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1065

Let down the Bars, Oh Death—
The tired Flocks come in
Whose bleating ceases to repeat
Whose wandering is done—

Thine is the stillest night
Thine the securest Fold
Too near Thou art for seeking Thee
Too tender, to be told.

Edited by Peter Carter

Added: 2 Apr 2003 | Last Read: 27 May 2012 2:23 PM | Viewed: 6022 times

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