Worry Is The Cross Which We Make

Crosses Are Of No Use To Us But Inasmuch As We Yield Ourselves Up To Them And Forget Ourselves.

Real Friends Are Our Greatest Joy And Our Greatest Sorrow. It Were Almost To Be Wished That All True And Faithful Friends Should Expire On The Same Day.

The Past But Lives In Written Words: A Thousand Ages Were Blank If Books Had Not Evoked Their Ghosts, And Kept The Pale Unbodied Shades To Warn Us From Fleshless Lips.

God Felt, God Tasted And Enjoyed Is Indeed God, But God With Those Gifts Which Flatter The Soul, God In Darkness, In Privation, In Forsakenness, In Sensibility, Is So Much God, That He Is So To Speak God Bare And Alone. Shall We Fear This Death, Which Is To Produce In Us The True Divine Life Of Grace?

The Blood Of A Nation Ought Never To Be Shed Except For Its Own Preservation In The Utmost Extremity.