There Is An Army Of Waiters In

This World Is Not A Platform Where You Will Hear Thalberg-piano-playing. It Is A Piano Manufactory, Where Are Dust And Shavings And Boards, And Saws And Files And Rasps And Sandpapers. The Perfect Instrument And The Music Will Be Hereafter.

There Are Apartments In The Soul Which Have A Glorious Outlook; From Whose Windows You Can See Across The River Of Death, And Into The Shining City Beyond; But How Often Are These Neglected For The Lower Ones, Which Have Earthward-looking Windows.

If One Should Give Me A Dish Of Sand, And Tell Me There Were Particles Of Iron In It, I Might Look For Them With My Eyes, And Search For Them With My Clumsy Fingers, And Be Unable To Detect Them; But Let Me Take A Magnet And Sweep Through It, And How Would It Draw To Itself The Almost Invisible Particles By The Mere Power Of Attraction. The Unthankful Heart, Like My Finger In The Sand, Discovers No Mercies; But Let The Thankful Heart Sweep Through The Day, And As The Magnet Finds The Iron, So It Will Find, In Every Hour, Some Heavenly Blessings.

Men Will Imitate And Admire His Unmoved Firmness, His Inflexible Conscience For The Right; And Yet His Gentleness, As Tender As A Woman's, His Moderation Of Spirit, Which Not All The Heat Of Party Could Inflame, Nor All The Jars And Disturbances Of This Country Shake Out Of Its Place: I Swear You To An Emulation Of His Justice, His Moderation, And His Mercy.

Christians Should Be Like A Flower Store: The Odor Of Sanctity Should Betray Them Wherever They Are.