with soul bent sadly downward. The bending
begins in slight yieldings to sin, but the tendency unchecked grows and
fixes itself in the life in permanent moral disfigurement.

A stage-driver had held the lines for many years, and when he grew old,
his hands were crooked into hooks, and his fingers were so stiffened
that they could not be straightened out. There is a similar process
that goes on in men's souls when they continue to do the same things
over and over. One who is trained from childhood to be gentle, kindly,
patient, to control the temper, to speak softly, to be loving and
charitable, will grow into the radiant beauty of love. One who
accustoms himself to think habitually and only of noble and worthy
things, who sets his affections on things above, and strives to reach
"whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever
things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely," will grow continually
upward, toward spiritual beauty. But on the other hand, if one gives
way from childhood to all ugly tempers, all resentful feelings, all
bitterness and anger, his life will shape itself into the unbeauty of
these dispositions. One whose mind turns to debasing things, things
unholy, unclean, will find his whole soul bending and growing toward
the earth in permanent moral curvature.

There is also a bending of the life by sorrow. The experience of
sorrow is scarcely less perilous than that of temptation. The common
belief is that grief always makes people better. But this is not true.
If the sufferer submits to God with loving confidence, and is
victorious through faith, sorrow's outcome is blessing and good. But
many are crushed by their sorrow. They yield to it, and it bears them
down beneath its weight. They turn their faces away from heaven's blue
and the light of God, toward the grave's darkness, and their souls grow
toward the gloom.

Here is a mother who several years since lost by death a beautiful
daughter. The mother was a Christian woman, and her child was also a
Christian, dying in sweet hope. Yet never since that coffin was closed
has the mother lifted up her eyes toward God in submission and hope.
She visits the cemetery on Sundays, but never the church. She goes
with downcast look about her home, weeping whenever her daughter's name
is mentioned, and complains of God's hardness and unkindness in taking
away her child. She is bent down with her eyes to the earth, and sees
only