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The Eternal Promise – A Sequel to A Testament of Devotion by Thomas Kelly

May 23, 2016

TEP 2This is a sequel to A Testament of Devotion and includes two of Thomas Kelly’s classic essays, “The Gathered Meeting” and “Hasten unto God.” Published in this edition is also an essay entitled, “Have You Ever Seen a Miracle?”

It’s a further collection of his writings, drawn from the period which the editor, his son, calls his “”creative”” three years between the “”spiritual upheaval”” that deeply affected the course of Kelly’s life and thought, in 1937-1938, to his death in 1941. The materials are grouped under three headings: Religion For This Distraught World, reflecting the foreboding world atmosphere immediately preceding World War II; Publishers of Truth, centering on Quaker life and practice; and Room For the Infinite, addressed mainly to those seeking after a deeper interior life. The essays and addresses included here expand themes put forth in Kelly’s earlier volume.

The author is sometimes referred to as ‘a Quaker genius.’

I had to look up ‘Es betet’ – am not sure but is it German for ‘He prays’?

Quotations:

The experience of God breaking into a human life is the experience of an invasion from beyond of an Other who in gentle power breaks in upon out littleness and in tender expansiveness makes room for Himself.  Had we thought Him an intruder?  No, God’s first odor is sweetness, God’s touch an imparting of power.  Suddenly, a tender giant walks by our side, no, strides within our puny footsteps.  We are no longer our little selves.  As two bodies closely fastened together and whirled in the air revolve in part about the heavier body, so life gets a new center, from which are moved.  It is as if the center of life had been shifted beyond ourselves, so that we are no longer our old selves.  Paul speaks truly when he says that we no longer live, but Christ lives in us, dynamic, energetic, creative, persuasive.  In hushed amazement at this majestic Other, our little self grows still and listens for whispers – oh some so faint – and yields itself like a little child to its true Father-guidance.  Yes, the sheep surely knows its shepherd in these holy moments of eternity.

The church building is not a church, the brick and mortar structure is not a church.  God doesn’t live in a house with a peaked roof.  God lives inside people.  And if God isn’t inside you, you needn’t expect to find him in a house with a peaked roof that is outside you.  God is within. And where He dwells, there is a holy place.  There is an altar inside our own soul.  Inside is a hushed and holy Presence, too sacred to be destroyed, too wonderful not to be visited continually.  The Holy Presence is Inward.  We can find Him there and all life will be new.  It is a wonderful discovery, to find that I am a temple, that I have a church inside myself, where God is.  There is something awful, that is, awe-inspiring, down at the depths of our own soul.  In hushed silence, attend to it.  It is a whisper of God Himself, particularizing Himself for you and in you, and speaking to the world through you.  God isn’t dead.  “The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him.”

Formerly the world spread itself out before us, focused about ourselves.  We were the center.  All our enjoyment, of things and people, was for us, to exploit, to rearrange, to clamber over, to conquer.  The effective limits of our world were the limits of its utility or importance for us.  The world-managing attitude has reigned with peculiar force in modern times.  And in this attitude, taken in solitary predominance, lie all the seeds of war.  And in this world-managing epoch we all, as individuals and as nations, carry over into our working hours the fantasy-life of the daydreams, with its center in the conquering hero or the suffering hero.  In this respect, the modern person tends to be far indeed from that spirit which is near to the center of religion, the final joyful submission of all one’s being to the Holy, the feeling of absolute dependence.

But in the Eternal Presence, the world spreads itself out, not as our little world, but as the world of God.  And we sigh; at last we awake.  We must say it is given to us to see the world’s suffering throughout, and bear it, Godlike, upon our shoulders, and suffer with all things and all people, and rejoice with all things and all people, and we see the hills clap their hands for joy, and we clap our hands with them.  …The suffering and the joy and the serenity at the heart of world – these are unspeakably great.  Were one not assisted, one could not bear it.  It is an awful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.  …But there is a point of vision from which one can look through sorrow and pain and still see the face of the Eternal Lover.

