
It soothes his sorrow, heals his wounds
And drives away his fear
‘Tis manna to the hungry soul
And to the weary rest
My shield and hiding-place
My never-failing treasury, filled
With boundless stores of grace
My Prophet, Priest, and King
My Lord, my Life, my Way, my End
Accept the praise we bring
And cold our warmest thought
But when we see Thee as Thou art
We’ll praise Thee as we ought
With every fleeting breath
And triumph in that blessed Name
Which quells the pow’r of death
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