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My faith is all a doubtful thing,
Wove on a doubtful loom,—
Until there comes, each showery Spring,
A cherry-tree in bloom;
And Christ who died upon a tree
That death had stricken bare,
Comes beautifully back to me,
In blossoms, everywhere.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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