Mirth Is The Sweet Wine

Our Yearnings Are Homesicknesses For Heaven; Our Sighings Are For God, Just As Children That Cry Themselves Asleep Away From Home, And Sob In Their Slumber, Know Not That They Sob For Their Parents. The Soul's Inarticulate Moanings Are The Affections Yearning For The Infinite, And Having No One To Tell Them What It Is That Ails Them.

No Church Can Be Prospered In Which All The Ministration Comes From The Pulpit.

Children Are The Hands By Which We Take Hold Of Heaven. By These Tendrils We Clasp It And Climb Thitherward. And Why Do We Think That We Are Separated From Them? We Never Half Knew Them, Nor In This World Could.

Money In The Hands Of One Or Two Men Is Like A Dungheap In A Barnyard. So Long As It Lies In A Mass, It Does No Good; But, If It Is Only Spread Out Evenly On The Land, Everything Will Grow.

God Pardons Like A Mother, Who Kisses The Offense Into Everlasting Forgiveness.