This thing is certain--he is a fool who says, "No man hath said in his
heart, There is no God."
It has been said many thousand times in hearts with profound bitterness of
earnest faith.
We do not cry and weep: we sit down with cold eyes and look at the world.
We are not miserable. Why should we be? We eat and drink, and sleep all
night; but the dead are not colder.
And we say it slowly, but without sighing, "Yes, we see it now; there is no
God."
And, we add, growing a little colder yet. "There is no justice. The ox
dies in the yoke, beneath its master's whip; it turns its anguish-filled
eyes on the sunlight, but there is no sign of recompense to be made it.
The black man is shot like a dog, and it goes well with the shooter. The
innocent are accused and the accuser triumphs. If you will take the
trouble to scratch the surface anywhere, you will see under the skin a
sentient being writhing in impotent anguish."
And, we say further, and our heart is as the heart of the dead for
coldness, "There is no order: all things are driven about by a blind
chance."
What a soul drinks in with its mother's milk will not leave it in a day.
From our earliest hour we have been taught that the thought of the heart,
the shaping of the rain-cloud, the amount of wool that grows on a sheep's
back, the length of a drought, and the growing of the corn, depend on
nothing that moves immutable, at the heart of all things; but on the
changeable will of a changeable being, whom our prayers can alter.
Pages:
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183