There Are Sorrows That Are Not Painful,

There Can Be No Barrenness In Full Summer. The Very Sand Will Yield Something. Rocks Will Have Mosses, And Every Rift Will Have Its Wind-flower, And Every Crevice A Leaf; While From The Fertile Soil Will Be Reared A Gorgeous Troop Of Growths, That Will Carry Their Life In Ten Thousand Forms, But All With Praise To God. And So It Is When The Soul Knows Its Summer. Love Redeems Its Weakness, Clothes Its Barrenness, Enriches Its Poverty, And Makes Its Very Desert To Bud And Blossom As The Rose.

The Slave Labors, But With No Cheer - It Is Not The Road To Respectability, It Will Honor Him With No Citizens' Trust, It Brings No Bread To His Family, No Grain To His Garner, No Leisure In After-days, No Books Or Papers To His Children. It Opens No School-house Door, Builds No Church, Rears For Him No Factory, Lays No Keel, Fills No Bank, Earns No Acres. With Sweat And Toil And Ignorance He Consumes His Life, To Pour The Earnings Into Channels From Which He Does No Drink, Into Hands That Never Honor Him. But Perpetually Rob And Often Torment.

Sink The Bible To The Bottom Of The Ocean, And Man's Obligations To God Would Be Unchanged. He Would Have The Same Path To Tread, Only His Lamp And His Guide Would Be Gone; He Would Have The Same Voyage To Make, But His Chart And Compass Would Be Overboard!

Nothing Dies So Hard, Or Rallies So Often As Intolerance.

Do Not Be Afraid Because The, Community Teems With Excitement. Silence And Death Are Dreadful. The Rush Of Life, The Vigor Of Earnest Men, The Conflict Of Realities, Invigorate, Cleanse, And Establish The Truth.