Thy word remaineth for ever, which word now appeareth unto us in the riddle of the clouds, and through the mirror of the heavens, not as it is: because that even we, though the well beloved of thy Son, yet it hath not yet appeared what we shall be. He looked through the lattice of our flesh and he spake us fair, yea, he set us on fire, and we hasten on his scent. But when he shall appear, then shall we be like him, for we shall see him as he is: as he is, Lord, will our sight be, though the time be not yet.

Our bodies are shaped to bear children, and our lives are a working out of the processes of creation. All our ambitions and intelligence are beside that great elemental point.

Where love is, what can be wanting? Where it is not, what can possibly be profitable?

This awful catastrophe is not the end but the beginning. History does not end so. It is the way its chapters open.

What am I then, my God? What is my nature? A life varied, multifaceted and truly immense.

War should we waged without love of violence, cruelty, or enmity.

It is not with respect to our convenience or discomfort, but with respect to their own nature that the creatures are glorifying to their Artificer.