The velvet cushion [by J.W. Cunningham.].

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Página 24 - The secret things belong unto the LORD our God : but the things that are revealed belong unto us and to our children for ever, that we may do all the words of this law.
Página 115 - When I am dead, then bury me in the sepulchre wherein the man of God is buried; lay my bones beside his bones: 32 For the saying which he cried by the word of the LORD against the altar in Beth-el, and against all the houses of the high places which are in the cities of Samaria, shall surely come to pass.
Página 57 - I know in Whom I have believed ; and I am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him against that day.
Página 92 - Infant. the sweet flower that scents the morn, But withers in the rising day ; Thus lovely was this infant's dawn, Thus swiftly fled its life away. 2 It died ere its expanding soul Had ever burnt with wrong desires, Had ever spurn'd at heaven's control, Or ever quench'd its sacred fires.
Página 46 - Fear not : for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
Página 69 - I love to know that, not alone, .1 meet the battle's angry tide ; • That sainted myriads from their throne Descend to combat at my side. Mine is no solitary choice, See here the seal of saints impress'd ; The prayer of millions swells my voice, The mind of ages fills my breast.
Página 115 - They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided.
Página 70 - Sweet echo of the heavenly ode ; I love the cheerful village bell, Faint emblem of the call of God ; Waked by the sound, I bend my feet, I bid my swelling sorrows cease ; I do but touch the mercy-seat, And hear the " still small voice
Página 69 - Sweet echo of the joyous ode ! I love the cheerful village bell, — Faint emblem of the call of God. Waked by the sound, I bend my feet, I bid my swelling sorrows cease ; I do but touch the mercy seat, And hear the still small voice of peace.
Página 70 - Father's temple ours, — Woe to the hand by which it falls ; A thousand spirits watch its towers, A cloud of angels guard its walls.

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