H. M. Doddridge. The Gospel. |
1 Mark the soft falling snow And the diffusive rain! To heaven, from whence it fell, It turns not back again; Till, watering earth Through every pore, It calls forth all Her secret store. 2 Arrayed in beauteous green, The hills and valleys shine, And man and beast are fed By providence divine: The harvest bows Its golden ears, The copious seed Of future years. 3 "So," saith the God of grace, "My gospel shall descend, Almighty to effect The purpose I intend; Millions of souls Shall feel its power, And bear it down To millions more."
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