CREATION

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When I with pleasing wonder stand,
And all my frame survey,
Lord, tis thy work, I own thy hand,
Thus built my humble clay.
Lord, tis thy work, I own thy hand,
Thus built my humble clay.

Our life contains a thousand springs,
And dies if one be gone.
Strange that a harp of thousand strings,
Should keep in tune so long.

(Fuging continues with last line of poetry.)