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He sat upon the spray of the tree, and he sang-
“Mortal, cease from toil and sorrow;
God provideth for the morrow.”
And it chirped and picked up its little grain, and sang again.
And yet it had no granary; it had not a handful of wheat
stored up anywhere; but it still kept on with its chirping-
“Mortal, cease from toil and sorrow;
God provideth for the morrow.”
Charles Spurgeon