It was wonderful love that Christ should rather die for us than for the angels that fell. They were creatures of a more noble extract, and in all probability might have brought greater revenues of glory to God; yet that Christ should pass by those golden vessels, and make us clods of earth into stars of glory -- Oh, the hyperbole of Christ's love!

The pleasure of sin is soon gone, but the sting remains.

Are there not millions of us who would rather go sleeping to hell; than sweating to heaven?

There is justice in hell, but sin is the most unjust thing. It would rob God of his glory, Christ of his purchase, the soul of its happiness.

Praising God is one of the highest and purest acts of religion. In prayer we act like men; in praise we act like angels.

This kind of intense loyalty, then, became the well-spring of the IBM spirit, the family spirit as it was called.

The world rings changes, it is never constant but in its disappointments. The world is but a great inn, where we are to stay a night or two, and be gone; what madness is it so to set our heart upon our inn, as to forget our home?