If night should come and find me at my toil, When all Life`s day I had, tho` faintly, wrought, And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand, Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown? "Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone."SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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