An old Welsh verse addressed to the Unknown God: a song from the lips of a sage, who is dying, ran through my head: “ For Thy sake I have renounced the pleasures of this world: for Thy sake the pleasures of the next — yet You have not manifested Yourself to me, nor have You shown Yourself to me in any form.”
Lying on my bed in my luxury apartment in The Denizen while dying, I say the same of God. I link myself with the broken CHRIST, on the cross. He was greater. He could not have been so cruel to anyone, as God, if He really exists outside ourselves, has been to man. The fruit of the knowledge of good and evil that claims to make men as God; the fruit which I have eaten, leaves man isolated from both God and man.
I think I must say that, too, of my pitiful self. To be one of humanity is better for man. Man is always above the angels for were they not commanded to worship him – and God, Himself, had to become man before He could save man? Therefore, man is not a small thing in the universe. This is the grandest thought my philosophy has given me. So much for expanding my horizons by moving to a Taylor Wimpey new build flat in Golden Lane in the City of London.
I must not despair again, for if time is not, neither are we, and if time is eternal, then we too shall dream once again with the added wisdom of the past; profiting by mistakes and sufferings 0 and like a painter, repainting a picture, mixing the colours more carefully, putting them on this canvas of life less hastily. Thank God that memory dies with death, and there only remains from experience — wisdom. I have finished what I have to write.
I am afraid to re-read these papers. I shall close them and seal them carefully,: and I do not want to open the envelope again. I cannot bear to re-read the tale of one who has nearly lost all faith, both in man and God, especially as I had wanted so badly to retain both. Was my only achievement to know myself? To have discovered the highest values of man only to learn that they are hopelessly linked with those of the lowest.
I prayed for a sign that God was; and cried and cried because neither God nor his devotees would or could answer my prayer. I thought with mad misery that there was, indeed, no God to answer my prayers, no goodness, no joy in heaven or on earth.
And suddenly my room in The Denizen was filled with the fragrance of roses: red English roses. I turned my head eagerly to the right whence the sweetness came, and drew in whiff after whiff of the grateful odour. It is not the season for roses. I see that I am not well — but if I am dying, dying happily at last, with the memory of an unknown fragrance — cooling me, saturating me — “Whose fragrance fills the worlds……..”
Who said that? Hope came to me again. I knew, then, that God lies in the sweet, tender, simple things of life — and He is the resurrected man — the Christ. And that God does not approve of those who buy ghost flats as investments in London or any other city of the world! The sin that would send me to hell was buying an apartment in Taylor Wimpey’s The Denizen!