Whoever Makes Home Seem To The Young

The Sun Does Not Shine For A Few Trees, And Flowers, But For The Wide World's Joy. The Lonely Pine On The Mountain-top Waves Its Sombre Boughs And Cries, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Little Meadow Violet Lifts Its Cup Of Blue, And Whispers With Its Perfumed Breath, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Grain In A Thousand Fields Rustles In The Wind, And Makes Answer, 'thou Art My Sun.' So God Sits Effulgent In Heaven, Not For A Favored Few, But For The Universe Of Life; And There Is No Creature So Poor Or So Low That He May Not Look Up With Childish Confidence And Say, 'my Father, Thou Art Mine.

Any Man Can Work When Every Stroke Of His Hands Brings Down The Fruit Rattling From The Tree ... But To Labor In Season And Out Of Season, Under Every Discouragement... That Requires A Heroism Which Is Transcendent.

Trouble Teaches Men How Much There Is In Manhood.

If Christ Is Not Divine, Every Impulse Of The Christian World Falls To A Lower Octave, And Light And Love And Hope Decline.

It Is A Man Dying With His Harness On That Angels Love To Escort Upward.