| Dear seven sisters,
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| All is distance here
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| All look into never out of every face
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| I’ll let you be my belief if I can be your doubt
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| Signed from Persia:
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| Kind subversion of a kind I couldn’t say
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| As our blessed lack of conversation
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| Has kept me alive so far today
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| All my savings soon were spent
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| So in the vales of early Fall
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| Under table, covered rent
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| By packing bales of barley straw
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| With efforts held to circumvent
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| The watchful eye of federal law
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| And mama, though I’ve been so alone
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| My faith in love is still devout!
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| My faith in love is still devout!
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| My faith in love is still devout!
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| My faith in love is still devout!
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| With solemn sounds the potter’s ground
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| Beneath our bare wandering feet
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| Our crooked hearts in Sacred Harp
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| Sang out of the dark inside us deep
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| Their shapes of sorrow fell like shadows
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| On the farm-to-market roads
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| That led my stumbling steps back home
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| But mama why four fires burning?
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| Why so quiet Father’s room?
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| Has he not heard his son returning?
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| Or has he gone to gather food?
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| Or is he stomping in the forest?
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| Or has he wandered into town?
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| «Son, I think it’s best that you sit down-
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| His faith in love was still devout…"
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| His faith in love was still devout!
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| His faith in love was still devout!
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| His faith in love was still devout!
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| His faith in love was still devout!
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| His faith in love was still devout!
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| His faith in love was still devout!
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| Mama, sing my favorite hymn
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| As I sink deep into the grass
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| And the night birds beat me with their wings
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| With a horrid laughter as they pass
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| The stage goes dim, its pageants finished
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| Fleeting worlds to which I’ve clung with a now extinguished longing
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| Mama, sing my favorite hymn
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| Where we make ploughshares from our swords
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| And the mason’s barber trims our Christmas tree
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| In the Oneness of the Lord
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| What grace surrounds! |
| what strange perfection!
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| Mamma, please sing my favorite hymn
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| And remind me
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| Everyone is Him |