Of All Escape Mechanisms, Death Is The

Books Are The Windows Through Which The Soul Looks Out.

Many Will Say, "i Can Find God Without The Help Of The Bible, Or Church, Or Minister." Very Well. Do So If You Can. The Ferry Company Would Feel No Jealousy Of A Man Who Should Prefer To Swim To New York. Let Him Do So If He Is Able, And We Will Talk About It On The Other Shore; But Probably Trying To Swim Would Be The Thing That Would Bring Him Quickest To The Boat. So God Would Have No Jealousy Of A Man's Going To Heaven Without The Aid Of The Bible, Or Church, Or Minister; But Let Him Try To Do So, And It Will Be The Surest Way To Bring Him Back To Them For Assistance.

There Can Be No Barrenness In Full Summer. The Very Sand Will Yield Something. Rocks Will Have Mosses, And Every Rift Will Have Its Wind-flower, And Every Crevice A Leaf; While From The Fertile Soil Will Be Reared A Gorgeous Troop Of Growths, That Will Carry Their Life In Ten Thousand Forms, But All With Praise To God. And So It Is When The Soul Knows Its Summer. Love Redeems Its Weakness, Clothes Its Barrenness, Enriches Its Poverty, And Makes Its Very Desert To Bud And Blossom As The Rose.

If One Should Give Me A Dish Of Sand, And Tell Me There Were Particles Of Iron In It, I Might Look For Them With My Eyes, And Search For Them With My Clumsy Fingers, And Be Unable To Detect Them; But Let Me Take A Magnet And Sweep Through It, And How Would It Draw To Itself The Almost Invisible Particles By The Mere Power Of Attraction. The Unthankful Heart, Like My Finger In The Sand, Discovers No Mercies; But Let The Thankful Heart Sweep Through The Day, And As The Magnet Finds The Iron, So It Will Find, In Every Hour, Some Heavenly Blessings.

I Know It Is More Agreeable To Walk Upon Carpets Than To Lie Upon Dungeon Floors, I Know It Is Pleasant To Have All The Comforts And Luxuries Of Civilization; But He Who Cares Only For These Things Is Worth No More Than A Butterfly, Contented And Thoughtless, Upon A Morning Flower; And Who Ever Thought Of Rearing A Tombstone To A Last Summer's Butterfly?