If One's Conscience Be Dead As A

A Life Of Mere Pleasure! A Little While, In The Spring-time Of The Senses, In The Sunshine Of Prosperity, In The Jubilee Of Health, It May Seem Well Enough. But How Insufficient, How Mean, How Terrible When Age Comes, And Sorrow, And Death! A Life Of Pleasure! What Does It Look Like When These Great Changes Beat Against It--when The Realities Of Eternity Stream In? It Looks Like The Fragments Of A Feast, When The Sun Shines Upon The Withered Garlands, And The Tinsel, And The Overturned Tables, And The Dead Lees Of Wine.

There Is No Happiness In Life, There Is No Misery Like That Growing Out Of The Dispositions Which Consecrate Or Desecrate A Home.

The Angels May Have Wider Spheres Of Action, May Have Nobler Forms Of Duty; But Right With Them And With Us Is One And The Same Thing.

Setting Is Preliminary To Brighter Rising; Decay Is A Process Of Advancement; Death Is The Condition Of Higher And More Fruitful Life.

No Language Can Express The Power And Beauty And Heroism Of A Mother's Love.