THOSE WHO struck Him once in the name of their rulers, are born again in this present age. They gather in their prayer-halls in a pious garb, they call their soldiers, 'Kill, Kill', they shout; in their roaring mingles the music of their hymns, while the Son of Man in His agony prays, 'O God, fling, fling far away this cup filled with the bitterest of poisons.'
THE SKY GAZES on its own endless blue and dreams. We clouds are its whims, we have no home. The stars shine on the crown of Eternity. Their records are permanent, while ours are penciled, to be rubbed off the next moment. Our part is to appear on the stage of the air to sound our tambourines and fling flashes of laughter. But from our laughter comes the rain, which is real enough, and thunder which is no jest. Yet we have no claim upon Time for wages, and the breath that blew us into being blows us away before we are given a name.