Hereby perceive we the love of God, because He laid down His life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren." How often I think of that 'ought.' No sugary sentiment there. Just the stern, glorious trumpet call, OUGHT. But can words tell the joy buried deep within? Mine cannot. It laughs at words.

If the praise of others elates me and their blame depresses me; if I cannot rest under misunderstandin g without defending myself; if I love to be loved more than to love, to be served more than to serve, then I know nothing of Calvary love.

If I take offence easily; if I am content to continue in cold unfriendliness, though friendship be possible, then I know nothing of Calvary love.

We profess to be strangers and pilgrims, seeking after a country of our own, yet we settle down in the most un-stranger-like fashion, exactly as if we were quite at home and meant to stay as long as we could. I don't wonder apostolic miracles have died. Apostolic living certainly has.

When I can see my face in it [the liquid gold in the crucible] then it is pure.

continually we look at things about us without seeing more than a very little of what is there.

When I consider the cross of Christ, how can anything that I do be called sacrifice?