Beauties of Sacred Literature: Illustrated by Eight Steel Engravings

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James Munroe, 1848 - Bible stories, English - 220 pages
 

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Page 40 - When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee.
Page 80 - Jesus answered, He it is to whom I shall give a sop, when I have dipped it. And when he had dipped the sop, he gave it to Judas Iscariot, the son of Simon.
Page 174 - The woman saith unto him, I know that Messias cometh, which is called Christ: when he is come, he will tell us all things.
Page 178 - Say not ye, There are yet four months, and then cometh harvest? behold, I say unto you, Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields; for they are white already to harvest. And he that reapeth receiveth wages, and gathereth fruit unto life eternal: that both he that soweth and he that reapeth may rejoice together.
Page 96 - And I will establish my covenant between me and thee, and thy seed after thee, in their generations, for an everlasting covenant, to be a God unto thee, and to thy seed after thee.
Page 55 - Mary was come where Jesus was, and saw him, she fell down at his feet, saying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, he groaned in the spirit, and was troubled.
Page 133 - And Jesus stood, and commanded him to be brought unto him. And when he was come near, he asked him, Saying ; What wilt thou that I shall do unto thee ? And he said $ Lord, that I may receive my sight.
Page 38 - To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain Turns with his share and treads upon.
Page 40 - So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not like the...
Page 39 - Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there: And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone.

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