Yes, I have sat upon the summits of the mountain of the Lord, and the sky appeared to me a wave of purity flooding the earth, and the earth an Eden in which the angels play.

He said: The dwelling of man is like the hyena's den — black, filthy; the sun looks upon it only to hide her face for shame. And man is like the thief, son of the night, sheltering under the wing of darkness to aim his blows. His feats are crimes, his books insults which the worms ought to gnaw before they come out into the light.

I said: Man's foot is in the dust, but his head is in the heights, where it touches the creative Word. A son of light he is, and in the light he lives. As for his evils, he exposes them, like crimes, to the fire of the sun, that she may root them out; and he remains clear as the face of the sky.

He said: Or do you suppose that medicines can heal what ails the soul? If that is your opinion, then know that man has used up all the perfume without so much as touching the stench.

Consider the worms: how they multiply the more one persists in fighting them. So is the soul — a gushing spring of poisons: the more harshly it is treated, the more it secretes.

I said: Or do you suppose that the dirt clinging to a child's body hides his purity, or that the filthy rags in which he is wrapped can veil that clear radiance that distills from him?

And if water is powerless to polish away the rust, yet in every soul there is compassion enough to wipe out the sins of the whole world. Have you not seen — you, the clear-sighted, the enlightened — tolerance behind fanaticism, and forgive-ness behind crime?

In the clothing of every wolf there is a lamb, and in the conscience of every thief a saint. Bind up man's wounds and you will see him as he is in his eternal truth: a spark of the first light.

He said: Weak is man, and abject his heart. He enslaves others to hide his cowardice and to fill the emptiness of his soul.

His intentions are evil, his thought is sin, his freedom a fetter. When will the hour strike, and he return to the dust? When will time halt its course and sink into the eternity of nothingness? If there is any prayer, it is that burning sigh which rises at every moment from his heart, when he asks his Creator to put an end to the great tragedy.

I said: Look at the world with the eye of the fox and you will see it a den of intrigues; with the eye of the tyrant, and you will see it a theater of battle. Look at it with the eye of the child and you will see it forever new and delightful; with the eye of the girl, and you will see it white and pure.

Remove from your eyes the film of cunning and affectation, and you will come to know the secret of life. Beautiful she is, because the hand of the first Artist fashioned her; all hope, because she sprang from love.

If you ask her children about her,

they will point you to her, for they knew her before knowledge came to be.

She is where art is, where beauty is, where goodness is; in the lily that spreads its fragrance over all without distinction, in the glances of the child brimming over with hope,

in the sun that pours her light upon the good and the wicked alike, in the soul of the artist who adds beauty to her beauty,

in the heart of every human being who answers her call.

Look at this woman, waiting days and nights, her soul filled with trust — waiting for her only son. She calls him, and her voice will not tire of calling until he returns; and he will return...

In her resolve is a strength that pierces the horizons, in her eyes a light that scatters the clouds, in her gentleness a hope that dispels despair, in her love a life that triumphs over death.

The voice of the people... the voice of the poor... the voice of the bereaved mothers... the voice of life... the voice of love... the voice of woman...