Sorrow Is Mount Sinai. If One Will,

So We Fall Asleep In Jesus. We Have Played Long Enough At The Games Of Life, And At Last We Feel The Approach Of Death. We Are Tired Out, And We Lay Our Heads Back On The Bosom Of Christ, And Quietly Fall Asleep.

The Things That Hurt Us Teach Us.

What If The Leaves Were To Fall A-weeping, And Say, "it Will Be So Painful For Us To Be Pulled From Our Stalks, When Autumn Comes?" Foolish Fear! Summer Goes, And Autumn Succeeds. The Glory Of Death Is Upon The Leaves; And The Gentlest Breeze That Blows Takes Them Softly And Silently From The Bough, And They Float Slowly Down, Like Fiery Sparks, Upon The Moss.

Despondency Is Ingratitude; Hope Is God's Worship.

The Thistle Is A Prince. Let Any Man That Has An Eye For Beauty Take A View Of The Whole Plant, And Where Will He See A More Expressive Grace And Symmetry; And Where Is There A More Kingly Flower?