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Whose time shall soon be gone. Spoiled blossom in thy bud doth rest, Whose seed in death wast sown.
Thou knowest not thy thoughts of life Cannot bring forth life's birth. For every branch with death is rife, Whose vine is of the earth.
And if thy roots be anchored deep in Adam's dusty realm, Small wonder then thy soul must weep, For death is at the helm.
With joy therefore, I tell thee true Of One who conquered death. Jesus the Christ! King of the Jews! Of Whom mankind is blessed.
Not thoughts of life, but Life Himself Must bring forth new-life's birth. And every branch may share His wealth Whose Vine is beyond worth.
And if thy Root of heaven cling To God in realms eternal; Small wonder then thy soul must sing In melodies supernal.
Whose time is Endlessness. Thy blossom cannot lose its white, Whose Seed was raised from death.
For as in Adam all must cease In Christ all live again. Come, trade unrest for joy and peace; Thou shalt not lose but gain.
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