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Memoirs of William Miller - Sylvester Bliss

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And my transgression, like a yoke, is bound<br />

Upon my neck. My crimes are twisted round.<br />

My strength is weakness. Lord, how can I rise,<br />

Delivered over to my sins a prize?<br />

The Lord hath trodden, by a mighty host,<br />

My old and young men, humbled in the dust.<br />

For these I weep; my tears are streaming fast;<br />

No comfort near, nor desolation past.<br />

In vain I spread my hands; for there is none<br />

To comfort me or bring my children home.<br />

The Lord commands; in terror I am bound,<br />

And all my foes encompass me around.<br />

O righteous Sovereign! lo, how just thy cause!<br />

For I’ve rebelled and trampled on thy laws.<br />

Hear, all ye people, and my woes behold;<br />

My virgins captured, and my young men sold.<br />

I call my lovers, once my hope and pride;<br />

But they despise me, and my sighs deride.<br />

My priests and elders, while they seek for<br />

bread,<br />

Give up the ghost, and slumber with the dead.<br />

Behold, O Lord, in me is sore distress,<br />

My heart is troubled, and I find no rest;<br />

Abroad the sword, at home is naught but death,<br />

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