You would know the primal aim of Jesus, and I would fain tell you. But none can touch with fingers the life of the blessed wine, nor see the sap that feeds the branches.
And though I have eaten of the grapes and have tasted the new vintage at the winepress, I cannot tell you all.
I can only relate what I know of Him.
Our Master and our Belovèd lived but three prophet’s seasons. They were the spring of His song, the summer of His ecstasy, and the autumn of His passion; and each season was a thousand years.
The spring of His song was spent in Galilee. It was there that He gathered His lovers about Him, and it was on the shores of the blue lake that He first spoke of the Father, and of our release and our freedom.
By the Lake of Galilee we lost ourselves to find our way to the Father; and oh, the little, little loss that turned to such gain.
It was there the angels sang in our ears and bade us leave the arid land for the garden of heart’s desire.
He spoke of fields and green pastures; of the slopes of Lebanon where the white lilies are heedless of the caravans passing in the dust of the valley.
He spoke of the wild brier that smiles in the sun and yields its incense to the passing breeze.
And He would say: “The lilies and the brier live but a day, yet that day is eternity spent in freedom.”