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Poem	A Word made Flesh is seldom And tremblingly partook Nor then perhaps reported But have I not mistook Each one of us has tasted With ecstasies of stealth The very food debated To our specific strength -- A Word that breathes distinctly Has not the power to die Cohesive as the Spirit It may expire if He -- "Made Flesh and dwelt among us" Could condescension be Like this consent of Language This loved Philology.
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