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“Comfort, comfort my people,” says your God.
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“Comfort, comfort my people,” says your God.
He will feed his flock like a shepherd. He will gather the lambs in his arm, and carry them in his bosom. He will gently lead those who have their young.
Haven’t you known? Haven’t you heard? The everlasting God, Yahweh, the Creator of the ends of the earth, doesn’t faint. He isn’t weary. His understanding is unsearchable.
Now, old age is as it were the playing out of the drama, the full fatigue of which we should shun, especially when we also feel that we have had more than enough of it.
The third is, that it is folly to wear one's self out with grief which can avail nothing.
Theirs is an American tragedy in which we all have played a part. It could go on and on and on, or someone must write the end to it.
Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
The place of sorrow is supplied, perchance, by a certain hard and proportionately barren indifference.
Let heart-sickness pass beyond a certain bitter point, and the heart loses its life for ever.
A man should diffuse joy, but, as much as he can, smother grief.
Why may I not rest me from this restlessness and sleep from this wide waking?
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