…Without a protective covering of indifference, it seems rational to say we cannot endure the world.  But the Eternal Presence, shining upon time, gives us, not a tough protection, but an exquisitely tendered spirit…Before, our chief suffering, the suffering about which we were disturbed, was our own suffering.  The world’s arrows were thought to be aimed at us.  But with the great unselfing, the center of concern for suffering is shifted outside of ourselves and distributed with breadth unbounded among all, friends and so-called enemies.  For a few agonized moments we may seem to be given to stand within the heart of the World-Father and feel the infinite sufferings of love toward all the Father’s children.  And pain inflicted on them becomes pain inflicted on ourselves.  Were the experience not also an experience suffused with radiant peace and power and victory, as well as tragedy, it would be unbearable.

Only those who go into the travail of today, bearing a seed within them, a seed of awareness of the heavenly dimensions of humanity, can return in joy.  Where this seed of divine awareness is quickened and grows, there Calvary is enacted again in joy.  And Calvary is still the hope of the world.  Each one of us has the seed of Christ within.  IN each of us the amazing and the dangerous seed of Christ is present.  It is only a seed.  It is very small, like the grain of mustard seed.  The Christ that is formed in us is small indeed, but He is great with eternity.  But if we dare to take this awakened seed of Christ into the midst of the world’s suffering, it will grow.

Take a young man or woman in whom Christ is dimly formed, but one in whom the seed of Christ is alive.  Put him into a distressed area, into a refugee camp, on a mission trip, into a poverty region.  Let him go into the world’s suffering, bearing this seed with him, and in suffering it will grow, and Christ will be more and more fully formed in him.  As the grain of mustard seed grew so large that the birds found shelter in it, so the one who bears an awakened seed into the world’s suffering will grow until he becomes a refuge for many.

This is one of the springs of hope – the certainty that the seed of Christ is in us allo and the confidence that many of those who call themselves Christian will enter suffering, bearing this seed with them, daring to let it germinate, daring to let it take them through personal risk and financial loss and economic insecurity; up the steep slopes of some obscure Calvary.

Ponder this carefully: Our right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness is not absolute.  We dare not claim them as our absolute right.  For the seed of Christ that we bear into the world’s suffering will teach us to renounce these as our own, and strip us, in utter poverty of soul and perhaps of body, until our only hope is in the eternal goodness of God.

Humble people can bear the seed of hope. No religious dictator will save the world; no giant figure of heroic size will stalk across the stage of history today, as a new Messiah.  But in simple, humble, imperfect people like you and me wells up the springs of hope.  We have this treasure of the seed in earthen vessels.  You and I know how imperfect we are.  And yet those little demonstrations of love and goodwill, such as the feeding of children in poor countries, the reconstruction of lives of hurting people are being carried on by just such earthen vessels.  These tasks shine like tiny candles in the darkness – deeds done in the midst of suffering, through which shines the light of the Living Christ, deeds that stir hop that humanity as a whole will be aroused to yield to the press and surge of the Eternal Love within them.  For the Eternal Love is beating in upon us, upon you and upon me, quickening the seed within us into life.  Our very weakness, as humans, is the fit soil for divine awakening.  If you are proud and self-confident and sure you are no earthen vessel, then the greatness of the divine fructifying power will never be awakened in you.  Yield yourselves to the growth of the seed within you, in these our days of suffering.  Sow yourselves into the furrows of the world’s pain, and hope will grow and rise high.  Be not overcome by the imposing forces of evil and of might.  Be of good cheer, says Jesus, I have overcome the world.  But there is no hope if Calvary is only an external Calvary.  Within you must be the Living Christ be formed, until you are led within yourselves to die wholly that you may wholly live.  Then will Christ again walk the ways of the world’s sorrows.  In Him alone, and in you so far as Christ is formed in you, is the hope of the world.

The straightest road to social gospel runs through profound mystical experience. The paradox of true mysticism is that individual experience leads to social passion, that the nonuseful engenders the greatest utility. If we seek a social gospel, we must find it most deeply rooted in the most mystic way. Love of God and love of neighbor are not two commandments, but one. It is the highest experience of the mystic, when the soul of man is known to be one with God himself, that utility drops off and flutters away, useless, to earth, that world-shaking consciousness of mankind in need arises in one and he knows himself to be the channel of Divine Life. The birth of true mysticism brings with it the birthday of the widest social gospel. “American” Christianity is in need of this deeper strain of expression of direct contact with God, as the source, not of world-flight, but of the most intensely “practical” Christianity that has yet been known.

the beginning of spiritual maturity, which comes after the awkward age of religious busyness for the Kingdom of God – yet how many are caught, and arrested in development, with this adolescent development of the soul’s growth. The maker of this simplified life is radiant joy. It lives in the Fellowship of the Transfigured Face.

the secret of a deeper devotion, a more subterranean sanctuary of the soul, where the Light Within never fades, but burns, a perpetual Flame, where the wells of living water of divine revelation rise up continuously, day by day and hour by hour, steady and transfiguring.

