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BANGS, John Kendrick


Blind

SHOW me your God the doubter cries. 
I point him out the smiling skies; 
I show him all the woodland greens; 
I show him peaceful sylvan scenes; 
I show him winter snows and frost; 
I show him waters tempest-tossed; 
I show him hills rock-ribbed and strong; 
I bid him hear the thrush's song; 
I show him flowers in the close 
The lily, violet and rose; 
I show him rivers, babbling streams; 
I show him youthful hopes and dreams; 
I show him stars, the moon, the sun; 
I show him deeds of kindness done; 
I show him joy, I show him care, 
And still he holds his doubting air, 
And faithless goes his way, for he 
Is blind of soul, and cannot see!