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Oh! know ye not that I carry in the palm of my hand, in the Heart of my Heart, all mankind—nay, all worldkind? Will ye not know that all I have created is even like unto Me perfect and cannot be burdensome?
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Ye will not look upon Me as the pedestal upon which all things that are, are founded. Arid because of your blindness, for blind ye are, having eyes ye see not what I have given ye to see—because of your blindness, small are your hearts and cramped and will not expand in height and breadth, even to know the peace that dwells in My clear silence, nor the illumination that lives on My horizon. Nor will ye hear the joy of My greeting of wisdom that would sing to your souls of a love that withereth not, neither fadeth away, neither becometh ashes nor crumbleth to pieces.
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List, O my children! Dear unto My heart ye are, even as the ewe lamb, in its waywardness and helplessness, is dear to the heart of the tried and tender shepherd, or the babe, My gift of first love, is dear to the eager heart of the prayerful father. Yet oft doth the ewe lamb bleating stray away from the arm of the shepherd and the truant, rosy mouth of the babe turns away from the breast of the eager young mother to cry afar to the yonder world that heareth it not, nor answereth it.
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So ye, My little ones, see not the light on your way, nor partake of the bread of life that I scatter to you, even as the waving yellow tree of mustard doth scatter its seed in golden profusion on the fertile regions around it.
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Hark, one and all! All careless have you been in the weeding of your gardens, for in your beds I find the thistle thriving; in your vineyards the grape I find that is hard and sour and bitter.