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1120.

[That Hiding-place I long to find]

A man shall be as an hiding-place, &c. —xxxii. 2.

That Hiding-place I long to find,
That sacred Covert from the wind:
Thou Man of grief, Thou God of love,
Receive, and keep my life above,
Conceal me from the furious blast,
Till all the storms of life are pass'd;
Or let the latest tempest come,
And drive me to my heavenly home.