TEPIt is frequently said that to bear this world, we must become toughened, callous, hard. The sadness of the city-evils, the blighted lives we see, the injustices, the pain and tears! Without a protective covering of in­difference, it seems rational to say we cannot endure the world. But the Eternal Presence, shining upon time, gives us, not a tough protection, but an exquisitely tendered spirit. Overburdened men and women, blighted lives, slaveries in all their modern forms, na­tions and institutions in insane self-destruction, and little children hoping for warmth and love and oppor­tunity [are all laid upon us]. To our easier sympathy with physical pain there is added suffering because of the soul-blindedness which we see everywhere. To see hatred poison a life is suffering indeed. The self-seeking, so-called “successful man,” who has missed the holy way, who began to be a Mann and ended by being a Kaufmann, is as saddening as the drunkard or the criminal. In the figure of John Bunyan one says: Why do men rake together the sticks and straws of the world, when their heads are offered the crown of life! Before, our chief suffering, the suffering about which we are disturbed, was our own suffering. The world’s arrows were thought to be aimed at us. But with the great unselfing, the center of concern for suffering is shifted outside ourselves and distributed with breadth unbounded among all, friends and so-called enemies. For a few agonized moments we may seem to be given to stand within the heart of the World-Father and feel the infinite sufferings of love toward all the Father’s children. And pain inflicted on them becomes pain in­flicted on ourselves. Were the experience not also an experience suffused with radiant peace and power and victory, as well as tragedy, it would be unbearable.

Have you experienced this tendering, this concern even for the sparrow’s fall? For this is not a peculiar experience of Jesus. Neither is it an inference which we draw regarding the extent of the watchful love of God. It is the record of His life in God and it comes likewise to others in heartbreaking acuteness. Let me give John Woolman’s account of an experience. “In a time of sickness a little more than two and a half years ago, I was brought so near to the gates of death that I forgot my name. Being a mass of matter, of a dull gloomy color between the south and the east, and was in­formed that this mass of human beings was in as great misery as they could be and yet live, and I was mixed with them, and that henceforth I might not consider myself as a distinct or separate being. In that state I remained for several hours. I heard a soft, melodious voice, more pure and harmonious than anything I had ever heard with ears before; I believe it was an angel that spoke to the other angels; the words were: ‘John Woolman is dead.’ ” Intolerable sufferings of all man­kind, and John Woolman “was mixed with them” until he cried: “I am crucified with Christ. Nevertheless I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith of the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. Then the mys­tery was opened and I perceived . . . that the language `John Woolman is dead’ meant no more than the death of my own will.”

At the time of the Day of Broken Glass in Germany, the Arbeitsaus schuss or executive committee of the German Yearly Meeting was meeting in Bad Pyrmont. At that meeting was read the latter part of the 126th Psalm, which contains these words: “They that go forth in tears, bearing their seed with them, shall return in joy.”

The important thing here is the phrase, “bearing their seed with them.” Only those who go forth in tears, and who bear with them into their suffering some awakened seed, shall return in hope.

There is nothing automatic about suffering, so that suffering infallibly produces great souls. We have passed out of the prewar days when we believed in the escalator theory of progress. Those were the boom days of economic and churchly prosperity, when we thought that every day in every way we were growing better and better and we thought that the Kingdom of God on earth was just around, the corner, if we, in laissez faire style, cooperated and didn’t halt the process. Then it seemed easy to speak words of hope and to prod the last laggards into feverish activity to run the last mile of the race to the millennium. But now in the light of world war we are forced to abandon that easy view and go infinitely deeper. Now that suffering is upon the world we cannot appeal to the escalator theory of suffering and expect that suffering will inevitably shake great souls into life. No, there is nothing about suffering such that it automatically purges the dross from human nature and brings heroic souls upon the scene. Suffering can blast and blight an earnest but unprepared soul, and damn it utterly to despair.

