There is a word, a curious word, called “Faith”; there is another curious word called “Creed.” The latter forces stern belief from childhood, the former springs by leaps and bounds above the fetters, and laughs at that which takes its God in hand, and snips and snaps and pats him into shape, and says to him, as if it were Almighty, “Thus shalt thou be, thus only—a fish, a man, a calf, or jumbling trio. Bend to our puny chains and we will worship thee.” Oh, Creed! harsh jest of harshest Godhead, that wrapped itself about the human brain—and wrapped in mystery shook its sides with laughing—knowing full well its vagaries were not seen. For Creed has soiled itself with blood and murder, with bitter strife and false solemnity—binding itself to cruel superstition—straining at gnats and gulping great big camels. And then when pained with indigestion, it would at times disgorge sedition sore, and growl and grumble to its inmost region because its ermine robe the vagrants tore. There is one Creed, one only Creed, a thing so far above a Creed that Creed grows pale and falters, forgetting its hard dogma learnt by rote; that little word is “Faith,” the gift of Heaven, the only lasting thing upon this earth. The last Apostle spoke of Love—but was he not a little premature?—since Love is born from Faith, none other, and without Faith, Love is no better than a blinded God. For Love is tender and most fragile—the sweetest sensitive plant that ever grew, that needs care such as earth cannot give it, and when stricken by rude winds blowing from barren lands, droops down unneeded and unheeded—a silent, shattered, broken heart, even like Christ’s, whose fragments gathered by the angels form in that heavenly home the purest, strongest tie. Love is the last great prize, so sacred and so beautiful that none can fathom it. Why therefore should we lay sacrilegious fingers on its outer robe, and seek to drag and form within ourselves that which we cannot truly understand? “Love one another,” the great Teacher said, “little children, little children.” And perhaps if that saying were locked up two hundred years, and the word sealed in the heart and never on the lip, it would in silent, restful darkness germinate, and break forth at last to do some good. We say it after him like parrots, and prate about the beauty of his words, loading ourselves with sentiment, devoid of feeling, and then we go away. Do we love? Do we forgive? Not in the ordinary course of things. We live barren lives though we may have a dozen children, and rise no higher than the soil. But let once “Faith” break forth to take the place of hardened Creed, and the first little seed has been sown for good, because in the train of Faith Morality will follow—and what is it but the strong elementary ground of Love?