Death From Sin No Power Can Separate.

Truth Is Compared In Scripture To A Streaming Fountain; If Her Waters Flow Not In Perpetual Progression, They Sicken Into A Muddy Pool Of Conformity And Tradition.

Where Glowing Embers Through The Room Teach Light To Counterfeit A Gloom.

O Sun, To Tell Thee How I Hate Thy Beams That Bring To My Remembrance From What State I Fell, How Glorious Once Above Thy Sphere.

Quips And Cranks And Wanton Wiles, Nods And Becks And Wreathèd Smiles.

The First And Wisest Of Them All Professed To Know This Only, That He Nothing Knew.