The Pen Is The Tongue Of The

A Babe Is A Mother's Anchor.

There Can Be No Barrenness In Full Summer. The Very Sand Will Yield Something. Rocks Will Have Mosses, And Every Rift Will Have Its Wind-flower, And Every Crevice A Leaf; While From The Fertile Soil Will Be Reared A Gorgeous Troop Of Growths, That Will Carry Their Life In Ten Thousand Forms, But All With Praise To God. And So It Is When The Soul Knows Its Summer. Love Redeems Its Weakness, Clothes Its Barrenness, Enriches Its Poverty, And Makes Its Very Desert To Bud And Blossom As The Rose.

Coming To The Bible Through Commentaries Is Much Like Looking At A Landscape Through Garret Windows, Over Which Generations Of Unmolested Spiders Have Spun Their Webs.

When A Man Can Look Upon The Simple Wild-rose, And Feel No Pleasure, His Taste Has Been Corrupted.

Love Cannot Endure Indifference. It Needs To Be Wanted. Like A Lamp, It Needs To Be Fed Out Of The Oil Of Another's Heart, Or Its Flame Burns Low.