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“He causeth his wind to blow.” Ps. 147. 18

A. M. Toplady    L.M.

1
At anchor laid, remote from home,
Toiling, I cry, “Sweet Spirit, come;
Celestial breeze, no longer stay,
But swell my sails, and speed my way.”

2
Fain would I mount, fain would I glow,
And loose my cable from below;
But I can only spread my sail;
Thou, thou must breathe the auspicious gale.