And These Gems Of Heav'n,

Ink Is The Blood Of The Printing-press.

Say, Heavenly Pow'rs, Where Shall We Find Such Love? Which Of Ye Will Be Mortal To Redeem Man's Mortal Crime, And Just Th' Unjust To Save.

Above The Smoke And Stir Of This Dim Spot Which Men Call Earth.

Freely We Serve, Because We Freely Love, As In Our Will To Love Or Not; In This We Stand Or Fall.

A Grateful Mind/ By Owing Owes Not, But Still Pays, At Once/ Indebted And Discharg'd.