And If You Sing Though

Man Is Like The Foam Of The Sea, That Floats Upon The Surface Of The Water. When The Wind Blows, It Vanishes, As If It Had Never Been. Thus Are Our Lives Blown Away By Death.

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. And That That Which Sings And Contemplates In You Is Still Dwelling Within The Bounds Of That First Moment Which Scattered The Stars Into Space. Who Among You Does Not Feel That His Power To Love Is Boundless? And Yet Who Does Not Feel That Very Love, Though Boundless, Encompassed Within The Centre Of His Being, And Moving Not From Love Thought To Love Thought, Nor From Love Deeds To Other Love Deeds? And Is Not Time Even As Love Is, Undivided And Paceless?

The Sorrowful Spirit Finds Relaxation In Solitude. It Abhors People, As A Wounded Deer Deserts The Herd And Lives In A Cave Until It Is Healed Or Dead.

You Talk When You Cease To Be At Peace With Your Thoughts.

Many Are The Fools Who Say That Jesus Stood In His Own Path And Opposed Himself; That He Knew Not His Own Mind, And In The Absence Of That Knowledge Confounded Himself.