walls of Zion, and the true Christian Scientist at the foot of the mount of revelation, shall look up with shouts and thanksgiving, — that God's law, as in divine Science, shall be finally understood; and the gospel of glad tidings bring “on earth peace, good will toward men.”
The Cry of Christmas-tide
Metaphysics, not physics, enables us to stand erect on sublime heights, surveying the immeasurable universe of Mind, peering into the cause which governs all effects, while we are strong in the unity of God and man. There is “method” in the “madness” of this system, — since madness it seems to many onlookers. This method sits serene at the portals of the temple of thought, while the leaders of materialistic schools indulge in mad antics. Metaphysical healing seeks a wisdom that is higher than a rhubarb tincture or an ipecacuanha pill. This method is devout enough to trust Christ more than it does drugs.
Meekly we kneel at our Master's feet, for even a crumb that falleth from his table. We are hungry for Love, for the white-winged charity that heals and saves; we are tired of theoretic husks, — as tired as was the prodigal son of the carobs which he shared with the swine, to whom he fed that wholesome but unattractive food. Like him, we would find our Father's house again — the perfect and eternal Principle of man. We thirst for inspiring wine from the vine which our Father tends. We crave the privilege of saying to the sick, when their
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