Grace Grows Best In Winter.

When The Race Is Ended, And The Play Is Either Won Or Lost, And Ye Are In The Utmost Circle And Border Of Time, And Shall Put Your Foot Within The March Of Eternity, All The Good Things Of Your Short Nightdream Shall Seem To You Like Ashes Of A Blaze Of Thorns Or Straw.

The Devil Is But A Whetstone To Sharpen The Faith And Patience Of The Saints.-

The Cross Of Christ Is The Sweetest Burden That I Ever Bore; It Is Such A Burden As Wings Are To A Bird, Or Sails To A Ship, To Carry Me Forward To My Harbor.

I Find My Lord Jesus Cometh Not In The Precise Way That I Lay Wait For Him. He Hath A Manner Of His Own. Oh, How High Are His Ways Above My Ways

Live On Christ's Love While Ye Are Here, And All The Way.