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71 Hickman

O God, why hast thou thus 
Repuls'd and scatter'd us? 
Shall now thy wrath no limits hold,
But ever smoke and burn 
Till it to ashes turn 
The chosen folk of thy dear fold.

Ah! think with milder thought 
On them whom thou has bought 
And purchased from endless days!
Think of thy birthright lot 
Of Zion, on whose plot 
Thy sacred house supported stays.

Enough, enough we mourn! 
Let us no more return 
Repuls'd with blame and shame from thee;
But succor us oppress'd 
And give the troubled rest 
That of thy praise their songs may be.

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