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Nations drunk with sin's so dire dope,

Only more and more thee now elope.

Men without their God in murk mope.

People sad, forlorn, in grime grope.

Problems so perplex, they can't cope.

Ready noose of hangman's deadly rope.

Morrow death, so now we must tope--

All are mad, so all their own pope--

Unto thee, o King, is our hope.

Unto thee our eyes we now ope.

Wash us now with heaven's own soap.

Our sore spirits, Lord, let now lope.

Fred Bouter

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