No One Can Fail To See That

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.

But Even Our Pleasures Are Calculated And Business Like. We Measure Our Enjoyments By The Sum Expended. Our Salons Are Often Little Better Than Bazaars Of Fashion.

You Do Not Build Your Own Houses, Nor Make Your Own Garments, Nor Bake Your Own Bread, Simply Because You Know That If You Were To Attempt All These Things They Would All Be More Or Less Ill Done.

Admitting The Force Of These Contentions, Nevertheless, The Custom Of Meeting Together In Public Assembly For The Consideration Of The Most Serious, The Most Exalted Topics Of Human Interest Is Too Vitally Precious To Be Lost.

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.