A finite subect cannot love, nor a finite object be loved. When the object of the love of a man is dying every moment, and his mind is constatly changing as he grows, what external love can you find to to expect in the world? There cannot be any real love but in God, why then all thes love? These are mere stages. There is apower behind implelling us forward, we do not know where to seek for the real objects, but this love is sending us forward in search of it. Again and again we find out our mistakes. We grasp something, and find it slips though our fingers and then we grasp something else. Thus on and on we go, till at last comes light: we come to God, the one who loves. His love knows no change, and is ever ready to take us in. How long would any one of you bear with me if I injured you? He in whose mind is no anger, hatred or envy, who never loses his balance, dies or is born, who is he but God?
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