What I Do Is Me, For That

When A Man Is In God's Grace And Free From Mortal Sin, Then Everything That He Does, So Long As There Is No Sin In It, Gives God Glory And What Does Not Give Him Glory Has Some, However Little, Sin In It. It Is Not Only Prayer That Gives God Glory But Work. Smiting On An Anvil, Sawing A Beam, Whitewashing A Wall, Driving Horses, Sweeping, Scouring, Everything Gives God Some Glory If Being In His Grace You Do It As Your Duty.

Your Personal Boundaries Protect The Inner Core Of Your Identity And Your Right To Choices.

The Male Quality Is The Creative Gift.

Spring And Fall: To A Young Child Márgarét, Are You Gríeving Over Goldengrove Unleaving? Leáves, Líke The Things Of Man, You With Your Fresh Thoughts Care For, Can You? Ah! ás The Heart Grows Older It Will Come To Such Sights Colder By And By, Nor Spare A Sigh Though Worlds Of Wanwood Leafmeal Lie; And Yet You Wíll Weep And Know Why. Now No Matter, Child, The Name: Sórrow's Spríngs áre The Same. Nor Mouth Had, No Nor Mind, Expressed What Heart Heard Of, Ghost Guessed: It ís The Blight Man Was Born For, It Is Margaret You Mourn For.

The World Is Charged With The Grandeur Of God. It Will Flame Out, Like Shining From Shook Foil; It Gathers To A Greatness, Like The Ooze Of Oil Crushed.