And what of our prophets, whose tongues were swords and their lips flames?
Left they a straw behind for this gleaner of Galilee? Or a fallen fruit for the beggar from the North Country?
There was naught for Him save to break the loaf already baked by our ancestors, and to pour the wine which their holy feet had already passed from the grapes of old.
It is the potter’s hand I honour, not the man who buys the ware.
I honour those who sit at the loom rather than the boor who wears the cloth.
Who was this Jesus of Nazareth, and what is He? A man who dared not live His mind. Therefore He faded into oblivion and that is His end.
I beg you, charge not my ears with His words or His deeds. My heart is overfull with the prophets of old, and that is enough.