Therefore it is that man, wounded, bleeding, burdened, staggering, fumbles at the buckles that bind the weight of his armor on his back, longing to cast it off, and wondering if they that take the sword must after all perish by the sword.
Shall he then throw away all his weapons of conquest and defense?
There is one armor that the world of men and women, as a world, has never yet put on. The churches have long bungled with its fastenings, but the world has gone unfended, and few have been those in whose hands the mystical sword of the spirit has shone with daily use.
This armor, waiting to be worn, is the armor of brotherhood and sacrifice, the sword of unselfishness, a conquering sword, with the power, when used, to unite the world in love. And there are none who may not put it on.
A dream of the poets? Yes. But there are dreams that come true. Even now the poet's voice is merged and drowned in the universal cry, "Disarm." The prudent and fearful hold back, and ask, "Disarm, and stand defenseless?" The answer comes, to all a single answer, "Disarm and arm again, with a new armor, not yet tried."
