it is necessary that there should be not only a God to be loved,
but a man to love him. All those vague theosophical minds for whom
the universe is an immense melting-pot are exactly the minds which
shrink instinctively from that earthquake saying of our Gospels,
which declare that the Son of God came not with peace but with a
sundering sword. The saying rings entirely true even considered
as what it obviously is; the statement that any man who preaches real
love is bound to beget hate. It is as true of democratic fraternity
as a divine love; sham love ends in compromise and common philosophy;
but real love has always ended in bloodshed. Yet there is another
and yet more awful truth behind the obvious meaning of this utterance
of our Lord. According to Himself the Son was a sword separating
brother and brother that they should for an aeon hate each other.
But the Father also was a sword, which in the black beginning
separated brother and brother, so that they should love each other
at last.

This is the meaning of that almost insane happiness in the
eyes of the mediaeval saint in the picture. This is the meaning
of the sealed eyes of the superb Buddhist image. The Christian
saint is happy because he has verily been cut off from the world;
he is separate from things and is staring at them in astonishment.
But why should the Buddhist saint be astonished at things?--
since there is really only one thing, and that being impersonal can
hardly be astonished at itself. There have been many pantheist poems
suggesting wonder, but no really successful ones. The pantheist
cannot wonder, for he cannot praise God or praise anything as really
distinct from himself. Our immediate business here, however, is with
the effect of this Christian admiration (which strikes outwards,
towards a deity distinct from the worshipper) upon the general