Though you hear
all the dreams of men, you will hardly find a prettier one than ours. It
ran so:
In the centre of all things is a mighty Heart, which, having begotten all
things, loves them; and, having born them into life, beats with great
throbs of love towards them. No death for His dear insects, no hell for
His dear men, no burning up for His dear world--His own, own world that he
has made. In the end all will be beautiful. Do not ask us how we make our
dream tally with facts; the glory of a dream is this--that it despises
facts, and makes its own. Our dream saves us from going mad; that is
enough.
Its peculiar point of sweetness lay here. When the Mighty Heart's yearning
of love became too great for other expression, it shaped itself into the
sweet Rose of heaven, the beloved Man-god.
Jesus! you Jesus of our dream! how we loved you; no Bible tells of you as
we knew you. Your sweet hands held ours fast; your sweet voice said
always, "I am here, my loved one, not far off; put your arms about me, and
hold fast."
We find Him in everything in those days. When the little weary lamb we
drive home drags its feet, we seize on it, and carry it with its head
against our face. His little lamb! We feel we have got Him.
When the drunken Kaffer lies by the road in the sun we draw his blanket
over his head, and put green branches of milk-bush on it.
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