These mysteries to fitly tell,
Demands that mightier powers impel
My soul to heavenly harmonies.
Mine be it then, with modest lays
And humble voice, to sing the praise
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Of that which weariness allays,
And respite gives from drudgery;
To that which clasps with mystic hand,
Gentle yet strong as iron band,
The eyes of man but to disclose
The weird imaginings of repose.