OU DOS ELFOS SE BEM QUE HADLEIGH ....WATERLOO ....WATER MEADOW ....
LENNOX LAVAWN IN GAEL LEAVHAN LEVEN LAUNE ELM ULM ULMEIRO OOLM
GARLOCH - YARROW -YAIR ÁSPERO RUGOSKI ....THE ANOME
The Fatal Flaw: Atheism Against Itself
Does it not seem strange that these patrons of truth have no actual base for the truth they espouse? Should not these champions of reason offer some plausible foundation for the rational thought they employ? Who can but doubt these adversaries of God who cannot even account for the moral sense by which they denounce Him? What shall we say of masters of science who would deprive science of the undergirding of truth and reason?
These
are not lords of their own domain, as they might suppose. They are
squatters on a land belonging to another--mere pretenders, plagiarizers
of values not their own. Like the Prodigal Son, they have taken the
resources bequeathed by a loving Father and squandered them in futile
meanderings.
No one should take these men as seriously as they take themselves. They are not reaching for the far horizon line. Rather they are trapped in their tiny, cramped valley called physicality and have chosen to ignore every other doorway to reality.
They are not men reaching for the stars.
They are rather like those who wade through muck and mire, stirring up more as they go.
No one should take these men as seriously as they take themselves. They are not reaching for the far horizon line. Rather they are trapped in their tiny, cramped valley called physicality and have chosen to ignore every other doorway to reality.
They are not men reaching for the stars.
They are rather like those who wade through muck and mire, stirring up more as they go.
Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil,
The peasant rests him from his toil,
And, dying, bids his bones be laid,
Where erst his simple fathers pray'd.
If age had tamed the passions' strife,
And fate had cut my ties to life,
Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell,
And rear again the chaplain's cell,
Like that same peaceful hermitage,
Where Milton long'd to spend his age.
'Twere sweet to mark the setting day,
On Bourhope's lonely top decay ;
And, as it faint and feeble died,
On the broad lake, and mountain's side,
To say, " Thus pleasures fade away ;
Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay,
And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey ;"
Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin'd tower,
And think on Yarrow's faded Flower :
And when that mountain-sound I heard,
Which bids us be for storm prepared,
The distant rustling of his wings,
As up his force the Tempest brings,
'Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave,
To sit upon the Wizard's grave ;
That Wizard-Priest's, whose bones are thrust
From company of holy dust ;
On which no sunbeam ever shines
(So superstition's creed divines)
