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C. M.



Scorn not the slightest word or deed,

Nor deem it void of power;

There’s fruit in each wind-wafted seed,

That waits its natal hour.

A whispered word may touch the heart,

And call it back to life;

A look of love bid sin depart,

And still unholy strife.

No act falls fruitless; none can tell

How vast its power may be,

Nor what results infolded dwell

Within it silently.

Work on, despair not; bring thy mite,

Nor care how small it be;

God is with all that serve the right,

The holy, true, and free.

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