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John McCrae - In Due Season
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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."
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