A Life Is Black, Whiten It As

The Gospel Has But A Forced Alliance With War. Its Doctrine Of Human Brotherhood Would Ring Strangely Between The Opposed Ranks. The Bellowing Speech Of Cartoon And The Baptism Of Blood Mock Its Liturgies And Sacraments. Its Gentle Beatitudes Would Hardly Serve As Mottoes For Defiant Banners, Nor Its List Of Graces As Names For Ships-of-the-line.

A True Man Never Frets About His Place In The World, But Just Slides Into It By The Gravitation Of His Nature, And Swings There As Easily As A Star.

No Man Knows The Genuineness Of His Convictions Until He Has Sacrificed Something For Them.

No Language Can Express The Power, And Beauty, And Heroism, And Majesty Of A Mother's Love. It Shrinks Not Where Man Cowers, And Grows Stronger Where Man Faints, And Over Wastes Of Worldly Fortunes Sends The Radiance Of Its Quenchless Fidelity Like A Star.

There Have Been Men Who Could Play Delightful Music On One String Of The Violin, But There Never Was A Man Who Could Produce The Harmonies Of Heaven In His Soul By A One-stringed Virtue.