Not what we think, but what we do, / Makes saints of us: all stiff and cold, / The outlines of the corpse show through / The cloth of gold.

I sit where the leaves of the maple and the gnarled and knotted gum are circling and drifting around me.

He who loves best his fellow-man, is loving God the holiest way he can.

True worth is in being, not seeming

Nothing in this low and ruined world bears the meek impress of the Son of God so surely as forgiveness.

Not what we think, but what we do, / Makes saints of us: all stiff and cold, / The outlines of the corpse show through / The cloth of gold.

Yea, when mortality dissolves, Shall I not meet thine hour unawed? My house eternal in the heavens Is lighted by the smile of God!