Be ye angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down upon your
wrath: Neither give place to read more

Be ye angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down upon your
wrath: Neither give place to the devil.

True as the dial to the sun,
Although it be not shin'd upon.

True as the dial to the sun,
Although it be not shin'd upon.

I count only the hours that are serene.
[Lat., Horas non numero nisi serenas.]

I count only the hours that are serene.
[Lat., Horas non numero nisi serenas.]

Give God thy heart, thy service, and thy gold; The day wears on,
and time is waxing old.
read more

Give God thy heart, thy service, and thy gold; The day wears on,
and time is waxing old.
- Unattributed Author,

Our life's a flying shadow, God's the pole,
The index pointing at Him is our soul;
Death read more

Our life's a flying shadow, God's the pole,
The index pointing at Him is our soul;
Death the horizon, when our sun is set,
Which will through Christ a resurrection get.

Time is
Too Slow for those who Wait,
Too Swift for those who Fear,
read more

Time is
Too Slow for those who Wait,
Too Swift for those who Fear,
Too Long for those who Grieve,
Too Short for those who Rejoice;
But for those who Love,
Time is not.
- Henry Jackson van Dyke,

I go away and come again each day,
But thou shalt go away and ne'er return.

I go away and come again each day,
But thou shalt go away and ne'er return.

I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the
night cometh, when no read more

I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the
night cometh, when no man can work.

O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To read more

O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes, how they run--
How many makes the hour full complete,
How many hours brings about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live;
When this is known, then to divide the times--
So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my rest,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean,
So many months ere I shall shear the fleece.
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this!