Life on the Uplands: An Interpretation of the Twenty-third Psalm

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Armstrong, 1907 - 139 pages
 

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Page 124 - GROW old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in his hand Who saith, "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!
Page 136 - Here in the body pent, Absent from Him I roam, Yet nightly pitch my moving tent A day's march nearer home.
Page 115 - What mean ye, that ye use this proverb concerning the land of Israel, saying, The fathers have eaten sour grapes, And the children's teeth are set on edge?
Page 58 - That life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter'd with the shocks of doom To shape and use.
Page 54 - All things have been delivered unto me of my Father: and no one knoweth the Son, save the Father; neither doth any know the Father, save the Son, and he to whomsoever the Son willeth to reveal him.
Page 59 - Therefore are they before the throne of God ; and they serve him day and night in his temple : and he that sitteth on the throne shall spread his tabernacle over them.
Page 88 - Come, and let us return unto the Lord: for he hath torn, and he will heal us; he hath smitten, and he will bind us up. After two days will he revive us: in the third day he will raise us up, and we shall live in his sight.
Page 124 - For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress, And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
Page 127 - ... Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho...
Page 118 - Call'd me polluted : shall I kill myself? What help in that ? I cannot kill my sin, If soul be soul ; nor can I kill my shame ; No, nor by living can I live it down. The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months, The months will add themselves and make the years, The years will roll into the centuries, And mine will ever be a name of scorn.

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