Every Mortal Loss Is An Immortal Gain.

Sweet Babe, In Thy Face Soft Desires I Can Trace, Secret Joys And Secret Smiles, Little Pretty Infant Wiles.

The Man Who Pretends To Be A Modest Enquirer Into The Truth Of A Self-evident Thing Is A Knave.

And I Made A Rural Pen, And I Stained The Water Clear, And I Wrote My Happy Songs Every Child May Joy To Hear.

Prepare Your Hearts For Death's Cold Hand! Prepare Your Souls For Flight, Your Bodies For The Earth; Prepare Your Arms For Glorious Victory; Prepare Your Eyes To Meet A Holy God! Prepare, Prepare!

Every Thing Possible To Be Believ'd Is An Image Of Truth.