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Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head

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Blessing Cloud Courage Fearful Saint Take

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Remorse begets reform.
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Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
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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. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour;
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Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.
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Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame; He hides behind a magisterial air He own offences, and strips others’ bare.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize,–the art that baffles time’s tyrannic claim to quench it.
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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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Habits are soon assumed; but when we strive to strip them off, ’tis being flayed alive.
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Alas! if my best Friend, who laid down His life for me, were to remember all the instances in which I have neglected Him, and to plead them against me in judgment, where should I hide my guilty head in the day of recompense?
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Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have oft-times no connection.
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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.
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The still small voice is wanted.
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