It is the thought that makes us at moments
believe intensely and urgently in the justice, the mercy, the
perfect love of God, even at moments when everything round us
appears to contradict the idea. It is the outcome of that strange
right to happiness which we all feel, the instinct that makes us
believe of pain and grief that they are abnormal, and will be, must
be, set right and explained somewhere. The thought comes to me most
poignantly at sunset, when trees and chimneys stand up dark against
the fiery glow, and when the further landscape lies smiling, lapt
in mist, on the verge of dreams; that moment always seems to speak
to me with a personal voice. "Yes," it seems to say, "I am here and
everywhere--larger, sweeter, truer, more gracious than anything you
have ever dreamed of or hoped for--but the time to know all is not
yet." I cannot explain the feeling or interpret it; but it has
sometimes seemed to me, in such moments, that I am, in very truth,
not a child of God, but a part of Himself--separated from Him for a
season, imprisoned, for some strange and beautiful purpose, in the
chains of matter, remembering faintly and obscurely something that
I have lost, as a man strives to recall a beautiful dream that has
visited him.
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