I loved words that filled your mouth, and sounded as if you were used to books.

It began sort of sing-songy and measured in stops, like a poetry piece: "Our Heavenly Father: We come before Thee this morning, Humble worms of the dust, imploring thy blessing.
We beseech Thee to forgive our transgressions, Heal our backsliding, and love us freely." Sometimes from there on it changed a little, but it always began and ended exactly the same way.

Father said Brother Hastings was powerful in prayer, but he did wish he'd leave out the "worms of the dust." He said we were not "worms of the dust"; we were reasoning, progressive, inventive men and women.

He said a worm would never be anything except a worm, but we could study and improve ourselves, help others, make great machines, paint pictures, write books, and go to an extent that must almost amaze the Almighty Himself.

He said that if Brother Hastings had done more plowing in his time, and had a little closer acquaintance with worms, he wouldn't be so ready to call himself and every one else a worm.