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Page 286 - Our wrestling is not against flesh and blood, but against the principalities, against the powers, against the world-rulers of this darkness, against the spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places. Wherefore take up the whole armour of God, that ye
Page 561 - How exquisitely minute A miracle of design. The tiny cell is forlorn Void of the little, living will That made it stir on the shore; Did he stand at the diamond door Of his house in a rainbow frill? Did he push when he was uncurled, A golden foot, or a fairy horn,
Page 630 - The waves were white and red the morn. In the noisy hour when I was born; The whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild, As welcomed to life the ocean child.
Page 50 - HUNDREDS of stars in the pretty sky, Hundreds of shells on the shore together, Hundreds of birds that go singing by, Hundreds of bees in the sunny weather; Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the morn, Hundreds of lambs in the crimson clover, Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn, But only one mother the wide world over.
Page 482 - Father, we thank Thee for the night, And for the pleasant morning light; For rest and gladness, love and care, And all that makes the day so fair. Help us to do the things we should; To be to others kind and good: In all we do in work or play To grow more loving day by day.
Page 164 - knack Of tying sashes, fitting baby shoes, And stringing pretty words that make no sense, And kissing full sense into empty words: Which things are corals to cut life upon, Although such trifles: children learn by such Love's holy earnest in a pretty play, And get not over early
Page 219 - a kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow children clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away.
Page 630 - the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep. I love, O, how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide; Where every mad wave drowns the moon, And whistles aloft its tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the southwest wind doth blow! The waves were white and red the morn. In the noisy hour when I was born;
Page 627 - the words of Phillips Brooks: "He who helps a child helps humanity with a distinctness, with an immediateness, which no other help given to human creatures in any other stage of their human life can possibly give again.