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Canst thou count the stars that twinkle,
as they lie in God's dear hand?
Canst thou count the clouds that sprinkle
rain-drops on the thirsty land?
God, the Lord, he knows their reckoning,
none but must obey his beckoning
of the shining myriad host,
of the shining myriad host.
Canst thou count the insects dancing
in the joyous summer sun?
Canst thou count the swallows glancing
past us, on their airy run?
God, he called them into being,
none is born without his seeing
where they are, and what they need,
where they are, and what they need.
Canst thou count the gay young faces
that each morning's rays awake;
all who their accustomed places
in the round of life retake?
God, he knows them every one,
none is left by him alone,
each he knows, and each he loves,
each he knows, and each he loves.