Where Christ brings His cross He brings His presence; and where He is none are desolate, and there is no room for despair.

This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.

XI I sang his name instead of song; Over and over I sang his name: Backward and forward I sang it along, With my sweetest notes, it was still the same! I sang it low, that the slave-girls near Might never guess, from what they could hear, That all the song was a name.

I work with patience, which is almost power.

And yet, because I love thee, I obtain From that same love this vindicating grace, To live on still in love, and yet in vain

When the dust of death has choked a great man's voice, the common words he said turn oracles, the common thoughts he yoked like horses draw like griffins.

An ignorance of means may minister to greatness, but an ignorance of aims make it impossible to be great at all.