We Run Carelessly To The Precipice, After

When I See The Blind And Wretched State Of Men, When I Survey The Whole Universe In Its Deadness, And Man Left To Himself With No Light, As Though Lost In This Corner Of The Universe Without Knowing Who Put Him There, What He Has To Do, Or What Will Become Of Him When He Dies, Incapable Of Knowing Anything, I Am Moved To Terror, Like A Man Transported In His Sleep To Some Terrifying Desert Island, Who Wakes Up Quite Lost, With No Means Of Escape. Then I Marvel That So Wretched A State Does Not Drive People To Despair.

Christianity Is Strange. It Bids Man Recognise That He Is Vile, Even Abominable, And Bids Him Desire To Be Like God. Without Such A Counterpoise, This Dignity Would Make Him Horribly Vain, Or This Humiliation Would Make Him Terribly Abject.

I Cannot Judge My Work While I Am Doing It. I Have To Do As Painters Do, Stand Back And View It From A Distance, But Not Too Great A Distance. How Great? Guess.

If A Soldier Or Labourer Complain Of The Hardship Of His Lot, Set Him To Do Nothing.

The God Of Christians Is A God Of Love And Comfort, A God Who Fills The Soul And Heart Of Those Whom He Possesses, A God Who Makes Them Conscious Of Their Inward Wretchedness, And His Infinite Mercy; Who Unites Himself To Their Inmost Soul, Who Fills It With Humility And Joy, With Confidence And Love, Who Renders Them Incapable Of Any Other End Than Himself.