We Choose Our Joys And Sorrows Long

We Fear Death, Yet We Long For Slumber And Beautiful Dreams.

In The Depth Of My Soul There Is A Wordless Song.

Much Of Your Pain Is Self-chosen. It Is The Bitter Potion By Which The Physician Within You Heals Your Sick Self. Therefore Trust The Physician, And Drink His Remedy In Silence And Tranquility: For His Hand, Though Heavy And Hard, Is Guided By The Tender Hand Of The Unseen, And The Cup He Brings, Though It Burn Your Lips, Has Been Fashioned Of The Clay Which The Potter Has Moistened With His Own Sacred Tears.

As The Strings Of A Lute Are Apart Though They Quiver The Same Music.

Life Unfolds Itself In Mysteries Ways.