a poor wayfaring man of grief project
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Remembering Rumbula: Preserving the memory of the WWII massacre in Riga
In pris’n I saw him next, condemned to meet a traitor’s doom at morn. The tide of lying tongues I stemmed, and honored him ’mid shame and scorn. My friendship’s utmost zeal to try, he asked if I for him would die. The flesh was weak; my blood ran chill, but my free spirit cried, “I will!”
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BYU communications students premiere 5th installment of 'A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief Project'
Three students of the BYU School of Communications, along with two members of its staff, went to the Dominican Republic to film the fifth installment of their mini-documentary series 'A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief Project.'
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Sharing living water: Improving the hydraulic resources in the Dominican Republic
I spied him where a fountain burst clear from the rock; his strength was gone. The heedless water mocked his thirst; he heard it, saw it hurrying on. I ran and raised the suff’rer up; thrice from the stream he drained my cup, dipped and returned it running o’er; I drank and never thirsted more.
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“A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” Project — Verse 2
Once, when my scanty meal was spread, He entered; not a word he spake, Just perishing for want of bread. I gave him all; he blessed it, brake, And ate, but gave me part again. Mine was an angel’s portion then, For while I fed with eager haste, The crust was manna to my taste.
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“A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” Project – Verse 5
Stript, wounded, beaten nigh to death, I found him by the highway side. I roused his pulse, brought back his breath, Revived his spirit, and supplied Wine, oil, refreshment—he was healed. I had myself a wound concealed, But from that hour forgot the smart, And peace bound up my broken heart.
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“A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” Project – Verse 4
’Twas night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof. I heard his voice abroad and flew To bid him welcome to my roof. I warmed and clothed and cheered my guest And laid him on my couch to rest, Then made the earth my bed and seemed In Eden’s garden while I dreamed.
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“A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” Project – Verse 1
A poor wayfaring Man of grief Hath often crossed me on my way, Who sued so humbly for relief That I could never answer nay. I had not pow’r to ask his name, Whereto he went, or whence he came; Yet there was something in his eye That won my love; I knew not why.
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“A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” Project – Introduction
Introduction to the "Poor Wayfaring Man" project produced by students and staff mentors in the journalism program in the School of Communications at Brigham Young University.
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