Love Prides Itself Not Only In The

Your Joy Is Your Sorrow Unmasked.

For The Criminal Who Is Weak And Poor The Narrow Cell Of Death Awaits; But Honor And Glory Await The Rich Who Conceal Their Crimes Behind Their Gold And Silver And Inherited Glory.

We Wanderers, Ever Seeking The Lonelier Way, Begin No Day Where We Have Ended Another, And No Sunrise Finds Us Where Left By Sunset. Even While The Earth Sleeps We Travel. We Are The Seeds Of That Tenacious Plant, And It Is In Our Ripeness And Our Fullness Of Heart That We Are Given To The Wind To Be Scattered.

Like Sheaves Of Corn It Gathers You Unto Itself. It Threshes You To Make You Naked. It Sifts You To Free You From Your Husks. It Grinds You To Whiteness. It Kneads You Until You Are Pliant. And Then It Assigns You To Its Sacred Fire, That You May Become Sacred Bread For God's Sacred Feast. All These Things Shall Love Do Unto You That You May Know The Secrets Of Your Heart, And In That Knowledge Become A Fragment Of Life's Heart.

Keep Me Away From The Wisdom Which Does Not Cry, The Philosophy Which Does Not Laugh And The Greatness Which Does Not Bow Before Children.