A procession should march, but the ever-growing pageant of the cross advances, not in position, with regard to space but in the splendor of its tremendous light. Its progress is not even an ascension, but rather a translation.
And yet there must have been an ascension, a lifting-up into space, for when at last it moves forward, it is not across the tawny plain of the arena, but through a garden whose paths, lawns, flowers, trees, are made of light, not blinding but refreshing to the eyes.
Beyond, in the far distance crowning a plateau of light, there is a temple—I remember reading about it in many telepathic descriptions of the heavens—each of whose four porches carries a cupola. The four porches describe the figure of a cross, and in the midst above, the drum of the main building is sculptured in deep-cut bas-reliefs. This drum carries a circular colonnade, from whence the main dome soars until its ever-changing and prismatic radiance is lost in mist of light, a cloud of glory.
They who joined the procession of the cross have become a multitude and they seem to move in silence, with a sense of hushed reverence. For there is One coming through the garden to meet them. Words are like the dice which a gambler throws at random, and it is better not to attempt thoughts which no language can render.
At His coming the four Angels bow down, then lower the cross from their shoulders, but Storm and Rain are bidden to kneel at His feet that they may receive His blessing.
If their hearts quake, if their limbs turn to water, all spirits bow down before Him not in fear, nor in dread, only in homage.
"Be still, and know that I have loved you, and have longed to give you Life."
THE END