Prayer Is Not Eloquence But

The Secret Heart Is Fair Devotion's Temple; There The Saint, Even On That Living Altar, Lights The Flame Of Purest Sacrifice, Which Burns Unseen, Not Unaccepted.

My Retirement Was Now Become Solitude; The Former Is, I Believe, The Best State For The Mind Of Man, The Latter Almost The Worst. In Complete Solitude, The Eye Wants Objects, The Heart Wants Attachments, The Understanding Wants Reciprocation. The Character Loses Its Tenderness When It Has Nothing To Strengthen It, Its Sweetness When It Has Nothing To Soothe It.

If Faith Produce No Works, I See That Faith Is Not A Living Tree.

Outward Attacks And Troubles Rather Fix Than Unsettle The Christian, As Tempests From Without Only Serve To Root The Oak Faster; While An Inward Canker Will Gradually Rot And Decay It.

A Crown! What Is It? It Is To Bear The Miseries Of A People! To Hear Their Murmurs, Feel Their Discontents, And Sink Beneath A Load Of Splendid Care!