We are as near to heaven as we are far from self, and far from the love of a sinful world.

Jesus Christ came into my prison cell last night, and every stone flashed like a ruby.

Faint not; the miles to heaven are but few and short.

I know that, as night and shadows are good for flowers, and moonlight and dews are better than a continual sun, so is Christ's absence of special use, and that it hath some nourishing virtue in it, and giveth sap to humility, and putteth an edge on hunger, and funisheth a fairfield to faith to put forth itself, and to exercise its fingers in gripping it seeth not what.

After winter comes the summer. After night comes the dawn. And after every storm, there comes clear, open skies.

I think it is possible on earth to build a young, new Jerusalem, a little, new heaven of this surpassing love. God, either send me more of this love, or take me quickly over the water, where I may be filled with his love.

Heaven is a house full of miracles; yea, of spectacles and images of free grace.