The Proud Are Ever Most Provoked By

Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face.

Go, Mark The Matchless Working Of The Power That Shuts Within The Seed The Future Flower; Bids These In Elegance Of Form Excel. In Color These, And Those Delight The Smell; Sends Nature Forth, The Daughter Of The Skies, To Dance On Earth, And Charm All Human Eyes.

Ye Fearful Saints Fresh Courage Take, The Clouds You So Much Dread Are Big With Mercy And Shall Break, With Blessings On Your Head

Absence Of Occupation Is Not Rest.

The Parable Of The Prodigal Son, The Most Beautiful Fiction That Ever Was Invented; Our Saviour's Speech To His Disciples, With Which He Closed His Earthly Ministrations, Full Of The Sublimest Dignity And Tenderest Affection, Surpass Everything That I Ever Read; And Like The Spirit By Which They Were Dictated, Fly Directly To The Heart.