Prayer Flies Where The Eagle Never Flew.

Heaven Is The Day Of Which Grace Is The Dawn; The Rich, Ripe Fruit Of Which Grace Is The Lovely Flower; The Inner Shrine Of That Most Glorious Temple To Which Grace Forms The Approach And Outer Court.

As In Nature, As In Art, So In Grace; It Is Rough Treatment That Gives Souls, As Well As Stones, Their Luster.

The Hope Of Immortality Makes Heroes Of Cowards.

Prayer Flies Where The Eagle Never Flew.

The Finest Flowers Of Genius Have Grown In An Atmosphere Where Those Of Nature Are Prone To Droop, And Difficult To Bring To Maturity.