And Only The Sure Of

There Are Those Who Give With Joy, And That Joy Is Their Reward. And There Are Those Who Give With Pain, And That Pain Is Their Baptism. And There Are Those Who Give And Know Not Pain In Giving, Nor Do They Seek Joy, Nor Give With Mindfulness Of Virtue; They Give As In Yonder Valley The Myrtle Breathes Its Fragrance Into Space. Through The Hands Of Such As These God Speaks, And From Behind Their Eyes He Smiles Upon The Earth.

Observe The Wonders As They Occur Around You. Don't Claim Them. Feel The Artistry Moving Through And Be Silent.

Solitude Has Soft, Silky Hands, But With Strong Fingers It Grasps The Heart And Makes It Ache With Sorrow.

The Human Heart Cries Out For Help; The Human Soul Implores Us For Deliverance; But We Do Not Heed Their Cries, For We Neither Hear Nor Understand. But The Man Who Hears And Understands We Call Mad, And Flee From Him. Thus The Nights Pass, And We Live In Unawareness; And The Days Greet Us And Embrace Us. But We Live In Constant Dread Of Day And Night.

Jesus Was Not Sent Here To Teach The People To Build Magnificent Churches And Temples Amidst The Cold Wretched Huts And Dismal Hovels. He Came To Make The Human Heart A Temple, And The Soul An Altar, And The Mind A Priest.