Every Believer Is God's Miracle.

Dear Lord, Our God And Saviour! For Thy Gifts The World Were Poor In Thanks, Though Every Soul Were To Do Nought But Breathe Them, Every Blade Of Grass, And Every Atomie Of Earth To Utter It Like Dew.

Where Imperfection Ceaseth, Heaven Begins.

Night Comes, World-jewelled, . . . The Stars Rush Forth In Myriads As To Wage War With The Lines Of Darkness; And The Moon, Pale Ghost Of Night, Comes Haunting The Cold Earth After The Sun's Red Sea-death--quietless.

Remember That Thy Heart Will Shed Its Pleasures As Thine Eye Its Tears, And Both Leave Loathsome Furrows.

Who Can Mistake Great Thoughts? They Seize Upon The Mind; Arrest And Search, And Shake It; Bow The Tall Soul As By Wind; Rush Over It Like A River Reeds.