can see the whole of the sun in a single drop of water. You can see the
whole of the Book of God in this one little book that John wrote.

John's Gospel is like the small tracing of the artist's pen on the
lower corner of an etching, the remarque, put there as a signature, the
artist's personal mark that the picture is genuine, the real thing. The
whole consummate skill of the artist is revealed at a glance in the
simple outline-tracing on the margin. The whole of the God-story in the
larger picture of the whole Book is given in few simple clear lines in
this exquisite little thing commonly called John's Gospel.

It is striking to make the discovery that John's little book has _a
distinctive message as a book_. It is full of messages, of course. But I
mean that there is a distinct story told by the book as a whole, by the
very way it is put together. It is told by the very sort of language
used, the words chosen as the leading words of the book. It is told by
the picture that clearly fills John's eye as he writes, and by the very
spirit that floods the pages as a soft light, and that breaks out of
them as the subtle fragrance of locust blossoms in the spring.

The fragrance of flowers cannot be analyzed: it must be smelled and
felt. That's the only way you'll ever know it. The fine scholarly
analyses of John are helpful. But there's the subtler something that
cannot be diagramed or analyzed or synthesized. It eludes the
razor-edged knife, and the keenly critical survey. It is recognized only
by one's spirit, and then only when the spirit is warm, and in tune with
John's.

Of course each of the Gospel stories has a message of its own, quite
apart from the group of facts common to them all. And these four