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THE PROPHET'S VISION.
EZEKIEL XLVII.
He look'd, and from the Temple gate
Where the bright orient glow'd,
Fast by the altar's hallow'd base
A stream like chrystal flow'd.
Bathing the feet, that limpid spring
With gentlest murmur crept,
Then deepening to a bolder flood
In fearless current swept.
Till, spreading out, a river broad
In strong, translucent tide,
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