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Still ending, and beginning still.

True Charity, a plant divinely nurs'd.

Feast of Etheldreda, Abbess of Ely, c.678 O for a closer walk with God, A calm and heavenly frame, A light to shine upon the road That leads me to the Lamb Return, O holy Dove, return, Sweet messenger of rest! I hate the sins that made Thee mourn And drove Thee from my breast The dearest idol I have known, Whate'er that idol be, Help me to tear it from Thy throne, And worship only Thee. So shall my walk be close with God, Calm and serene my frame; So purer light shall mark the road That leads me to the Lamb.

Commemoration of Charles Williams, Spiritual Writer, 1945 I thirst, but not as once I did, The vain delights of earth to share; Thy wounds, Emmanuel, all forbid That I should seek my pleasures there. It was the sight of Thy dear cross First weaned my soul from earthly things; And taught me to esteem as dross The mirth of fools, and pomp of kings. I want that grace that springs from Thee, That quickens all things where it flows; And makes a wretched thorn like me Bloom as the myrtle or the rose. Dear fountain of delight unknown! No longer sink beneath the brim, But overflow, and pour me down A living and life-giving stream! For sure, if all the plants that share The notice of Thy Father's eye, None proves less grateful to His care, Or yields Him meaner fruit than I.

Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own.

God made the country, and man made the town.

Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.

The still small voice is wanted.

Give what thou canst, without Thee we are poor; And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.

Great contest follows, and much learned dust Involves the combatants; each claiming truth, And truth disclaiming both.

But conversation, choose what theme we may, And chiefly when religion leads the way, Should flow, like waters after summer show'rs, Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers.

. . . thieves at home must hang; but he that puts Into his overgorged and bloated purse The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.

But many a crime deemed innocent on earth Is registered in Heaven; and these no doubt Have each their record, with a curse annex'd.

Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.

Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away.

Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?

He would not, with a peremptory tone, Assert the nose upon his face his own.

Dream after dream ensues; And still they dream that they shall still succeed; And still are disappointed.

How much a dunce that has been sent to roam Excels a dunce that has been kept at home.

England with all thy faults, I love thee still-- My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee.