Mirth Is God's Medicine.

Nothing Goes Far Which Has Not The Wings Of Love To Make It Buoyant, So That It Can Fly.

A Man Who Cannot Get Angry Is Like A Stream That Cannot Overflow, That Is Always Turbid. Sometimes Indignation Is As Good As A Thunderstorm In Summer, Clearing And Cooling The Air.

There Is Not A Single Heart But Has Its Moments Of Longing.

There Is So Much That Is Deaf And Dumb In Man, And So Much That Is Paralyzed, So Much That Is Shrunken, That Nothing Short Of A Miraculous Touch Of Re-creation Can Make Them At Death Perfect Beings.

We Rejoice In God Since He Has Taught Us That Every Thing Which Is True In Us, Is But A Faint Expression Of What Is In Him. And Thus All Our Joys Become To Us The Echo Of Higher Joys, And Our Very Life Is As A Dream Of That Nobler Life, To Which We Shall Awaken When We Die.