sands at our feet, and the
ships of those that depart go out into the mist, and we wonder whither,
what has doubt done, what has investigation done, touching this great
hope of ours, as we face that which we speak of as the Unknown? So far
as the old-time and traditional belief is concerned, I hold that doubt
has been of infinite and unspeakable service. Certainly, I could rather
have no belief at all than the old belief. Certainly, I would rather
sink into unconsciousness and eternal sleep than wake to watch over the
battlements of heaven the ascent of the smoke of the torment that goeth
up forever and ever. But is there any rational ground for hope still? I
cannot stop this morning even to suggest to you the grounds for the
assertion that I am about to make. I believe that, if we have not
already demonstrated eternal life, we are on the eve of such
demonstration. I believe that another continent is to be discovered as
veritably as Columbus discovered this New World. As he, as he neared
the shore, saw floating tokens upon the waters that indicated to him
that land was not far away, so I believe that tokens are all about us
of this other country, which is not a future, but only a present,
unseen and unknown to the most of us.

But grant, if you will, that that is not to be attained, modern
investigation and doubt have done nothing to touch the grounds of the
great human hope that springs forever in the breast, that hope which is
born of love, born of trust, born of our dreams, born of our yearning
towards the land whither our dear ones have departed.

Let me read you just a few lines of challenge to those that would raise
a question as to the reality of this belief:

What is this mystic, wondrous hope in me, That, when no star from out
the darkness bore Gives promise of the coming of the morn, When all
life seems a pathless mystery Through which tear-blinded eyes no way
can see; When illness comes, and life grows most forlorn, Still dares
to laugh the last dread threat to scorn, And proudly cries, Death is
not, shall not be? I wonder at myself! Tell me, O Death, If that thou
rul'st the earth, if "dust to dust" Shall be the end of love and hope
and strife, From what rare land is blown this living breath That shapes
itself to whispers of strong trust, And tells the lie, if 'tis a lie,
of life? Where did this wondrous dream come from? How does it grow as
the world grows?

It must be a whisper of this eternal Being to o