No matter how infidel philosophers may regard the Bible; they may say that Genesis is awry, and that the Psalms are more than half bitter imprecations, and the Prophecies only the phantasies of brain-bewildered men, and the Gospels weak laudations of an impostor, and the Epistles but the letters of a mad Jew, and that the whole book has had its day; I shall cling to it until they show me a better revelation. The Bible emptied, effete, worn out! 1/ all the wisest of the world were placed man to man, they could not sound the shallowest depth of the Gospel of John.
O philosophers! break the shell, and fly out, and let me hear how you can sing. Not of passion—I know that already; not of wordly power—I hear that everywhere; but teach me, through your song, how to find joy in sorrow, strength, in weakness, and light in darkest days; how to bear buffeting and scorn, how to welcome death, and to pass through its ministration into the sphere of life; and this not for me only, but for the whole world that groans and travails in pain; and until you can do this, speak not to me of a better revelation.—IBID.
