|
 There
is challenge in TRUTH. Towering, majestic and awesome, it
beckons the climber. Great and wonderful, clothed in mysteries,
it threatens and promises. Benevolently reaching to the world,
it summons all; yet sternly holds aloft its crown, to defy the
casual.
Below,
in railed and graded trails move masses. Camera-clicking
tourists, worn by travel, scarce grasp their guide's trained
words, and far less understand the magic scene. And as the way
grows steeper, more and more are faint, and wander aimlessly —
adrift in parks and glades of theory, with their creeds.
Content
to pay lip service to the fountain-head above, they sip its
waters, grimace, and add sweets or bitters to their taste.
"It's wonderful," they say. "We must organize a
party and bring others to this way." So they sip, and talk;
they praise with shallow phrase, then pause to rest, and
resting, sleep.
Still
TRUTH — glorious, wondrous, whole truth, wreathes its head
with hoary clouds, and calls with voice of thunder: Onward!
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Upward! Excelsior!!! Error shouts
derision, and stops the ear. With arrogance he hides his wounds
and walks another way. Tradition, richly garbed and stiff with
age, dares not attempt the rugged path. And weaklings, fearing
to look heavenward, support a course that others plan, and wish
themselves in better clime.
But
faith responds, and in the earnest seeker whets desire. He dares
look up. Toiling, sweating, step-by-step, he climbs. Struggling
across downed timbers on the slope, he pushes upward. Pressing
through the bush, slipping with the shale, he moves onward.
Onward, upward, higher and higher, his lungs afire, he climbs
with foot, and hand, with heart, and soul.
For
TRUTH he lives and, if needs be, dies. He asks no quarter, hears
no scorn. His hope is fastened on this goal, whose misty drapery
sometimes part and to his raptured eyes reveal its sun swept
crest.
He
needs no other prize than this, for here men humbly walk with
God.
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