Our life is what our thoughts make it. A man will find that as he alters his thoughts toward things and other people, things and other people will alter towards him.
If only we could learn that tolerance is the oil that takes the friction out of life!
Creation is a better means of self-expression than possession; it is through creating, not possessing, that life is revealed.
Life is the garment we continually alter but which never seems to fit.
... He had by now divested himself of schoolboy attitudes. He was unburdened by the desire to be a martyr or a hero. Any thoughts in that direction, Belgica effectively had quashed. Heroism in the corrupt sense of the age almost by definition, meant wanton self-sacrifice and bungling. For neither had he any taste. He wanted rational attainment; victory, but not at any price. No point upon the globe was worth the cost of a single life.
In some measure all that comes after you is going to be influenced and determined by the kind of life you make in your business of living. When viewed from such a height of vision, even the seemingly least important life gathers round it a glory which truly passes understanding.
Choose your friends wisely. They will provide the foundation of spiritual strength that will enable you to make difficult, extremely important decisions correctly when they come in your life. Above all, be a friend of the Savior.
A garden is the mirror of a mind. It is a place of life, a mystery of green moving to the pulse of the year, and pressing on and pausing the whole to its own inherent rhythms.
The changes in our life must come more from the impossibility to live otherwise than according to the demands of our conscience ... not from our mental resolution to try a new form of life.
A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW The surging sea of human life forever onward rolls, And bears to the eternal shore its daily freight of souls; Tbough bravely sails our bark today, pale Death sits at the prow, And few shall know we ever lived a hundred years from now. O mighty human brotherhood Why fiercely war and strive, While God's great world has ample space for everything alive? Broad fields uncultured and unclaimed are waiting for the plow Of progress that shall make them bloom a hundred years from now. Why should we try so earnestly in life's short, narrow span, On golden stairs to climb so high above our brother man? Why blindly at an earthly shrine in slavish homage bow? Our gold will rust, ourselves be dust, a hundred years from now. Why prize so much the world's applause? Why dread so much its blame? A fleeting echo is its voice of censure or of fame; The praise that thrills the heart, the scom that dyes with shame the brow, Will be as long-forgotten dreams a hundred years from now. O patient hearts, that meekly bear your weary load of wrongl O earnest hearts, that bravely dare, and striving, grow more strong! Press on till perfect peace is won; you'll never dream of how You struggled o'er life's thorny road a hundred years from now. Grand, lofty souls, who live and toil that freedom, right and truth Alone may rule the universe, for you is endless youth. When 'mid the blest with God you rest, the grateful land shall bow Above your clay in reverent love a hundred years from now. Earth's empires rise and fall. Time! like breakers on thy shore They rush upon thy rocks of doom, go down, and are no more. The starry wilderness of worlds that gem night's radiant brow Will light the skies for other eyes a hundred years from now. Our Father, to whose sleepless eye the past and future stand An open page, like babes we cling to Tby protecting hand; Change, sorrow, death, are naught to us, if we may safely bow Beneath the shadow of Thy throne a hundred years from now.
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