Seven times I died before winter’s end.
Eyes accustomed to weeping through the night
Thinking thoughts about the loss;
And longing to belong
To the air you breathe one more time;
But I am wholly unworthy
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I set aside a season for my love
And a garden to remember her by;
So that upon the chime of the new moon
My dear love would arrive.
Oh, where has the time gone,
Since last she did pass?
I have been lost for so long,
And so long, lost in the past -
Leaving me wounded from the years
Of a time lived without her love
My war–torn ...
Why do the birds rise so early
In the morning I ask;
But then I remembered
What it’s like in unrest.
…and so in that way I am
Much like my winged friends
Except I only wish I could sing
Like them -
So early in the morning.
What matters is to find a purpose, to see what it really is that God wills that I shall do; the crucial thing is to find a truth which is truth for me, to find the idea for which I am willing to live and die.
Any man can make a mistake but only a fool persists in his error.
In religious belief as elsewhere, we must take our chances, recognizing that we could be wrong, dreadfully wrong. There are no guarantees; the religious life is a venture; foolish and debilitating error is a permanent possibility. (If we can be wrong, however, we can also be right.)
I am a Christian, not because someone explained the nuts and bolts of Christianity, but because there were people willing to be nuts and bolts.