field. For the earth is gathered up in man; he is the whole which
is greater than the sum of its parts. Standing in the image of
God, and clothed in the garment of God, he lifts up priestly hands
and presents the sacrifice of redeemed earth before the throne of
the All-Father. "Dust and ashes and a house of devils," he cries;
and there comes back for answer, "Rex concupiscet decorem tuam."

The Angel of Death has broad wings of silence and mystery with
which he shadows the valley where we need fear no evil, and where
the voice which speaks to us is as the "voice of doves, tabering
upon their breasts." It is a place of healing and preparation, of
peace and refreshing after the sharply-defined outlines of a garish
day. Walking there we learn to use those natural faculties of the
soul which are hampered by the familiarity of bodily progress, to
apprehend the truths which we have intellectually accepted. It is
the place of secrets where the humility which embraces all
attainable knowledge cries "I know not"; and while we proclaim from
the house-tops that which we have learnt, the manner of our
learning lies hid for each one of us in the sanctuary of our souls.

The Egyptians, in their ancient wisdom, act in the desert a great
androsphinx, image of mystery and silence, staring from under level
brows across the arid sands of the sea-way. The Greeks borrowed
and debased the image, turning the inscrutable into a semi-woman
who asked a foolish riddle, and hurled herself down in petulant
pride when OEdipus answered aright. So we, marring the office of
silence, question its mystery; thwart ourselves with riddles of our
own suggesting; and turn away, leaving our offering but half
consumed on the altar of the unknown god. It was not the theft of
fire that brought the vengeance of heaven upon Prometheus, but the