Beauty Is Not A Need

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.

These Things He Said In Words. But Much In His Heart Remained Unsaid. For He Himself Could Not Speak His Deeper Secret.

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.

Your Joy Is Your Sorrow Unmasked. And The Same Well From Which Your Laughter Rises Was Oftentimes Filled With Your Tears. And How Else Can It Be? The Deeper That Sorrow Carves Into Your Being, The More Joy You Can Contain. Is Not The Cup That Holds Your Wine The Very Cup That Was Burned In The Potter's Oven? And Is Not The Lute That Soothes Your Spirit, The Very Wood That Was Hollowed With Knives?

Observe The Wonders As They Occur Around You. Don't Claim Them. Feel The Artistry Moving Through And Be Silent.