Heaven finds an ear when sinners find a tongue.
Heav'n is not always got by running.
Death's a fable. Did not Heaven inspire your equal Elements with living Fire blown from the Spring of Life? Is not that breath Immortal? Come; ye are as free from death as He that made ye: Can the flames expire which he kindled?
The World's a Printing-House, our words, our thoughts, Our deeds, are characters of several sizes. Each soul is a Compos'tor, of whose faults The Levites are Correctors; Heaven Revises. Death is the common Press, from whence being driven, We're gather'd, Sheet by Sheet, and bound for Heaven.
Heaven is never deaf but when man's heart is dumb.
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