And all the rivers of all the years shall not carry away our remembrance of Him.
He was a mountain burning in the night, yet He was a soft glow beyond the hills. He was a tempest in the sky, yet He was a murmur in the mist of daybreak.
He was a torrent pouring from the heights to the plains to destroy all things in its path.
And He was like the laughter of children.
Every year I had waited for spring to visit this valley. I had waited for the lilies and the cyclamen, and then every year my soul had been saddened within me; forever I longed to rejoice with the spring, yet I could not.
But when Jesus came to my seasons He was indeed a spring, and in Him was the promise of all the years to come. He filled my heart with joy; and like the violets I grew, a shy thing, in the light of His coming.
And now the changing seasons of worlds not yet ours shall not erase His loveliness from this our world.
Nay, Jesus was not a phantom, nor a conception of the poets. He was man like yourself and myself. But only to sight and touch and hearing; in all other ways He was unlike us.
He was a man of joy; and it was upon the path of joy that He met the sorrows of all men.
And it was from the high roofs of His sorrows that He beheld the joy of all men.
He saw visions that we did not see, and heard voices that we did not hear; and He spoke as if to invisible multitudes, and ofttimes He spoke through us to races yet unborn.