Horrible To Say, In A Manner I

I Say That We Are Wound With Mercy Round And Round As If With Air.

The Best Ideal Is The True And Other Truth Is None. All Glory Be Ascribed To The Holy Three In One.

My Own Heart Let Me More Have Pity On; Let Me Live To My Sad Self Hereafter Kind, Charitable; Not Live This Tormented Mind With This Tormented Mind Tormenting Yet.

Because The Holy Ghost Over The Bent World Broods With Warm Breast And With Ah! Bright Wings.

That Piecemeal Peace Is Poor Peace. What Pure Peace Allows Alarms Of Wars, The Daunting Wars, The Death Of It?