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Hark, hark! methinks I hear a voice,
Swift piercing through the troubled sky:
“He comes, He comes; ye saints rejoice;
The end, the end of time, is nigh!
Ye saints from dust awake, awake,
To joys immortal wing your flight:
Of crowns, and harps, and thrones partake,
They are your endless, blood-bought right.”
Favourite Welsh Hymns, 1854