Children Are The Hands By

Our Life Is In The Loom; It Rolls Up And Is Hidden As Fast As It Is Woven. It Is To Be Taken Out Of The Loom Only When We Leave This World; Then Only Shall We See The Pattern.

A Dull Ax Never Loves Grindstones.

Miracles Are Like Candles Lit Up Until The Sun Rises, And Then Blown Out. Therefore, I Am Amused When I Hear Sects And Churches Talk About Having Evidence Of Divine Authority Because They Have Miracles. Miracles In Our Time Are Like Candles In The Street At Midday. We Do Not Want Miracles. They Are To Teach Men How To Find Out Truths Themselves; And After They Have Learned This, They No More Need Them Than A Well Man Needs A Staff, Or A Grown-up Child Needs A Walking-stool.

We Have The Promises Of God As Thick As Daisies In Summer Meadows, That Death, Which Men Most Fear, Shall Be To Us The Most Blessed Of Experiences, If We Trust In Him. Death Is Unclasping; Joy, Breaking Out In The Desert; The Heart, Come To Its Blossoming Time! Do We Call It Dying When The Bud Bursts Into Flower?

Our Children That Die Young Are Like Those Spring Bulbs Which Have Their Flowers Prepared Beforehand, And Leave Nothing To Do But To Break Ground, And Blossom, And Pass Away. Thank God For Spring Flowers Among Men, As Well As Among The Grasses Of The Field.