By Christina Rossetti (1830 – 1894)
The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:—
We are as they;
Like them we fade away,
As doth a leaf.
The sparrows of the air of small account:
Our God doth view
Whether they fall or mount,—
He guards us too.
The lilies that do neither spin nor toil,
Yet are most fair:—
What profits all this care
And all this coil?
The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks;
God gives them food:—
Much more our Father seeks
To do us good.
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