"What are these wounds in Thy Hands: Those with which I was wounded
in the house of My friends."
But if on Easter eve we could have confessed our sins against His
Love, and if this morning we could have partaken of Him, He would
have been with us, and our hearts would have been fit for the
presence of God. We should have been freed from this spirit of
strife, we should have come together in Jesus Christ. We should
have seen how to live "with the unleavened Bread of sincerity and
truth." God would have revealed His Will, and we, submitting our
Order to His Will, should have ceased to think for ourselves, to
judge our brethren, to criticize our seniors, to suspect that
brother of personal ambition, this brother of toadyism. The
Community is being devoured by the Dragon and, unless St. George
comes to the rescue of his Order on Thursday week, it will perish.
Perhaps I have not much faith in St. George. He has always seemed
to me an unreal, fairy-tale sort of a saint. I have more faith in
St. Benedict and his Holy Rule. But I have no vocation for the
contemplative life. I don't feel that my prayers are good enough to
save my own soul, let alone the souls of others.
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