Come, Go With Us, Speak Fair; You

Thou Ever Young, Fresh, Lov'd, And Delicate Wooer, Whose Blush Doth Thaw The Consecrated Snow

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand?

Love Denied Blights The Soul We Owe To God.

And Will He Not Come Again? And Will He Not Come Again? No, No, He Is Dead. Go To Thy Deathbed. He Never Will Come Again.

However Wickedness Outstrips Men, It Has No Wings To Fly From God.