Be Thy Sleep Silent As Night Is,

I Love Thee, As The Good Love Heaven.

In Old Age Our Bodies Are Worn-out Instruments, On Which The Soul Tries In Vain To Play The Melodies Of Youth. But Because The Instrument Has Lost Its Strings, Or Is Out Of Tune, It Does Not Follow That The Musician Has Lost His Skill.

O Holy Trust! O Endless Sense Of Rest! Like The Beloved John To Lay His Head Upon The Saviour's Breast, And Thus To Journey On!

Love Is Sunshine, Hate Is Shadow, Life Is Checkered Shade And Sunshine.

Life Hath Quicksands, Life Hath Snares!