Some metaphors, which describe God by reference to the relations of man to man, may be called anthropomorphic; others, which describe Him by reference to implements (such as a Shield) may be called organomorphic; others, which assimilate Him to lifeless and inorganic objects (such as a Hill) may be called by some other grand name, such as apsychomorphic; others, which would subtilize Him down to a thought, or a mind, or a spirit, may be called phronesimorphic, noumorphic, pneumatomorphic; but in the name of common sense—or in the name of that sense which ought to be common, and which ought to revolt against bondage to mere words—what is there in that termination “morphic” which should stagger a seeker after divine truth? Do we not all recognize that all terms applied to the supreme God are “morphisms” of various kinds? And the question is not how we can avoid a “morphism”—for we cannot avoid it—but how or where we can find the noblest and most spiritually helpful “morphism.” And as between the ancient and the modern metaphors just set before you can you entertain a moment’s doubt? Might we not imagine the question put—after the old Roman authoritative fashion—to an assembly of the consciences of universal mankind: “Christ says that God is a Father in heaven; refined thinkers say that He is a Tendency; _utri creditis, gentes_?” To which I seem to hear the answer of the Universe come back, “We will have no Tendencies seated on the throne of Heaven. Give us a Father, or we will have nothing.” And you, my dear friend, how is it with you? _Utri credis_?