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The rondo of human affairs, without God, is like the chirping of a cricket in a swamp. Repetitious vanity surges and without purpose is reborn, the dismal hum of an insect tortures the ear; yet the melody of our bells is ignored and the great summoning is disregarded for the sake of a gnat. The death knell of the age echoes across the land as a somber shroud. It is heard in the cry of misguided youth, in the jungle drums of dissonant, broken rhythms, in the peepings and mutterings of the psychic effluvia, in the political jockeying to please the multitude which manifests while the orb of the golden age sheds forth infinite beams.
Seldom do men realize the effort that noble and dedicated men make in order to produce the tablets of excellence. Minds, fickle and rasping, sordid with contempt and soiled, have no patient ear to hear that for which their souls cry out. Unwilling are they to eat the bread of divine delight, unless it be offered upon a golden platter. Yet where is the gold in their own souls and the clean linen of purity with which they approach the throne of grace? With unreasoning contempt for others, they excuse themselves; and their faulty approaches to the Perfect One pass unnoticed by their consciousness. Shorn of life, where would these stand? Yet, where stand they now?
Strands of new hope are woven by the angels of hope, but their song is not heard by the darkened consciousness. Their song is heard as the heart opens its windows and, flying from the tower of individualized focus, merges its thought and feelings in the wondrous creative scheme of natural order. The harmony of the universe, heard by the great Masters of Wisdom, is a cradle hymn for the beginner upon the Path. Yet its solace is not lost upon the adept or the master who, hearing its tones, thinks again of an infinite love, sweeter as each moment passes by.
The razor's edge of the discriminating mind and heart must take note of the fashion of the times. The rumblings of discord cannot be ignored. The midnight hour has struck indeed, and the rider and his horse, passing by, sound the alarm and wake the welkin. Like cheesecloth are the sleazy robes of those who have not made themselves ready.
Hear, then, the summoning and unloosen the waxened stoppers in the ears, that hearing ye may hear. For if the day be not short for mankind, it is short for thee. And if the day be not short for thee, it is short for mankind. Paths twisted like a pretzel coil themselves around each individual, and the crossing of the paths is for hope. The crossing of the paths is for opportunity. The crossing of the paths is the mark of reproof unto righteousness. That which shatters the pall opes the pearly way of renewed hope to all. The strands of hope, enmeshed in the marble of time, are walked upon by the profane; and their past destiny seems unto them as if it is but a dream that might not have been.
Yet, the hour of the Counsellor is at hand. He who has an ear to hear let him hear. The advent of might, envisioned in the sound of imaginary battle, stimulates the attention of the challenged to protect his armor. The armor of the righteous must be polished and ready. Men dwell not in an age of innocence but of vilification and calumny. Around them are woven snares to trap the soul; and the density of hopelessness, of the vacuum of unfruitful longing, of the uncherished cup, speak of self-brutality.
Men have within their hands the perfect instrument of their salvation and yet they resort to the spurning tactic. Again and again they have rejected the light of truth, the power of hope, the link with hierarchy; and they have made a deathless union with the gray shadows of nothingness. Now, when the hour of awareness is born, when the consciousness of God ascends, billowing the sails of the little ships, let the captains steer their straight course; let the soundings of the compass be heard; let the renewal of vows occur; and let men by commeasurement perceive the elect way. Swift is the poison of the moth's spread in the destruction of garments. The wary ones will protect themselves. They will spend little time upon the trampoline, for the flexing of the muscles must be for the uplifting of the soul, and the stretching of the hands must be to God, and the strength of the bonds must be given to the Beloved.
How shall we cover the chelas with a panacea of the universal cure? All of the ills of men are not equalized, and the plague of one country is not the plague of another. The shafts of virtue, then, are bent upon the strong armor of the unrighteous, and the children of the sun are drenched with the damp, damp dews of the bewitching moon. As Saint Paul said, "O foolish Galatians, who hath bewitched you ...?" Let every stalwart soul cast aside each enticing mortal nicety; let every twitter of inharmony be disregarded by the ears of the soul; and let the carvings of a straight path before the consciousness of the mind be unwaveringly stretched as an infinite, unbending highway.
The goal-fittedness of God has no time for the baying of hounds or the matched or unmatched argument. We pursue where none fleeth, and we flee not when pursued; for all who pass this way are brothers of light. Theirs is the staunchness of a tender heart. Compassion encircles them around about, and the sun disc on the brow bears lifting wings of snowy white. Purity and unwavering constancy fix the eyes of the soul upon the goal, and thence I lead. Ye who would follow must not even gaze upon the sparks of the steeds' hoofs flashing in the dark.
The ray of our intensity is upon thee, for the first ray of the chohan thereof extends the bond of unwavering grace to all who will accept it. The will of God is not only good, it is good for you. The will of human effluvia is not only bad, it is bad for you. The accumulation of each uplifting idea saturates the guidance systems of the mind, and so cherish each new day as a hoped-for high road of adventure. The Lord of Life is also the Lord of Death, and it is to life that he dedicates himself.
A shower of sparks fly to the sun. The bold ones are there. They are everywhere, for their valor is the conquering influence to mankind. Hide not thy light under a bushel. The day is far spent; the end of all things is the beginning of all things, and thy meditative heart will not scorn the God who has wrought in thee his own handiwork as the perfect occupation for each shining hour and the measurement of a love immeasurable.