Cast in thy field of life,
'Tis thee who dresseth my soul,
As you sow, so shall you reap,
But all the seeds are thine,
I but till the soil,
'Tis thy mercy if thee nurture or not,
To bring in harvest or drought,
For thou art the Gardener,
I but the tool yoked to thee,
Judge me not,
The onus of fruit is thine.
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