Our Hearts Are Lamps For Ever Burning.

Day, Like A Weary Pilgrim, Had Reached The Western Gate Of Heaven, And Evening Stooped Down To Unloose The Latchets Of His Sandal Shoon.

Nothing With God Can Be Accidental.

The Human Voice Is The Organ Of The Soul.

In December Ring Every Day The Chimes; Loud The Gleemen Sing In The Streets Their Merry Rhymes. Let Us By The Fire Ever Higher Sing Them Till The Night Expire!

We Are All Architects Of Faith, Ever Living In These Walls Of Time.