New Every Morning Is The Love Our

The Deeds We Do, The Words We Say,into Still Air They Seem To Fleet;we Count Them Ever Past;but They Shall Last -in The Dread Judgment Theyand We Shall Meet.

Love Masters Agony; The Soul That Seemed Forsaken Feels Her Present God Again And In Her Father's Arms Contented Dies Away.

The Trivial Round, The Common Task,would Furnish All We Ought To Ask.

Thou Art The Sun Of Other Days. They Shine By Giving Back The Rays.

When The Shore Is Won At Last, Who Will Count The Billow Past?