| The days of our age are threescore years and ten
|
| And though men be so strong that they come
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| To fourscore years yet is their strength then
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| But labor and sorrow so soon passeth it away
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| And we are gone
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| And as for me my feet are almost gone
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| My treadings are well nigh slipped
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| But let not the waterflood drown me
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| Neither let the deep swallow me up;
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| So going through the vale of misery
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| I shall use it for a well
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| Till the pools are filled with water
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| For thou hast made the north and the south
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| Tabor and Hermon shall rejoice in thy name |