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The silver is mine, and the gold is mine saith the Lord of Hosts. -- HAGGAI ii. 8
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Whose is the gold that glitters in the mine?
And whose the silver? Are they not the Lord's?
And lo! the cattle on a thousand hills,
And the broad earth with all her gushing springs,
Are they not His who made them ?
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Ye who hold
Slight tenantry therein, and call your lands
By your own names, and lock your gather'd gold
From him who in his bleeding Saviour's name
Doth ask a part, whose shall those riches be
When, like the grass-blade from the autumn-frost,
You fall away ?
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Point out to me the forms
That in your treasure-chambers shall enact
Glad mastership, and revel where you toil'd
Sleepless and stern. Strange faces are they all.
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Oh, man! whose wrinkling labour is for heirs
Thou knowest not who, -- thou in thy mouldering bed,
Unkenn'd, unchronicled of them, shalt sleep;
Nor will they thank thee that thou didst bereave
Thy soul of good for them.
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Now, thou mayst give
The famish'd food, the prisoner liberty,
Light to the darken'd mind, to the lost soul
A place in heaven. Take thou the privilege
With solemn gratitude. Speck as thou art
Upon earth's surface, gloriously exult
To be co-worker with the King of kings.
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