Have you never cried in your hearts with longing, almost with impatience, "Surely, surely, there is an ideal Holy One somewhere -- or else, how could have arisen in my mind the conception, however faint, of an ideal holiness? But where? oh, where? Not in the world around strewn with unholiness. Not in myself, unholy too, without and within. Is there a Holy One, whom I may contemplate with utter delight? and if so, where is He? Oh, that I might behold, if but for a moment, His perfect beauty, even though, as in the fable of Semele of old, 'the lightning of His glance were death.'" . . . And then, oh, then -- has there not come that for which our spirit was athirst -- the very breath of pure air, the very gleam of pure light, the very strain of pure music -- for it is the very music of the spheres -- in those words, "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come"? Yes, whatever else is unholy, there is a Holy One -- spotless and undefiled, serene and self-contained. Whatever else I cannot trust, there is One whom I can trust utterly. Whatever else I am dissatisfied with, there is One whom I can contemplate with utter satisfaction, and bathe my stained soul in that eternal fount of purity. And who is He? Who, save the Cause and Maker and Ruler of all things past, present, and to come? Sermon on All Saints' Day. 1874. Charles Kingsley's Dying Words, |
    |