He That Cannot Paint Must Grind The

There Is No Well-doing, No Godlike Doing, That Is Not Patient Doing.

Whatever Of True Glory Has Been Won By Any Nation Of The Earth; Whatever Great Advance His Been Made By Any Nation In That Which Constitutes A High Christian Civilization, Has Been Always At The Cost Of Sacrifice; Has Cost The Price Marked Upon It In God's Inventory Of National Good.

The Sweetest Type Of Heaven Is Home - Nay, Heaven Is The Home For Whose Acquisition We Are To Strive The Most Strongly. Home, In One Form And Another, Is The Great Object Of Life. It Stands At The End Of Every Day's Labor, And Beckons Us To Its Bosom; An Life Would Be Cheerless And Meaningless, Did We Not Discern Across The River That Divides Us From The Life Beyond, Glimpses Of The Pleasant Mansions Prepared For Us.

In My Judgment, A Great Mistake Has Been Made By Well Meaning And Zealous Men, Through Treating Error And Infidelity With Altogether Too Much Respect.

My God! I Thank Thee For The Bath Of Sleep, That Wraps In Balm My Weary Heart And Brain, And Drowns Within Its Waters Still And Deep My Sorrow And My Pain. I Thank Thee For My Dreams, Which Loose The Bond That Binds My Spirit To Its Daily Load, And Give It Angel Wings, To Fly Beyond Its Slumber-bound Abode.