Let Not Our Longing Slay The Appetite

Lord, Make My Way Prosperous Not That I Achieve High Station, But That My Life Be An Exhibit To The Value Of Knowing God.

If We Are The Sheep Of His Pasture, Remember That Sheep Are Headed For The Altar.

Father, Let Me Be Weak That I Might Loose My Clutch On Everything Temporal. My Life, My Reputation, My Possessions, Lord, Let Me Loose The Tension Of The Grasping Hand. Even, Father, Would I Lose The Love Of Fondling. How Often I Have Released A Grasp Only To Retain What I Prized By 'harmless' Longing, The Fondling Touch. Rather, Open My Hand To Received The Nail Of Calvary, As Christ's Was Opened- That I, Releasing All, Might Be Released, Unleashed From All That Binds Me Now. He Thought Heaven, Yea, Equality With God, Not A Thing To Be Clutched At. So Let Me Release My Grasp.

Missionaries Are Very Human Folks, Simply A Bunch Of Nobodies Trying To Exalt Somebody.

Our Young Men Are Going Into The Professional Fields Because They Don't 'feel Called' To The Mission Field. We Don't Need A Call; We Need A Kick In The Pants. We Must Begin Thinking In Terms Of 'going Out,' And Stop Our Weeping Because 'they Won't Come In.' Who Wants To Step Into An Igloo? The Tombs Themselves Are Not Colder Than The Churches. May God Send Us Forth.