The Mills of God Grind Slowly

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Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.

 

There was a time that I knew when things got too rough, I could go home.

Then one day, home was not, and would not ever be.

Stoically, I trudged on, for such is life, for one day too, I shall also be not.

To our mothers everywhere who once were, but are now not.

May they once again be.

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