Such Sober Certainty Of Waking

Grace Was In All Her Steps, Heaven In Her Eye, In Every Gesture Dignity And Love.

O Loss Of Sight, Of Thee I Most Complain! Blind Among Enemies, O Worse Than Chains, Dungeon, Or Beggary, Or Decrepit Age!

There Is No Christian Duty That Is Not To Be Seasoned And Set Off With Cheerishness, Which In A Thousand Outward And Intermitting Crosses May Yet Be Done Well, As In This Vale Of Tears.

Beauty Stands In The Admiration Only Of Weak Minds Led Captive.

But Oh The Heavy Change, Now Thou Art Gone, Now Thou Art Gone And Never Must Return!