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Isaac Watts
Come, we that love the Lord, and let our joys be known; join in a song with sweet accord, and thus surround the throne.
Let those refuse to sing who never knew our God; but children of the heav'nly King may speak their joys abroad.
The hill of Zion yields a thousand sacred sweets before we reach the heav'nly fields, or walk the golden streets.
Then let our songs abound, and every tear be dry; we're marching through Emmanuel's ground to fairer worlds on high.