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Poem by George Herbert
Rise, heart, thy lord is risen. Sing his praise Without delays, Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise With him may'st rise: That, as his death calcinèd thee to dust, His life may make thee gold, and, much more, just. Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part With all thy art, The cross taught all wood to resound his name Who bore the same. His stretchèd sinews taught all strings what key Is best to celebrate this most high day. Consort, both heart and lute, and twist a song Pleasant and long; Or, since all music is but three parts vied And multiplied Oh let thy blessèd Spirit bear a part, And make up our defects with his sweet art.
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