Blessed be the true life that the pauses between its throbs are not death!

In low theologies, hell is invariably the deepest truth, and the love of God is not so deep as hell.

The perfection of His relation to us swallows up all our imperfections, all our defeats, all our evils; for our childhood is born of His fatherhood. That man is perfect in faith who can come to God in the utter dearth of his feelings and his desires, without a glow or an aspiration, with the weight of low thoughts, failures, neglects, and wandering forgetfulness, and say to Him, “Thou art my refuge, because Thou art my home”.

I write, not for children,but for the child-like, whether they be of five, or fifty, or seventy-five.

As you grow ready for it, somewhere or other you will find what is needful for you in a book.

There is no slave but the creature that wills against its Creator.

There is no water in oxygen, no water in hydrogen: it comes bubbling fresh from the imagination of the living God, rushing from under the great white throne of the glacier. The very thought of it makes one gasp with an elemental joy no metaphysician can analyse.