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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.

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Labor Much Pleasure Tire Tries

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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
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Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
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I will pray, therefore, for blessings on my friends, even though they cease to be so, and upon my enemies, though they continue such.
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Absence of proof is not proof of absence.
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Heaven’s harmony is universal love.
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We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
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Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock’d in the cradle of the western breeze.
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Restraining prayer, we cease to fight; Prayer keeps the Christian’s armor bright; And Satan trembles when he sees The weakest saint upon his knees.
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Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
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Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill He treasures up his bright designs,
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Trials make the promise sweet, Trials give new life to prayer; Trials bring me to His feet, Lay me low, and keep me there.
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Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in
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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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God made bees, and bees made honey, God made man, and man made money,
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Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
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They whom truth and wisdom lead, can gather honey from a weed.
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