Down below all the crust of human conceptions, of human ideas, Christ sank an artesian well into a source of happiness so pure and blessed that even yet the world does not believe in it.

Even yet Christ Jesus has to lie out in waste places very often, because there is no room for him in the inn--no room for him in our hearts, because of our worldliness. There is no room for him even in our politics and religion. There is no room in the inn, and we put him in the manger, and he lies outside our faith, coldly and dimly conceived by us.

In the matter of faith, we have the added weight of hope to that of reason in the convictions which we sustain relating to a future state.

If one's conscience be dead as a stone, it is as heavy too.

Conscience is its own readiest accuser.

Pure felicity is reserved for the heavenly life; it grows not in an earthly soil.

We do not compromise our own faith by admitting the honesty of another's doubt.