path

I suggest that the only books that influence us are those for which we are ready, and which have gone a little farther down our particular path than we have yet gone ourselves.

The only books that influence us are those for which we are ready, and which have gone a little farther down our particular path than we have yet got ourselves.

Lean on thyself until thy strength is tried; Then ask God's help; it will not be denied. Use thine own sight to see the way to go; When darkness falls ask God the path to show. Think for thyself and reason out thy plan; God has His work and thou hast thine. Exert thy will and use for self-control; God gave thee jurisdiction of thy soul. All thine immortal powers bring into play; Think, act, strive, reason, and look up and pray.

Talk happiness. The world is sad enough without your woe. No path is wholly rough.

All those who journey, soon or late, Must pass within the garden's gate; Must kneel alone in darkness there, And battle with some fierce despair. God pity those who cannot say: "Not mine but thine"; who only pray: "Let this cup pass," and cannot see The purpose in Gethsemane. All paths which have been or must be, Must pass through Gethsemane. All those who journey, soon or late, Must pass somewhere through the garden's gate. Must kneel alone in darkness there, And deal with some fierce despair. God pity those who cannot say, "Not mine, but shine," who only pray "Let this cup pass," and cannot see The purpose of Gethsemane.

A subtle spirit has my path attended, In likeness not a lion but a pard; And when the arrows flew like hail, and hard He licked my wounds, and all my wounds were mended.

A Hair's Breadth In Burma there is a huge rock that balances on the edge of a cliff, kept from toppling, they say, by one hair plucked from Buddha's beard. Monks rise early to climb the steep, jagged path to view this miracle as the sun begins its day shining on the thin strand so delicately placed. I understand this pilgrimage, to witness life spared one more day. I saw a picture once in the newspaper of a car stalled at the foot of a steep embankment. A school bus had slid off the highway down the embankment and was kept from rolling, from killing the children, by the stalled car some driver had earlier cursed and kicked, stomping off through the snow, his day ruined. I cut out that picture, put it in a folder labeled "miracles," where I will put this one of the rock in Burma. And when my children complain about gathering for prayers before bed, I will take one out now and then to show them how precariously life is balanced.

Earth Is Enough. We men of Earth have here the stuff Of Paradise - we have enough! We need no other stones to build The Temple of the Unfulfilled - No other ivory for the doors - No other marble for the floors - No other cedar for the beam And dome of man's immortal dream. Here on the paths of every-day - Here on the common human way Is all the stuff the gods would take To build a Heaven, to mold and make New Edens. Ours is the stuff sublime To build Eternity in time!

The man who consecrates his hours by vigorous effort, and an honest aim, at once he draws the sting of life and Death; he walks with nature; and her paths are peace.

Just why I suffer loss I cannot know, I only know my Father wills it so. He leads in paths I cannot understand; But all the way I know is wisely planned. My life is only mine that I may use The gifts he length me as he may choose; And if in love some boon he does recall, I know that unto him belongeth all. I am his child and I can safely trust; He loves me and I know that he is just. Within his love I can scarcely rest, Assured that what he does for me is best.