Autobiography and Miscellaneous Writings of Elder W.W. Crane

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A.W. Hall, 1891 - 480 pages
 

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Page 167 - O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers, whence are thy beams O sun, thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale sinks in the western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy course?
Page 19 - Nay but, O man, who art thou that repliest against God? Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, Why hast thou made me thus?
Page 167 - When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm.
Page 184 - Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him. For he knoweth our frame ; He remembereth that we are dust.
Page 265 - HOW pleased and blest was I, To hear the people cry, — ' Come, let us seek our God to-day !' Yes, with a cheerful zeal, We haste to Zion's hill, And there our vows and honors pay.
Page 203 - And the multitude of them that believed were of one heart and of one soul : neither said any of them that aught of the things which he possessed was his own } but they had all things common.
Page 201 - But if any provide not for his own, and especially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.
Page 167 - ... thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west.
Page 198 - WHY do we mourn departing friends, Or shake at death's alarms? 'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends To call them to his arms.
Page 111 - How shocking must thy summons be, O Death, To him that is at ease in his possessions, Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come ! In that dread moment how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of her clay tenement, Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help, But shrieks in vain...

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