The thought overpowered me. I knelt among the pines and spoke to Him who hears when we have no words, for words failed me altogether then.
Munich, May 18.
All the next day and the next that joy lasted. Every twig, and bird, and dew-drop spoke in parables to me; sang to me the parable of the son who had returned from the far country, and as he went towards his father's house prepared his confession; but never finished the journey, for the father met him when he was yet a great way off; and never finished the confession, for the father stopped his self-reproaches with embraces.
And on the father's heart what child could say, "Make me as one of thy hired servants?"
I saw His love shining in every dew-drop on the grassy forest glades; I heard it in the song of every bird; I felt it in every pulse.
I do not know that we spoke much during those days, Brother Martin and I.
I have known something of love; but I have never felt a love that so fills, overwhelms, satisfies, as this love of God. And when first it is "thou and I" between God and the soul, for a time, at least, the heart has little room for other fellowship.
But then came doubts and questionings. Whence came they! Brother Martin said from Satan.
"The devil is a wretched, unhappy spirit," said he, "and he loves to make us wretched."
One thing that began to trouble me was, whether I had the right kind of faith. Old definitions of faith recurred to me, by which faith is said to be nothing unless it is informed with charity and developed into good works, so that when it saith we are justified by faith, the part is taken for the whole—and it means by faith, also hope, charity, all the graces, and all good works.