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Death is a great revealer of what is in a man, and in its solemn shadow appear the naked lineaments of the soul.
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In some way the secret vice exhales its poison; and the evil passion, however cunningly masked, stains through to the surface.
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Mercy. That is the gospel. The whole of it in one word.
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No piled-up wealth, no social station, no throne, reaches as high as that spiritual plane upon which every human being stands by virtue of his humanity.
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Setting is preliminary to brighter rising; decay is a process of advancement; death is the condition of higher and more fruitful life.
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Physically, man is but an atom in space, and a pulsation in time. Spiritually, the entire outward universe receives significance from him, and the scope of his existence stretches beyond the stars.
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No more duty can be urged upon those who are entering the great theater of life than simple loyalty to their best convictions.
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Whatever you truly conceive of in the mind, is possible.
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The essence of justice is mercy.
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Truth is poetry; it is the grandest poetry.
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A thousand wheels of labor are turned by dear affections, and kept in motion by self-sacrificing endurance; and the crowds that pour forth in the morning and return at night are daily procession of love and duty.
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The night comes for the purpose of checking our busy employment, and introducing an interval of repose between the links of our action and our aspiration. It draws its dim curtain around the field of toil. It buries the objects of our handiwork in darkness, and involves them with uncertainty. It comes to the relief of the exhausted body and the tired brain. Our powers, harmonizing with the diurnal revolutions of the earth, fail with the failing light, and a merciful Providence casts around us this mantle of shadow, and snatches us from our occupation.
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It is those who make the least display of their sorrow who mourn the deepest.