God Made Bees, And Bees Made Honey,

God Moves In A Mysterious Way His Wonders To Perform; He Plants His Footsteps In The Sea, And Rides Upon The Storm. Deep In Unfathomable Mines Of Never Failing Skill He Treasures Up His Bright Designs, And Works His Sovereign Will. Ye Fearful Saints Fresh Courage Take, The Clouds Ye So Much Dread Are Big With Mercy, And Shall Break In Blessings On Your Head. Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face.

Thus Happiness Depends, As Nature Shows, Less On Exterior Things Than Most Suppose.

Absence From Whom We Love Is Worse Than Death, And Frustrates Hope Severer Than Despair.

I Seem Forsaken And Alone, / I Hear The Lion Roar; / And Every Door Is Shut But One, / And That Is Mercy's Door.

A Glory Gilds The Sacred Page, Majestic Like The Sun, It Gives A Light To Every Age, It Gives, But Borrows None.