This, I thought I might make them
understand, was the only terrible sea, the only hopeless ocean from whose
awful shore we must shrink and flee, the end of every voyage upon whose
bosom was the bottom of its filthy waters, beyond the reach of all that is
thought or spoken in the light, beyond life itself, but for the hand that
reaches down from the upper ocean of truth, the hand of the Redeemer of
men. I thought, I say, for a while, that I could make this, not definite,
but very real to them. But I did not feel quite confident about it. Might
they not in the symbolism forget the thing symbolised? And would not the
symbol itself be ready to fade quite from their memory, or to return
only in the vaguest shadow? And with the thought I perceived a far more
excellent way. For the power of the truth lies of course in its revelation
to the mind, and while for this there are a thousand means, none are so
mighty as its embodiment in human beings and human life. There it is itself
alive and active. And amongst these, what embodiment comes near to that in
him who was perfect man in virtue of being at the root of the secret of
humanity, in virtue of being the eternal Son of God? We are his sons in
time: he is his Son in eternity, of whose sea time is but the broken
sparkle.
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