He Left It In Thy Power, Ordaind

The Stars, That Nature Hung In Heaven, And Filled Their Lamps With Everlasting Oil, Give Due Light To The Misled And Lonely Traveller.

And Fast By, Hanging In A Golden Chain, This Pendent World, In Bigness As A Star Of Smallest Magnitude, Close By The Moon.

To Be Weak Is Miserable, Doing Or Suffering.

That Virtue Therefore Which Is But A Youngling In The Contemplation Of Evil, And Knows Not The Utmost That Vice Promises To Her Followers, And Rejects It, Is But A Blank Virtue, Not A Pure; Her Whiteness Is But An Excremental Whiteness.

Justice Divine Mends Not Her Slowest Pace For Prayers Or Cries.