Grace grows best in winter.

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

The cross of Christ is the sweetest burden that I ever bore; it is such a burden as wings are to a bird, or sails to a ship, to carry me forward to my harbor.

You will not be carried to Heaven lying at ease upon a feather bed.

The weightiest end of the cross of Christ that is laid upon you, lieth upon your strong Savior.

When the race is ended, and the play is either won or lost, and ye are in the utmost circle and border of time, and shall put your foot within the march of eternity, all the good things of your short nightdream shall seem to you like ashes of a blaze of thorns or straw.

If Christ Jesus be the periode, the end and the lodging-home at the end of your journey, there is no fear ye go to a friend . . . ye may look death in the face with joy.