No, only those who go into the travail of today, bearing a seed within them, a seed of awareness of the heavenly dimensions of humanity, can return in joy.

Where this seed of divine awareness is quickened and grows, there Calvary is enacted again in joy. And Cal­vary is still the hope of the world. Each one of us has the seed of Christ within him. In each of us the amaz­ing and the dangerous seed of Christ is present. It is only a seed. It is very small, like the grain of mustard seed. The Christ that is formed in us is small indeed, but He is great with eternity. But if we dare to take this awakened seed of Christ into the midst of the world’s suffering, it will grow. That’s why the Quaker work camps are important. Take a young man or young woman in whom Christ is only dimly formed, but one in whom the seed of Christ is alive. Put him into a distressed area, into a refugee camp, into a poverty region. Let him go into the world’s suffering, bearing this seed with him, and in suffering it will grow, and Christ will be more and more fully formed in him. As the grain of mustard seed grew so large that the birds found shelter in it, so the man who bears an awakened seed into the world’s suffering will grow until he be­comes a refuge for many.

This is one of the springs of hope—the certainty that the seed of Christ is in us all (Quakers have also called it the inner light) and the confidence that many of those who call themselves Christian will enter suffering, bearing this seed with them, daring to let it germinate, daring to let it take them through personal risk and financial loss and economic insecurity, up the steep slopes of some obscure Calvary. Ponder this carfully: our right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness is not absolute. We dare not claim them as our absolute right. For the seed of Christ that we bear into the world’s suffering will teach us to renounce these as our own, and strip us, in utter poverty of soul and perhaps of body, until our only hope is in the eternal goodness of God.

In you is this seed. Do you not feel its quickening Life? Then, small though this seed be in you, sow your life into the furrows of the world’s suffering, and you will return in joy, and the world will arise in hope. For Christ is born again, and is dying again on Calvary and rising victorious from the tomb.

The second spring of hope is this: We simple, humble men can bear the seed of hope. No religious dictator will save the world; no giant figure of heroic size will stalk across the stage of history today, as a new Messiah. But in simple, humble, imperfect men like you and me wells up the spring of hope. We have this treasure of the seed in earthen vessels—very earthen vessels. You and I know how imperfect we are. And yet those little demonstrations of love and good­will, such as the feeding of children in Spain, the direc­tion of transit stations for refugees in Holland and Cuba, the reconstruction of lives in the coal fields, are being carried on by just such earthen vessels. These tasks shine like tiny candles in the darkness—deeds done in the midst of suffering, through which shines the light of the Living Christ, deeds that stir hope that humanity as a whole will be aroused to yield to the press and surge of the Eternal Love within them. For the Eternal Love is beating in upon us, upon you and upon me, quickening the seed within us into life. Our very weakness, as humans, is the fit soil for divine awakening. If you are proud and self-confident and sure you are no earthen vessel, then the greatness of the di­vine fructifying power will never be awakened in you. Yield yourselves to the growth of the seed within you, in these our days of suffering. Sow yourselves into the furrows of the world’s pain, and hope will grow and rise high. Be not overcome by the imposing forces of evil and of might. Be of good cheer, says Jesus, I have overcome the world. But there is no hope if Calvary is only an external Calvary. Within you must the living Christ be formed, until you are led within yourselves to die wholly that you may wholly live. Then will Christ again walk the ways of the world’s sorrows. In Him alone, and in you so far as Christ is formed in you, is the hope of the world. There is no cheaper hope than Calvary, no panacea other than awakened love that leads us into the world’s suffering into victory.

You can know all about the Synoptic problems of the Gospels and have your own theories about Q and the J, E, D, and P document of the Hexateuch, you can know all the literature about the authorship of the Johannine epistles, whether the author was John the beloved disciple or another of the same name. You can know all about the history of Quakerism, you can know the disputes behind the Nicene Creed and the Constantinopolitan Creed. You can know the Westminster Confession and the Augs­burg Confession and the Thirty-nine Articles of the Church of England. You can know homiletics and rules of good sermon structure. You can know church symbolism and the meaning of the feasts and fasts of the church. You can know all this, and much more. But unless you know God, immediately, every day communing with Him, rejoicing in Him, exalting in Him, opening your life in Joyful obedience toward Him and feeling Him speaking to you and guiding you into ever fuller loving obedience to Him, you aren’t fit to be a minister. There is so much that is wonderful in books. But he who relies for his sermons upon book-stuff about religion, and is not at the same time enjoy­ing immediately and experiencing vitally fresh illumi­nation from God, is not a real minister, even if he has a degree in theology from Oxford or Cambridge. Second­hand sermons aren’t real sermons. Only firsthand preaching counts. He is a minister who is given a mes­sage within himself, as a fresh insight from God, trans­mitted through Him to others.

