It Is Comfort To The Believer That

O, What I Owe To The File, The Hammer, And The Furnace Of The Lord Jesus! I Know That He Is No Idle Husbandman - He Purposes A Crop.

The Good Husbandman May Pluck His Rose & Gather In His Lily.

I Hang By A Thread, But It Is (if I May So Speak) Of Christ's Spinning

Ye Have Lost A Child--nay, She Is Not Lost To You, Who Is Found To Christ; She Is Not Sent Away, But Only Sent Before; Like Unto A Star, Which Going Out Of Our Sight, Doth Not Die And Vanish, But Shineth In Another Hemisphere.

The Cross Of Christ Is The Sweetest Burden That I Ever Bore; It Is Such A Burden As Wings Are To A Bird, Or Sails To A Ship, To Carry Me Forward To My Harbor.