Friday, March 8, 2013

Friday, March 8, 2013

The Divine Love

Where is God’s love – eternal, immeasurable, all-embracing compassion? 

Compare God’s compassion with the compassion of persons, those ordinary and imperfect beings.  Does a father not forgive his child if it has disobeyed?  Does he not try – over and over again, in every way – to lead it to righteousness?  If that fails, then it is not because the father does not want it to materialize, but rather because he does not have the power to bring it about.  How is the mother’s love for her child manifested?  She embraces it with her love; she prays for it if it walks the wrong path; she spreads her to arms greet the lost but later found offspring; she does not hesitate to lay down her own life, if need be, to set her child free.

And how often do people not forgive their enemies?  Would you not suppose, dear friends, that God is equally just, compassionate, and merciful as human beings?  … What an absurdity it is to consider God so incomplete, vengeful, and ignorant as to condemn the very divine self, since it is acknowledged that all humankind, each and every person, is created in the divine image – whether Greek or Jew, Chinese or Black, Tartar or Indian.  All must acknowledge that all of these are God’s children.

Magnús J. Skaptason (died March 8, 1932)

A Word To Philosophers

Cold philosophers, so apt 

With your formulas exacting, 

In your problems so enwrapt, 

And your theories distracting; 

Webs of metaphysic doubt 

On your wheels forever spinning, 

Turning Nature inside out 

From its end to its beginning; 

Drawing forth from matter raw 

Protoplasmic threads, to fashion 

What Creation never saw — 

Mind apart from faith or passion; 

Faculties that know no wants 

But a logical position — 

Intellectual cormorants 

Fed on facts of pure cognition; — 

Like Arachne's is your task, 

By Minerva's wisdom baffled. 

Defter weavers we must ask; 

Tissues less obscurely ravelled. 

Larger vision you must find 

Ere your evolution-plummets 

Sound the abysses of the mind, 

Or your measure reach its summits. 

Not from matter crude and coarse 

Comes this delicate creation. 

Twinned with it a finer force 

Rules it to its destination. 

All beliefs, affections, deeds 

Feed its depths as streams a river, 

Every purpose holds the seeds 

Of a fruit that grows forever. 

Souls outsoar your schoolmen's wit, 

In a loftier heaven wheeling. 

Lights ideal o'er them flit. 

Every thought is wing'd with feeling. 

Conscience born of heavenly light 

Mingles with their lofty yearning; 

Phantasy and humor bright 

Cheer their toilsome path of learning. 

Poesy with dreamy eyes 

Lures them into fairy splendor, 

Music's magic harmonies 

Thrill with touches deep and tender. 

Love, that shapes their mental moods, 

Offers now its warm oblations, 

Now the heart's dark solitudes 

Glow with solemn adorations. 

Vain your biologic strife, 

Your asserting, your denying; 

Yggdrasil the Tree of Life 

Flouts your narrow classifying. 

Every living leaf and bud 

On its mighty branches growing, 

Palpitates with will and blood 

Past primordial foreknowing. 

Your dissecting-knives can show 

Less than half these wondrous natures, 

In these beating hearts there glow 

Flames that scorch your nomenclatures, — 

Lights that make your axioms fine 

Fade like stars when day is breaking; — 

Splendors, hopes, and powers divine, 

New born with each day's awaking. 

Raise your scientific lore, 

Grant us larger definitions; 

Souls are surely something more 

Than mere bundles of cognitions. 

Take the sum — the mighty whole — 

Man, this sovereign Protean creature, 

Follow the all-embracing soul, 

If you can, through form and feature. 

Whence it came in vain you guess, 

Where it goes you cannot measure, 

And its depths are fathomless; 

And exhaustless flows its treasure. 

And its essence holds the world 

In abeyance and solution, 

For the gods themselves are furled 

In its mystic involution.

Christopher Pearse Cranch (born March 8, 1815)

"The Ash Yggdrasil"
by Friedrich Wilhelm Heine (1886)

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