Humanity Is The Son Of God.

Love Of Truth Will Bless The Lover All His Days; Yet When He Brings Her Home, His Fair-faced Bride, She Comes Empty-handed To His Door, Herself Her Only Dower.

Let Us Do Our Duty In Our Shop Or Our Kitchen, In The Market, The Street, The Office, The School, The Home, Just As Faithfully As If We Stood In The Front Rank Of Some Great Battle, And Knew That Victory For Mankind Depended On Our Bravery, Strength, And Skill. When We Do That, The Humblest Of Us Will Be Serving In That Great Army Which Achieves The Welfare Of The World.

Every Rose Is An Autograph From The Hand Of The Almighty God On This World About Us. He Has Inscribed His Thoughts In These Marvelous Hieroglyphics Which Sense And Science Have Been These Many Thousand Years Seeking To Understand.

He Prays Best Who, Not Asking God To Do Man's Work, Prays Penitence, Prays Resolutions, And Then Prays Deeds--thus Supplicating With Heart And Head And Hands.

It Seems Strange That A Butterfly's Wing Should Be Woven Up So Thin And Gauzy In The Monstrous Loom Of Nature, And Be So Delicately Tipped With Fire From Such A Gross Hand, And Rainbowed All Over In Such A Storm Of Thunderous Elements. The Marvel Is That Such Great Forces Do Such Nice Work.