Ave Maria (Google eBook)

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Congregation of Holy Cross, 1880
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Contents

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Page 650 - And I heard a voice from heaven, as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of a great thunder ; and I heard the voice of harpers harping with their harps...
Page 608 - Their idols are silver and gold: the work of men's hands. They have mouths, but they speak not: eyes have they, but they see not...
Page 543 - HEAVEN is not reached at a single bound, But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round.
Page 547 - Hast not thy share? On winged feet, Lo ! it rushes thee to meet; And all that Nature made thy own, Floating in air or pent in stone, Will rive the hills and swim the sea And, like thy shadow, follow thee.
Page 548 - More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
Page 920 - For from the rising of the sun even to the going down, My name is great among the Gentiles, and in every place there is sacrifice, and there is offered to My name a clean oblation : for My name is great among the Gentiles, saith the Lord of Hosts
Page 548 - Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, Not light them for themselves ; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely...
Page 681 - I am the mother of fair love, and of fear, and of knowledge, and of holy hope. In me is all grace of the way and of the truth : in me is all hope of life and of virtue.
Page 650 - Accounts varied, but her tomb could not be pointed out, or if it was found, it was open ; and instead of her pure and fragrant body, there was a growth of lilies from the earth which she had touched.
Page 940 - Virtue is not a mushroom, that springeth up of itself in one night when we are asleep, or regard it not ; but a delicate plant, that groweth slowly and tenderly, needing much pains to cultivate it, much care to guard it, much time to mature it, in our untoward soil, in this world's unkindly weather...

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