These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.
The groves were God's first temples.
A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.
Christ taught an astonishing thing about physical death: not merely that it is an experience robbed of its terror but that as an experience it does not exist at all. To "sleep in Christ," like one that wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.