Man Hath Weaved Out A Net, And

Despair Is The Damp Of Hell, As Joy Is The Serenity Of Heaven.

Humiliation Is The Beginning Of Sanctification.

I Sing The Progress Of A Deathless Soul.

Now God Comes To Thee, Not As In The Dawning Of The Day, Not As In The Bud Of The Spring, But As The Sun At Noon To Illustrate All Shadows, As The Sheaves In Harvest, To Fill All Penuries, All Occasions Invite His Mercies, And All Times Are His Seasons.

Twice Or Thrice Had I Loved Thee Before I Knew Thy Face Or Name, So In A Voice, So In A Shapeless Flame, Angels Affect Us Oft, And Worshiped Be.