I Assure You By The

Faint Not; The Miles To Heaven Are But Few And Short.

There Is Nothing That Will Make You A Christian Indeed, But A Taste Of The Sweetness Of Christ.

I Perceive We Postpone All Our Joys Of Christ, Till He And We Be In Our Own House Above, Thinking That There Is Nothing Of It Here To Be Sought Or Found, But Only Hope And Fair Promises; And That Christ Will Give Us Nothing Here But Tears, Sadness, Crosses; And That We Shall Never Feel The Smell Of The Flowers Of That High Garden Of Paradise Above, Till We Come There. Nay, But I Find It Possible To Find Young Glory, And A Young Green Paradise Of Joy Even Here. We Dream Of Hunger In Christ's House, While We Are Here, Although He Alloweth Feasts To All The Bairns Within God's Household.

After Winter Comes The Summer. After Night Comes The Dawn. And After Every Storm, There Comes Clear, Open Skies.

I Hang By A Thread, But It Is (if I May So Speak) Of Christ's Spinning