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Thus hath My Love blessed thee, My Beloved.
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O prisoner of earthly life! Take thou cheer and courage unto thyself, for much is there that is of rare comfort to the spirit. Thrust not thyself into the pit of earth and labor there and seek to carry on thy shoulder and on thy back the burdens that are born of the clay and therefore hurtful and of much weight. But do thou step out and bask in the glow of the sun, do thou stretch forth thy limbs in languid and truant ease and let its warmth play on the white of thy flesh so that even the health of thy blood may bubble to the surface.
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Do thou fix thine eyes on the dome where stars are fixed, though they are paled by the garish sun and hence dim; yet rear thy heart starward and in the course of the sun see the greatness of ways and tracks that are thine, My jewel! Do thou even now burst asunder the fetters that rivetest thee even to the plank of anxiety and with a bound throw from thee the shackles and walk thy star-ward path as a tenant of earth in the way to finding a better abode.
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About thee lies the good that cometh from My strong right arm. Hold it, that its countenance may remain with thee forever. Yea, seek not for a change of thy good for that which is better, but hug rather the present good to thy heart of heart that its strength may impart even strength where thy weakness abideth. The load which I have placed upon thy shoulder is not to thee a load earth-made, 'tis but a gathering of rare herbage piped with beautiful coloring which is full of healing and sweet of taste, but which you all, blinded, do see as burdensome.
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If thou but onward marchest, looking not at the phantom spies that seek to distract thee in thy going and lurk in the clearness of thy light, then shalt thou add wings unto them and they shall flee even as doth the young chick before the hawk's approach. Let thy bold front even by its courage chase forever the foes of man, stern unbelief and dull distrust, which are ever eager to find lodging in the heart where a canopy of white trust doth shelter the babe of Love that reclineth in playful happiness on a rosy couch of hope. Even there would the enemy of man steal and take from the garden of his soul the flowers that blossom in rare loveliness, the beauty that hideth in sweet silence, the peace that casteth its halo of calm over the spirit even as a wild dove.