would Save None Of Me, I Bury Some Of You.

And When A Whirl-winde Hath Blowne The Dust Of The Churchyard Into The Church, And Man Sweeps Out The Dust Of The Church Into The Church-yard, Who Will Undertake To Sift Those Dusts Again, And To Pronounce, This Is The Patrician, This Is The Noble Flower, And This The Yeomanly, This The Plebian Bran.

Let Man's Soul Be A Sphere, And Then, In This, The Intelligence That Moves, Devotion Is.