Pass not the Lilies of the Vale 
Unmindful of their holy taie, 
But listen to the voice, 
Which from their flow’rets fair, 
Would bid you to rejoice 
That you are God’s own care ! 
No king can shine more bright than they, 
Though decked with art in rich array, 
Still must his glories yield 
To flowers that careless grow,_ 
The Lilies of the field 
Which toil not, spin, nor sow. 
If God so clothe a fading flowet- 
Born but to perish in an hour, 
With raiment bright and fair, 
Will he not much more grant 
To man, his chiefest care, 
Ail things that he doth want ? 
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