True Happiness Is To Rejoice In The

It Is The Function Of Perfection To Make One Know One's Imperfection.

He Was Created Of A Mother Whom He Created. He Was Carried By Hands That He Formed. He Cried In The Manger In Wordless Infancy. He, The Word, Without Whom All Human Eloquence Is Mute.

Love Is A Temporary Madness. It Erupts Like An Earthquake And Then Subsides. And When It Subsides You Have To Make A Decision. You Have To Work Out Whether Your Roots Have Become So Entwined Together That It Is Inconceivable That You Should Ever Part. Because This Is What Love Is. Love Is Not Breathlessness, It Is Not Excitement, It Is Not The Promulgation Of Promises Of Eternal Passion. That Is Just Being In Love Which Any Of Us Can Convince Ourselves We Are. Love Itself Is What Is Left Over When Being In Love Has Burned Away, And This Is Both An Art And A Fortunate Accident.

Narrow Is The Mansion Of My Soul; Enlarge Thou It, That Thou Mayest Enter In. It Is Ruinous; Repair Thou It. It Has That Within Which Must Offend Thine Eyes; I Confess And Know It. But Who Shall Cleanse It? Or To Whom Should I Cry, Save Thee? Lord, Cleanse Me From My Secret Faults, And Spare Thy Servant From The Power Of The Enemy. I Believe, And Therefore Do I Speak.

It Is Not Earthly Riches Which Make Us Or Our Sons Happy; For They Must Either Be Lost By Us In Our Lifetime, Or Be Possessed When We Are Dead, By Whom We Know Not, Or Perhaps By Whom We Would Not.