rol of it given into our hands. And then, too, I
learnt that words are worlds. At every breath, nay, by the slightest
thought, we create planets. Pray that they harmonize! They have power.
Are they angels? They convey our messages, but their harmony of
inter-woven song and meaning was lost at Babel to our ears. Yet by
them if our will is strong and we do not fail in deeds we may take our
part in the symphony as truly as life itself. And so we must not use
them idly. How can anyone dare to tell a lie? One begins to see how
God is a Name. I felt before how the secret of language was to be
found among the sands. It is because the sands are the nearest and
most visible planets we possess. Words are planets. But planets are
sands on the shore of eternity. Words are sands. We are little words
made flesh, little echoes in the image of the great Word made Flesh.
His creation is the complete echo made flesh, His Image and likeness
which He contemplates. And so we are in our measure part of the song
made flesh, and the little common words that we use are our brothers.

July 17.

The sunset tonight was a glorious crucifixion after the day of clouds.
It was human in its beckoning. I cannot find the secret of the moon,
but it reminds me of Lionel's phrase, if it be his, "golden
mediocrities." Is it the astral embodiment of "They also serve who
only stand and wait"? Why is it that the little human beauties of
Nature pass me by as entities, and that I seek bare places? Is there a
parallel in my personal attitude toward all but those who are
specially dear to me? I thought of how I looked down on the city from
the mountain in May, and felt the whole city to be my prayer. It had
been given into my control for a few minutes, and the only worthy use
to which I could put it was to offer it up with a prayer for my people
and all the desire of my heart that the prayer would be answered. The
half-million souls with all their dreams were under my care then, and
their acts were mine. So little are cities, and so little I found my
worthiness that I could not hide my tears. Later I crossed to the
height looking down on the cemetery, the world was silent save for the
flaming heart of the city pulsing below, and reflecting the Flaming
Heart above as the sun set. The woodpeckers did not fear me, and I
sank slowly and deeply into God. I think that some day I shall know
His wounds. I cannot understand why I was delivered from temptation at
the mom