So fades the lovely blooming flow’r,
Frail, smiling solace of an hour;
So soon our transient comforts fly,
And pleasure only blooms to die.

Is there no kind, no healing art,
To soothe the anguish of the heart?
Spirit of grace, be ever nigh;
Thy comforts are not made to die.

Let gentle patience smile on pain,
Till dying hope revives again,
Hope wipes the tear from sorrow’s eye,
And faith points upward to the sky.

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