Of the Week

On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen! Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee: ‘The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’ ” Then they remembered his words. When they came back from the tomb, they told all these things to the Eleven and to all the others. It was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the others with them who told this to the apostles. But they did not believe the women, because

Martha Snell Nicholson (1898?-1953) Published in 1938 in Wings and Sky We thank Thee, Lord, that Thou dost bless Us with this springtime loveliness, These skies, the bluest ever seen, These fields and pastures tender green, Where the cattle drowse and sleep, And the meadow grass is deep. Countrysides in golden broom, Orchards all a drift of bloom, Buttercup and daffodil, Grasses blowing on a hill. We thank Thee for remembering Us with these gifts, this lovely Spring!

Galadriel: "Mithrandir, why the halfling?" Gandalf: "I don’t know. Saruman believes that it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. I’ve found it is the small things, everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keeps the darkness at bay—simple acts of kindness and love. Why Bilbo Baggins? Perhaps it is because I’m afraid, and he gives me courage."

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,   Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers,   And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest!   And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest,   Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,   Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow   Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting,   And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating   Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle,   In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle!   Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!   Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,—act in the living Present!   Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us   We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us   Footprints on the sands of time;— Footprints, that perha

The Studio 1867 Artists Sketching in the White Mountains 1868 The Country School 1871 Snap the Whip 1872 Breezing Up (A Fair Wind) 1873-1876 The Four-Leaf Clover 1873 Girl in the Hammock 1873 Gloucester Harbor 1873 The Whittling Boy 1873 Boys in a Pasture 1874 Children on a Fence 1874 Farmer with a Pitchfork 1874 Fresh Eggs 1874 Three Boys in a Dory with Lobster Pots 1875 Song of the Lark 1876 Blackboard 1877 The Last Furrow 1877 Warm Afternoon (Shepherdess) 1878 Girl and Laurel 1879 The Houses of Parliament 1881 Old Friends 1894