There Is Not A Person We Employ

Words Are But The Bannerets Of A Great Army, A Few Bits Of Waving Color Here And There; Thoughts Are The Main Body Of The Footman That March Unseen Below.

If Every Child Might Live The Life Predestined In A Mother's Heart, All The Way From The Cradle To The Coffin, He Would Walk Upon A Beam Of Light, And Shine In Glory.

While A Man Is Stringing A Harp, He Tries The Strings, Not For Music, But For Construction. When It Is Finished It Shall Be Played For Melodies. God Is Fashioning The Human Heart For Future Joy. He Only Sounds A String Here And There To See How Far His Work Has Progressed.

Our Yearnings Are Homesicknesses For Heaven; Our Sighings Are For God, Just As Children That Cry Themselves Asleep Away From Home, And Sob In Their Slumber, Know Not That They Sob For Their Parents. The Soul's Inarticulate Moanings Are The Affections Yearning For The Infinite, And Having No One To Tell Them What It Is That Ails Them.

As Warmth Makes Even Glaciers Trickle, And Opens Streams In The Ribs Of Frozen Mountains, So The Heart Knows The Full Flow And Life Of Its Grief Only When It Begins To Melt And Pass Away.