Texts
Hail to the Lord who comesHail to the Lord who comes,
Comes to His temple gate;
Not with His angel host,
Not in His kingly state;
No shouts proclaim Him nigh,
No crowds His coming wait;
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O Thou Not Made with HandsI wandered sore distressedI
I wandered sore distressed,
All weary and forlorn;
I had no place to rest,
Of all my pleasures shorn,—
My thirsting spirit sighed,
And in the desert cried.
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