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Honour a physician according to your need with the honours due to him,
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For healing comes from the Most High,
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The skill of the physician will lift up his head.
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The Lord created medicines out of the earth.
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Wasn’t water made sweet with wood,
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He gave men skill
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With them he heals
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With these, the pharmacist makes a mixture.
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My son, in your sickness don’t be negligent,
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Put away wrong doing, and direct your hands in righteousness.
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Give a sweet savour and a memorial of fine flour,
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Then give place to the physician, for truly the Lord has created him.
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There is a time when recovery is in their hands.
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For they also shall ask the Lord
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He who sins before his Maker,
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My son, let your tears fall over the dead,
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Make bitter weeping and make passionate wailing.
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For from sorrow comes death.
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In calamity, sorrow also remains.
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Don’t give your heart to sorrow.
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Don’t forget it, for there is no returning again.
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Remember his end, for so also will yours be:
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When the dead is at rest, let his remembrance rest.
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The wisdom of the scribe comes by the opportunity of leisure.
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How could he become wise who holds the plough,
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He will set his heart upon turning his furrows.
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So is every craftsman and master artisan
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So too is the smith sitting by the anvil
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So is the potter sitting at his work
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He will fashion the clay with his arm
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All these put their trust in their hands.
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Without these no city would be inhabited.
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They won’t be sought for in the council of the people.
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But they will maintain the fabric of the age.