Mercy Among The Virtues Is Like The

God's Beneficence Streams Out From The Morning Sun, And His Love Looks Down Upon Us From The Starry Eyes Of Midnight. It Is His Solicitude That Wraps Us In The Air, And The Pressure Of His Hand, So To Speak, That Keeps Our Pulses Beating. O! It Is A Great Thing To Realize That The Divine Power Is Always Working; That Nature, In Every Valve And Every Artery, Is Full Of The Presence Of God.

Our Life Is What We Make It. An Insignificant Game Or A Noble Trial; A Dream Or A Reality; A Play Of The Senses Worn Out In Selfish Use, And Flying "swifter Than A Weaver's Shuttle," Or An Ascension Of The Soul, By Daily Duties And Unfaltering Faith, To More Spiritual Relations And To Loftier Toils.

Even Yet Christ Jesus Has To Lie Out In Waste Places Very Often, Because There Is No Room For Him In The Inn--no Room For Him In Our Hearts, Because Of Our Worldliness. There Is No Room For Him Even In Our Politics And Religion. There Is No Room In The Inn, And We Put Him In The Manger, And He Lies Outside Our Faith, Coldly And Dimly Conceived By Us.

The Minister Should Preach As If He Felt That Although The Congregation Own The Church, And Have Bought The Pews, They Have Not Bought Him. His Soul Is Worth No More Than Any Other Man's, But It Is All He Has, And He Cannot Be Expected To Sell It For A Salary. The Terms Are By No Means Equal. If A Parishioner Does Not Like The Preaching, He Can Go Elsewhere And Get Another Pew, But The Preacher Cannot Get Another Soul.

It Is As Bad To Clip Conscience As To Clip Coin; It Is As Bad To Give A Counterfeit Statement As A Counterfeit Bill.