The Epistle of James

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Hodder and Stoughton, 1906 - 139 pages

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Page 14 - This is the excellent foppery of the world ! that, when we are sick in fortune, (often the surfeit of our own behaviour,) we make guilty of our disasters, the sun, the moon, and the stars...
Page 8 - For love, which scarce collective man can fill; For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill; For faith, that, panting for a happier seat. Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat.
Page 6 - My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.
Page 10 - A brother's murder! Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect.
Page 5 - He is insensibly subdued To settled quiet: he is one by whom All effort seems forgotten, one to whom Long patience hath such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing, of which He hath no need. He is by nature led To peace so perfect, that the young behold With envy what the Old Man hardly feels.
Page 85 - No — man is dear to man ; the poorest poor Long for some moments in a weary life •' When they can know and feel that they have been, Themselves, the fathers and the dealers out Of some small blessings ; have been kind to such As needed kindness, for this single cause, That we have all of us one human heart.
Page 120 - Oh ! thou who mournest on thy way, With longings for the close of day ; He walks with thee, that angel kind, And gently whispers, " Be resigned : Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell The dear Lord ordereth all things well !
Page 55 - If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food, and one of you say unto them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled ; notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the body; what doth it profit?
Page 26 - Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power. The thought, the image, and the silent joy : Words are but under-agents in their souls ; When they are grasping with their greatest strength. They do not breathe among them...
Page 94 - WHO drives the horses of the sun Shall lord it but a day; Better the lowly deed were done, And kept the humble way. The rust will find the sword of fame, The dust will hide the crown; Ay, none shall nail so high his name Time will not tear it down. The happiest heart that ever beat Was in some quiet breast That found the common daylight sweet, And left to Heaven the rest.

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