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8.7.

1
Let me think, if I were dying,
(And I very soon must die),
On what hope am I relying,
To what refuge could I fly?

2
Not a sister, nor a brother,
Nor the holiest of men;
Not a father, nor a mother,
Could afford me refuge then.

3
They could only stand beside me,
Tend my pillow, weep my fall;
But dark death would soon divide me
From the dearest of them all.

4
On the blood of Christ relying
May I pass the solemn hour;
Jesus conquered death by dying,
Saved poor sinners from its power.