The Dayspring, Volume 8

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Unitarian Sunday-School Society, 1879 - Sunday schools
 

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Page 34 - As for man, his days are as grass; as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth : For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone ; and the place thereof shall know it no more.
Page 36 - I am the true vine, and my Father is the husbandman. Every branch in me that beareth not fruit, he taketh away ; and every branch that beareth fruit, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit.
Page 36 - Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except a grain of wheat fall into the earth and die, it abideth by itself alone ; but if it die, it beareth much fruit.
Page 35 - The piled up shocks of corn, And send the Fancy wandering o'er All pleasant harvest-fields of yore ! I feel the day ; I see the field ; The quivering...
Page 35 - The pil'd-up stacks of corn ; And send the fancy wandering o'er All pleasant harvest-fields of yore. I feel the day — I see the field, The quivering of the leaves, And good old Jacob and his house Binding the yellow sheaves ; And at this very hour I seem To be with Joseph in his dream. I see the fields of Bethlehem And reapers many a one, Bending unto their sickles' stroke, And Boaz looking on ; And Ruth, the Moabite so fair, Among the gleaners stooping there.
Page 24 - UNDONE ! undone ! the lawyers are, They wander about the towne, Nor can find the way to Westminster Now Charing-Cross is downe : At the end of the Strand they make a stand, Swearing they are at a loss, And chaffing say, that's not the way, They must go by Charing-Cross.
Page 36 - A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.
Page 35 - But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags; and we all do fade as a leaf; and our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away.
Page 24 - I know, it might be so. For to church it never went. What with excise, and such device, The kingdom doth begin To think you'll leave them ne'er a cross. Without doors nor within.
Page 36 - WE bent to-day o'er a coffined form, And our tears fell softly down; We looked our last on the aged face, With its look of peace, its patient grace, And hair like a silver crown. We touched our own to the clay-cold hands. From life's long labor at rest; And among the blossoms white and sweet, We noted a bunch of golden wheat.

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