"Ho! ye that rest beneath the Rock On pastures greenly growing, Or roam at will, Christ's favored flock, By waters gently flowing: Hear ye, upon the desert air, A voice of woe come crying, While, cold upon the barren moor, Christ's little lambs are dying. "Go, feed my lambs!" the Shepherd's call Comes down from realms of glory,— "Go, feed my lambs, and bring them all From moor and mountain hoary!" Fast falls the night, the bleak winds blow Across the desert dreary: Great Shepherd, at thy call we'll go, And bring the wanderers weary.
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