On some clear evening when the stars shrink back before the pathway of the ascending moon, and night is almost transformed to day, we are moved to admiration and pleasure; yet all this attractive light, focused to the smallest compass, could not dissolve the most delicate petal of frost or melt the tiniest snowflake.
Such is science without sentiment, the intellect without the heart, religion without spirituality. But on the other hand, the true church is one which combines both; which is purely rational, yet deeply religious; which is perfectly tolerant and catholic; which yet extends its fraternal hand to the needy, opprest, and downtrodden of every class; which is bound to no creed whatsoever, but is genuinely, rationally, vitally spiritual.—George C. Cressey.
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SPRING AS TYPE OF LIFE
When I am gone, somehow I hope that spring
Will typify my life, my optimism,
My hope of victory through the years,
My nerve of step, my clear and visioned eye.
The early flowers, the robins singing in
The rain (may they not sing since they have wings?),