Another insight which came to him had to do with churches and temples. The church building is not a church, the brick and mortar structure is not a church. God doesn’t live in a house with a peaked roof. God lives inside people. And if God isn’t inside you, you needn’t expect to find him in a house with a peaked roof that is outside you. God is within. And where He dwells, there is a holy place. Fox was finding he had an altar inside his own soul. Inside him was a hushed and holy Presence, too sacred to be destroyed, too wonder­ful not to be visited continually. The holy Presence was Inward. Fox found Him there, and all life was new. It is a wonderful discovery, to find that you are a temple, that you have a church inside you, where God is. There is something awful, that is, awe-inspiring, down at the depths of our own soul. In hushed silence attend to it. It is a whisper of God Himself, particularizing Himself for you and in you, and speaking to the world through you. God isn’t dead. “The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him.”

All of these insights are such as wean us away from confusing religious information with external things, with external church membership, with external church doctrines, external church habitations. In place of these, Fox went inward, and there found resplendent glory of God’s immediacy and love and power and guidance and sufficiency. And this is a true insight, which finds the inner sanctuary of the soul to be the Home of God. As long as outwards are counted as essential, we are no better than those reported by the Samaritan woman to Jesus: “Shall we worship in this mountain or in Jerusalem?” Shall we perform this cere mony or that? Shall we assent to this statement or a different one? Christianity needs to get behind its still lingering confusion about the essential character of any external, even as beautiful as that of dramatizing the Lord’s supper with His disciples, and put first of all the sacrament of the heart, where God and man break bread together in the secret sanctuary of the soul.

Fox might seem to have retained reliance upon one outward guide, the Scriptures. He lived with his Bible. He studied it day and night. But the Scriptures, too, were no outward guide to him. He came to see that one needed to get back into that Spirit and that Life which the writers of the Scriptures knew and in which they lived. And when one gets back into that Life and Spirit in which the Scriptures were given forth, one under­stands them, as if it were, from within. Quakers make a special approach to the Bible. Not merely by exegesis, not merely by grammar and Greek lexicon do we squeeze out the meaning of the texts, not merely understanding the historical setting of a book like Amos or Hosea or Isaiah do we find its meaning. We can go back into that Life within whom Amos and Isaiah lived, that Life in God’s presence and vivid guidance, then we understand the writings from within. For we and Isiah and Hosea feed on the same Life, are rooted in the same holy flame which is burning in our hearts. And we speak, each for his day, out of the same center, in God. “But I brought them Scriptures and told them there was an anointing within man to teach him, and that the Lord would teach His people Him­self.”

Friends have discounted and discredited the symbolic in reli­gion. Crucifixes and swinging censers, incense and the elevation of the Host in the Mass, prostration of the body as token of humility of heart before God, liturgical pagentry which dramatizes the aspiration and the response of God, conventionalized enactment of bodily washing as a symbol of an inner cleansing—these and many more formal symbols, such as creedal expression of the solidarity of a particular Christian community, have been rejected by Friends. They have been dis­missed as shadows because the substance of the Bread of Life is at hand.

It is the vivid sense of the immediacy of men’s ac­cess to God which makes symbols seem unnecessary. Symbols seem to have an implication of remoteness. They seem to be gestures of aspiration, wavings of the spirit across far-distant spaces toward a remoter Deity, confessions of hope, and desire, and postponed fulfill­ment. But one breath of immediacy makes symbols obstructive, misleading, encumbering. When we are in the presence of our Father, we no longer need His photograph. We enjoy the Father Himself. And in joy we sit in the Holy Presence in worship, and in joy we walk the streets with lighted footsteps, and in serene peace we sleep in His bosom at night.

