More Tears Are Shed In Playhouses Than

Heaven Is The Day Of Which Grace Is The Dawn; The Rich, Ripe Fruit Of Which Grace Is The Lovely Flower; The Inner Shrine Of That Most Glorious Temple To Which Grace Forms The Approach And Outer Court.

Sin! Sin! Thou Art A Hateful And Horrible Thing, That Abominable Thing Which God Hates. And What Wonder? Thou Hast Insulted His Holy Majesty; Thou Hast Bereaved Him Of Beloved Children; Thou Hast Crucified The Son Of His Infinite Love; Thou Hast Vexed His Gracious Spirit; Thou Hast Defied His Power; Thou Hast Despised His Grace; And In The Body And Blood Of Jesus, As If That Were A Common Thing, Thou Hast Trodden Under Foot His Matchless Mercy. Surely, Brethren, The Wonder Of Wonders Is, That Sin Is Not That Abominable Thing Which We Also Hate.

The Bible, Which Ranges Over A Period Of Four Thousand Years, Records But One Instance Of A Death-bed Conversion (the Thief On The Cross) - One That None May Despair, And But One That None May Presume.

In The Spangled Sky, The Rainbow, The Woodland Hung With Diamonds, The Sward Sown With Pearly Dew, The Rosy Dawn, The Golden Clouds Of Even, The Purple Mountains, The Hoary Rock, The Blue Boundless Main, Nature's Simplest Flower, Or Some Fair Form Of Laughing Child Or Lovely Maiden, We Cannot See The Beautiful Without Admiring It.

The Cry Of Distress Lays Hold Of Our Lord's Omnipotence. It Is As Easy For God To Supply Thy Greatest As Thy Smallest Wants, Even As It Was Within His Power To Form A System Or An Atom, To Create A Blazing Sun As To Kindle The Fire-fly's Lamp.