Whatever else is unholy,
there is an Holy One, spotless and undefiled, serene and self-contained.
Whatever else I cannot trust, there is One whom I can trust utterly.
Whatever else I am dissatisfied with, there is One whom I can contemplate
with utter satisfaction, and bathe my stained soul in that eternal fount
of purity. And who is He? Who save the Cause and Maker, and Ruler of
all things, past, present, and to come? Ah, Gospel of all gospels, that
God Himself, the Almighty God, is the eternal and unchangeable
realisation of all that I and all mankind, in our purest and our noblest
moments, have ever dreamed concerning the true, the beautiful, and the
good. Even though He slay me, the unholy, yet will I trust in Him. For
He is Holy, Holy, Holy, and can do nothing to me, or any creature, save
what He OUGHT. For He has created all things, and for His pleasure they
are and were created.
Whosoever has entered, though but for a moment, however faintly,
partially, stupidly, into that thought of thoughts, has entered in so far
into the communion of the elect; and has had his share in the everlasting
All Saints' Day which is in heaven.
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