Death Is Not An End. It Is

Now, Men Think, With Regard To Their Conduct, That, If They Were To Lift Themselves Up Gigantically And Commit Some Crashing Sin, They Should Never Be Able To Hold Up Their Heads; But They Will Harbor In Their Souls Little Sins, Which Are Piercing And Eating Them Away To Inevitable Ruin.

The Methods By Which Men Have Met And Conquered Trouble, Or Been Slain By It, Are The Same In Every Age. Some Have Floated On The Sea, And Trouble Carried Them On Its Surface As The Sea Carries Cork. Some Have Sunk At Once To The Bottom As Foundering Ships Sink. Some Have Run Away From Their Own Thoughts. Some Have Coiled Themselves Up Into A Stoical Indifference. Some Have Braved The Trouble, And Defied It. Some Have Carried It As A Tree Does A Wound, Until By New Wood It Can Overgrow And Cover The Old Gash.

Theology Is But Our Ideas Of Truth Classified And Arranged.

Brethren, We Are All Sailing Home; And By And By, When We Are Not Thinking Of It, Some Shadowy Thing (men Call It Death), At Midnight, Will Pass By, And Will Call Us By Name, And Will Say, "i Have A Message For You From Home; God Wants You; Heaven Waits For You.

Every Boy Wants Someone Older Than Himself To Whom He May Go In Moods Of Confidence And Yearning. The Neglect Of This Child's Want By Grown People . . . Is A Fertile Source Of Suffering.