What a proof of the Divine tenderness is there in the human heart itself, which is the organ and receptacle oft so many sympathies! When we consider how exquisite are those conditions by which it is even made capable of so much suffering--the capabilities of a child's heart, of a mother's heart,--what must be the nature of Him who fashioned its depths, and strung its chords.

The individual and the race are always moving, and as we drift into new latitudes new lights open in the heaven more immediately over us.

Christ saw much in this world to weep over, and much to pray over: but he saw nothing in it to look upon with contempt.

Truth is poetry; it is the grandest poetry.

We must die alone. To the very verge of the stream our friends may accompany us; they may bend over us, they may cling to us there; but that one long wave from the sea of eternity washes up to the lips, sweeps us from the shore, and we go forth alone! In that untried and utter solitude, then, what can there be for us but the pulsation of that assurance, "I am not alone, because the Father is with me!

Conscience is its own readiest accuser.

No great truth bursts upon man without having its hemisphere of darkness and sorrow.