With What Cracked Pitchers Go

I Cannot Speak In Happy Tones; The Tear Drops On My Cheek Show I Am Sad; But I Can Speak Of Grace To Suffer With Submission Meek, Until Made Glad.

We Have Hearts Within, Warm, Live, Improvident, Indecent Hearts.

And Is It Not The Chief Good Of Money, The Being Free From The Need Of Thinking Of It?

Pan Is Dead! Great Pan Is Dead! Pan, Pan Is Dead!

Where Christ Brings His Cross He Brings His Presence; And Where He Is None Are Desolate, And There Is No Room For Despair.