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I Wash My Hands Of Those Who Imagine Chattering To Be Knowledge, Silence To Be Ignorance, And Affection To Be Art.

Of Time You Would Make A Stream Upon Whose Bank You Would Sit And Watch Its Flowing. Yet The Timeless In You Is Aware Of Life's Timelessness, And Knows That 'yesterday Is But Today's Memory And Tomorrow Is Today's Dream.

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.

There Is No Secret In The Mystery Of Life Stronger And More Beautiful Than That Attachment Which Converts The Silence Of A Virgin's Spirit Into A Perpetual Awareness That Makes A Person Forget The Past, For It Kindles Fiercely In The Heart The Sweet And Overwhelming Hope Of The Coming Future.

Much Of Your Pain Is Self-chosen.