All human love is a faint type of God's; An echoing note from a harmonious whole; A feeble spark from an undying flame; A single drop from an unfathomed sea: But God's is infinite; it fills the earth And heaven, and the broad, trackless realms of space.

Only now is the child finally divested of all that he has been. His origins are become remote as is his destiny and not again in all the world's turning will there be terrains so wild and barbarous to try whether the stuff of creation may be shaped to man's will or whether his own heart is not another kind of clay.

There was a sharp crack from somewhere on the mountain. Then another. It's just a tree falling, he said. It's okay. The boy was looking at the dead roadside trees. It's okay, the man said. All the trees in the world are going to fall sooner or later. But not on us.

The nights were blinding cold and casket black and the long reach of the morning had a terrible silence to it.

This country will kill you in a heartbeat and still people love it.

The voice of the Almighty speaks most profoundly in such things as lives in silence themselves.

People complain about the bad things that happen to em that they don't deserve but they seldom mention the good. About what they done to deserve them things.