Faith Is A Mockery If

Where Once Stood The Steadfast Pines, Great, Beautiful, Sweet, My Hand Touched Raw, Moist Stumps. All About Lay Broken Branches, Like The Antlers Of Stricken Deer. The Fragrant, Piled-up Sawdust Swirled And Tumbled About Me. An Unreasoning Resentment Flashed Through Me At The Ruthless Destruction Of The Beauty That I Love.

We, The People, Are Not Free. Our Democracy Is But A Name. We Vote? What Does That Mean? It Means We Choose Between Tweedledee And Tweedledum. We Elect Expensive Masters To Do Our Work For Us, And Then Blame Them Because They Work For Themselves And For Their Class.

Not The Senses I Have But What I Do With Them Is My Kingdom.

It Is Wonderful How Much Time Good People Spend Fighting The Devil. If They Would Only Expend The Same Amount Of Energy Loving Their Fellow Men, The Devil Would Die In His Own Tracks Of Ennui.

Deep, Solemn Optimism, It Seems To Me, Should Spring From This Firm Belief In The Presence Of God In The Individual; Not A Remote, Unapproachable Governor Of The Universe, But A God Who Is Very Near Every One Of Us, Who Is Present Not Only In Earth, Sea And Sky, But Also In Every Pure And Noble Impulse Of Our Hearts.