One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.

Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove.

That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.

The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.

Forgive! How many will say, forgive, and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer!

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!