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Hymn 40

 The business and blessedness of glorified saints.
"What happy men, or angels, these, That all their robes are spotless white? Whence did this glorious troop arrive At the pure realms of heav'nly light?" From torturing racks, and burning fires, And seas of their own blood, they came; But nobler blood has washed their robes, Flowing from Christ the dying Lamb.
Now they approach th' Almighty throne With loud hosannahs night and day; Sweet anthems to the great Three One Measure their blest eternity.
No more shall hunger pain their souls; He bids their parching thirst begone, And spreads the shadow of his wings To screen them from the scorching sun.
The Lamb that fills the middle throne Shall shed around his milder beams; There shall they feast on his rich love, And drink full joys from living streams.
Thus shall their mighty bliss renew Through the vast round of endless years; And the soft hand of sovereign grace Heals all their wounds and wipes their tears.

Poem by Isaac Watts
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Book: Shattered Sighs