The Evil-doer Mourns In The Next; He

Without A Belief In Personal Immortality, Religion Surely Is Like An Arch Resting On One Pillar, Like A Bridge Ending In An Abyss.

That Is The Returning To God Which In Reality Is Never Concluded On Earth But Yet Leaves Behind In The Soul A Divine Home Sickness, Which Never Again Ceases.

While The River Of Life Glides Along Smoothly, It Remains The Same River; Only The Landscape On Either Bank Seems To Change.

Is It Sin, Which Makes The Worm A Chrysalis, And The Chrysalis A Butterfly, And The Butterfly Dust?

The Morning Hour Has Gold At The Mouth.