"That which happens to the soil when it ceases to be cultivated by the social man happens to man himself when he foolishly forsakes society for solitude; the brambles grow up in his desert heart."

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A few more years shall roll, A few more seasons come; And we shall be with those that rest, Asleep within the tomb. A few more storms shall beat On this wild rocky shore; And we shall be where tempests cease, And surges swell no more. A few more struggles here, A few more partings o'er, A few more toils, a few more tears, And we shall weep no more. Then, O my Lord, prepare My soul for that blest day; Oh, wash me in Thy precious blood, And take my sins away.

— Horatius Bonar