When The Good Man Yields His Breath

Night Is The Time To Weep,to Wet With Unseen Tearsthose Graves Of Memory Where Sleepthe Joys Of Other Years.

Prayer Is The Soul's Sincere Desire, Uttered Or Unexpressed, The Motion Of A Hidden Fire That Trembles In The Breast. Prayer Is The Burden Of A Sigh, The Falling Of A Tear, The Upward Glancing Of An Eye When None But God Is Near.

Joys Too Exquisite To Last, And Yet More Exquisite When Past.

Eternity: A Moment Standing Still For Ever.

Yet Nightly Pitch My Moving Tent, A Day's March Nearer Home.