The way of God is complex, he is hard for us to predict. He moves the pieces and they come somehow into a kind of order.

Your very silence shows you agree.

To die with glory, if one has to die at all, is still, I think, pain for the dier.

My hands are clean, but my heart has somewhat of impurity.

The wavering mind is but a base possession.

I hate it in friends when they come too late to help.

Light be the earth upon you, lightly rest.