For A Long Time The Conviction Has

Religion Is A Wizard, A Sibyl . . . She Faces The Wreck Of Worlds, And Prophesies Restoration. She Faces A Sky Blood-red With Sunset Colours That Deepen Into Darkness, And Prophesies Dawn. She Faces Death, And Prophesies Life.

When The Light Of The Sun Shines Through A Prism It Is Broken Into Beautiful Colours, And When The Prism Is Shattered, Still The Light Remains. So Does The Life Of Life Shine Resplendent In The Forms Of Our Friends, And So, When Their Forms Are Broken, Still Their Life Remains; And In That Life We Are United With Them; For The Life Of Their Life Is Also Our Life, And We Are One With Them By Ties Indissoluble.

By What Sort Of Experience Are We Led To The Conviction That Spirit Exists? On The Whole, By Searching, Painful Experience. The Rose Religion Grows On A Thorn-bush, And We Must Not Be Afraid To Have Our Fingers Lacerated By The Thorns If We Would Pluck The Rose.

The Platform Of An Ethical Society Is Itself The Altar; The Address Must Be The Fire That Burns Thereon.

Where The Roots Of Private Virtue Are Diseased, The Fruit Of Public Probity Cannot But Be Corrupt.