How long, dear Savior, Oh how long
Shall this bright hour delay?
Fly swift around, ye wheels of time,
And bring the promised day.

The God of glory down to men
Removes His blest abode;
Men, the dear object of His grace,
And He the living God.

His own soft hand shall wipe the tears
From ev’ry weeping eye,
And pains and groans and griefs and fears
And death itself shall die.

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