God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.
The parson knows enough who knows a Duke.
The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.
Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
Happy the man who sees a God employed in all the good and ills that checker life.
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; he does not feel for man.