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112 " God be thanked, for this vision He gives us, of sweetness and glory." Then I knew that the work was not mine, that in truth 'twas well done. Then, the sorrow of life made my righteousness softer, more tender ; I grew careless of preaching, cared only for healing men's souls ; And I painted the flowers by the wayside, and knelt as I painted ; And men said, " He is growing, this painter, — is nearing the great." As the racer is cheered in his strife by a voice that he knows not, So a friend, who was only a voice to me, led me till now : But they say he is dead ; and they praise me, you say, little Gracie ? Do they praise him, I wonder, who made me — the last of my friends ? Yes, the work is completed, I think, for the worker is worn.