Few delights can equal the presence of one whom we trust utterly.
God will not overcome evil by crushing it under-foot—any god of man’s idea could do that—but by conquest of heart over heart, of life over life, of life over death, of love over all.
It is the heart that is not yet sure of its god that is afraid to laugh in His presence.
It may be infinitely less evil to murder a man than to refuse to forgive him. The former may be a moment of passion: the latter is the heart’s choice. It is spiritual murder, the worst, to hate, to brood over the feeling that excludes, that, in our microcosm, kills the image, the idea of the hated.
Such is the mercy of God that he will hold his children in the consuming fire of his distance until they pay the utmost farthing, until they drop the purse of selfishness with all the dross that is in it, and rush home to the Father and to the Son and the brethren—rush inside the life-giving Fire whose outer circle burns.
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