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Strona 174 - And God said, This is the token of the covenant which I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for perpetual generations: I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.
Strona 108 - I have not leisure to write much. But I could chide thee that in many of thy Letters thou writest to me, That I should not be unmindful of thee and thy little ones. Truly, if I love you not too well, I think I err not on the other hand much. Thou art dearer to me than any creature; let that suffice.
Strona 245 - There is no fear in love ; but perfect love casteth out fear : because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.
Strona 174 - And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud: 15 and I will remember my covenant, which is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh.
Strona 174 - God made the earth and the heavens, and every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb of the field before it grew: for the Lord God had not caused it to rain upon the earth, and there was not a man to till the ground. But there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground.
Strona 108 - Lord hath showed us an exceeding mercy: — who can tell how great it is! My weak faith hath been upheld. I have been in my inward man marvellously supported; — though I assure thee, I grow an old man, and feel infirmities of age marvellously stealing upon me.
Strona 100 - What is that mother ? The eagle, boy ! Proudly careering his course of joy, Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying ; His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, Onward and upward, and true to the line.
Strona 100 - What is that, Mother? The dove, my son ! And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan, Is flowing out, from her gentle breast, Constant and pure, by that lonely nest, As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, For her distant dear one's quick return : Ever, my son, be thou, like the dove, In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. What is that, Mother ? The eagle, boy!