and purposes. I ask no written covenant with God, for
he is my Father. I will trust him without requiring priests
or prophets to indorse his note. As I write, my little
son awake, alarmed by some unusual noise, and come
groping through the darkness to my door. He sees the
light shining through the transom, returns to his trundle-
bed and lies down to peaceful dreams. He knows that
beyond that gleam his father keeps watch and ward, and
he asks no more. Through a thousand celestial transoms
streams the light of God. Why should I fear the sleep
of Death, the unknown terrors of that starless night, the
waves of the river Styx? Why should I seek assurance
from the lips of men that the wisdom, love and power
of my heavenly Father will not fail?"

Like the lowly Judean carpenter who gave his life in a
protest against the wrongs which wealth and power had
done to his fellow man, he was hated by the Pharisees
and hypocrites, but he never cast a stone at the poor and
unfortunate, but was ever ready to support the weak
battling in the cause of right against the cohorts of the
wrong.

He was not only a poet, but was a prophet and a
priest; not the prophet and priest of orthodoxy, that has
handed down to us through the ages, written in the blood
of slaughtered millions, that dark story of forked-tailed
demons and flaming hells, that has given us a God that
loves us better than an earthly father can, yet permits
us in the sight of his great white throne to writhe and