Much in sorrow, oft in woe, Onward, Christians, onward go.

Earthly pride is like the passing flower, that springs to fall, and blossoms but to die.

Who shall contend with time,--unvanquished time, the conqueror of conquerors and lord of desolation?

So, on the eastern summit, clad in gray, morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes, and from his tower of mist night's watchman hurries down.

I do not like punishments. You will never torture a child into duty; but a sensible child will dread the frown of a judicious mother more than all the rods, dark rooms, end scolding school-mistresses in the universe.

Much in sorrow, oft in woe, Onward, Christians, onward go.

The past is dead, and has no resurrection.