It is a solemn thing to find oneself drawn out in prayer which knows no relief till the soul it is burdened with is born. It is no less solemn afterwards, until Christ is formed in them.

There is always something to be happy about if we look for it: ‘Two men looked through prison bars, The one saw mud, the other stars.'

O Thou who art my quietness, my deep repose, My rest from strife of tongues, my holy hill, Fair is Thy pavilion, where I hold me still. Back let them fall from me, my clamorous foes, Confusions multiplied; From crowding things of sense I flee, and Thee I hide. Until this tyranny be overpast, Thy hand will hold me fast; What though the tumult of the storm increase, Grant to Thy servant strength, O Lord, and bless with peace.

I don't wonder apostolic miracles have died. Apostolic living certainly has.

Missionary life is simply a chance to die.

God, harden me against myself!

Our enemy is more aware than we are of the spiritual possibilities that depend upon obedience.