Symbols, however, are not for their own sake, but for the sake of that reality which is meant by them. When we point our friend to the rising sun we mean for him to glance at our finger and thence to the glory itself. The mediation is for the sake of immediacy. Once the sun is seen, the finger is no longer needed. Once we have passed, in group worship, beyond words and symbols, we sit down together in heavenly places in Christ Jesus. But many a man and woman, and boy and girl, has been pointed beyond his pretty preoccupa­tions to the Light of Lights, by the broken, halting words of some man who has seen the glory. In this sense of symbolism, as the use of words to point be­yond words, Quakers practice symbolism, for we still believe profoundly in what Paul calls “the foolishnes of preaching.”

Every sermon or utterance is a gesture of the spirit toward an experience other than the mere experience of hearing the words. We must resort to the mediatior, of symbols, for immediacy cannot be communicated But all such meditation of words is for the sake of stimulating others to pass beyond our words, and theirs, into that Immediacy wherein is fullness of life.

Quakers generally hold to a belief in Real Pres­ence, as firm and solid as the belief of Roman Catho­lics in the Real Presence in the host, the bread and the wine of the Mass. In the host the Roman Catholic is convinced that the literal, substantial Body of Christ is present. For him the Mass is not a mere symbol, a dramatizing of some figurative relationship of man to God. It rests upon the persuasion that an Existence, a Life, the Body of Christ, is really present and entering into the body of man. Here the Quaker is very near the Roman Catholic. For the Real Presence of the gath­ered meeting is an existential fact. To use philosophical language, it is an ontological matter, not merely a psy­chological matter. The bond of union in divine fellow­ship is existential and real, not figurative. It is the life of God Himself, within whose life we live and move and have our being. And the gathered meeting is a special case of holy fellowship of the blessed community.

the deepness of the covering of a meeting is not proportional to the number of words spoken. A gathered meeting may proceed entirely in silence, rolling on with increasing depth and intensity until the meeting breaks and tears are furtively brushed away. Such really powerful hours of unbroken silence frequently carry a genuine progression of spiritual change and experience. They are filled moments, and the quality of the second fifteen minutes is definitely different from the quality of the first fifteen minutes. Outwardly, all silences seem alike, as all minutes are alike by the clock. But inwardly the Divine Leader of worship directs us through progressive unfoldings of ministration, and may in silence bring an inward climax which is as definite as the climax of the Mass, when the host is elevated in adoration.

 The crux of reli­gious living lies in the will, not in transient and variable states. Utter dedication of the will to God is open to all, for every man can will, and can will his will into the will of God. Where the will to will God’s will is present, there is a child of God. When there are gra­ciously given to us such glimpses of glory as aid us in softening [our] own will, then we may be humbly grateful. But glad willing away of self, that the will of God, so far as it can be discerned, may become what we will—that is the basic condition.

And as individual mystics who are led deep into the heart of devotion learn to be weaned away from reli­ance upon special vision, learn not to clamor perpetu­ally for the heights but to walk in shadows and valleys, dry places, for months and years together, so must group worshipers learn that worship is fully valid when there are no thrills, no special sense of covering, but chiefly valleys and dry places. Misunderstandings, heartaches, questionings, have been caused by exces­sive demand for special experiences, for their enjoy­ment and for their prolongation. But I am persuaded that a deeper sifting of religion leads us down to the will, steadfastly oriented toward the will of God

I saw a man who bowed in reverent admiration be­fore the wonders of a stone.
The stone sought to bow in reverent admiration be­fore the man. But it could not.
Therein lies the glory and the greatness of man.

The Guide led me high above the earth, up to the spaces between the swinging stars. Beneath us, far below, lay the earth, wrapped in the black garment of night. As we watched, a shimmering, silvery mist rose slowly from the earth and enveloped it in a faint veil of light. Slowly, slowly, the silver mist was suffused with pink, then deeper red, then crimson, till at last the earth was a ball of blazing light.

I watched in dumb amazement at the wonder, and at last: “What is it yonder that happens on the earth?”

To which the Guide replied, “The day is dawning on the earth.”

“But what is the silver which enfolds it, and the crimson red which illumines it?”

“These,” said the guide, “are the tears of men, and their blood.”

And I replied, “Then indeed truly is the day dawn­ing on the earth.”

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