The Generations Of Men Run On In

Excessive Sorrow Laughs. Excessive Joy Weeps.

Prisons Are Built With Stones Of Law. Brothels With The Bricks Of Religion.

Every Tear From Every Eyebecomes A Babe In Eternity.

How Sweet I Roamed From Field To Field, And Tasted All The Summer's Pride, Till I The Prince Of Love Beheld, Who In The Sunny Beams Did Glide!

What Is The Price Of Experience? Do Men Buy It For A Song? Or Wisdom For A Dance In The Street? No, It Is Bought With The Price Of All The Man Hath, His House, His Wife, His Children.