She throws a kiss, and bids me runIn whispers sweet as roses’ breath;I know I can not win the race,And at the end, I know, is death.
throws, kiss, bids, me, runIn, whispers, sweet, roses, know
Lord, I ascribe it to thy grace,And not to chance as others do,That I was born of Christian race,And not a Heathen, or a Jew.
Lord, ascribe, graceAnd, chance, others, born, Christian, Heathen, Jew
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