My Yearning Is My Cup, My Burning

In Every Aspect Of The Day Jesus Was Aware Of The Father. He Beheld Him In The Clouds And In The Shadows Of The Clouds That Pass Over The Earth.

Pity The Nation Whose Statesman Is A Fox, Whose Philosopher Is A Juggler, And Whose Art Is The Art Of Patching And Mimicking. Pity The Nation That Welcomes Its New Ruler With Trumpetings, And Farewells Him With Hootings, Only To Welcome Another Ruler With Trumpetings Again. Pity The Nation Whose Sages Are Dumb With Years And Whose Strong Men Are Yet In The Cradle. Pity The Nation Divided Into Fragments, Each Fragment Deeming Itself A Nation.

Life Unfolds Itself In Mysteries Ways.

From A Sensitive Woman's Heart Springs The Happiness Of Mankind, And From The Kindness Of Her Noble Spirit Comes Mankind's Affection.

Prayer Is The Song Of The Heart. It Reaches The Ear Of God Even If It Is Mingled With The Cry And The Tumult Of A Thousand Men.