influence, they would actually become like Him, and think His thoughts, and will His will, and live the kind of life He lived. What He said would happen _does happen_; and not just "Saints" but ordinary people find that _He_ can make them true and pure in a way that nothing else can. "Spirit of purity and grace. Our weakness pitying see; Oh make our hearts Thy dwelling place And worthier Thee." Those words contain not a beautiful aspiration but a literal possibility. Once a man begins to make this great discovery, all sorts of results ensue. Lost things are found again, among them that happy, guileless certainty of God which is childhood’s heritage and which so often slips away when men grow older. Life gets crowded and men lose sight of God; some men even think He is not there because they have lost the knack of looking for Him. If you cannot see properly through a telescope it is rash to conclude that the object you are looking for is not there; it would be better to clean the lens. It is not God who deserts us; it is we who, blinded by sin, miss Him. "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." Here again it is not the "Saints" only who are gifted with this capacity for spiritual vision. It is the birthright of every man and woman born into the world. The path of purity is a right of way, and the place of vision has no fences round it; all who will may enter there, and there is none to forbid them but themselves. I believe there are numbers of men who have a dim consciousness of these great possibilities but who, from one cause or another, have never really begun to explore them. The one thing needful, for many a man, is simply that he should _give his soul a chance_. Early in the War there was killed in France at the age of twenty, a man of brilliant endowments and high promise--Charles Sorley, of Marlborough and University College, Oxford. A few months before his death he wrote these lines, which put into winged words this haunting sense of unexplored spiritual possibilities,-- "From morn to midnight, all day through, I laugh and play as others do, I sin and chatter just the same As others with a different name. And all year long upon the stage I dance and tumble and do rage So vehemently, I scarcely see The inner and eternal me. I have a temple I do not Visit, a heart I have forgot, A self that I have never met, A secret shrine--and yet, and yet This sanctuary of my soul Unwitting I keep white and whole, Unlatched and lit, if Thou should’st care To enter or to tarry there. With parted lips and outstretched hands And listening ears Thy servant stands; Call Thou early, call Thou late, To Thy great service dedicate."