Whose harvest the hungry eateth up, And taketh it even out of the thorns, And the robber swalloweth up their substance. Although affliction cometh not forth of the dust, Neither doth trouble spring out of the ground; Yet man is born unto trouble, As the sparks fly upward. I would seek unto God, And unto God would I commit my cause: Which doeth great things and unsearchable; Marvellous things without number
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