All ye are Christ's and Christ is God.—Saint Paul

High in the mountains,
above the cities
where all was calm—peaceful—
a golden moon shone down
lighting bare branches and fallen leaves—
lighting the dark pines—

It shone on the lake, in a valley in the mountains,
making golden streaks upon the waters—

Christ walked on earth that night and stopped near the shore of the lake

He looked into its depths—
at the sky—at the moon—
and felt the cold night air on His Face.

A great sadness had overcome Him.

God had reflected a corner of Heaven to men on Earth—
and they did not pause in pleasure or in sorrow—
no one felt the beauty of those mountains.

He stood alone by the lake—
again looked into its depths—

What peace—what beauty—

Down below—
men grappled with death
not beautiful death
but hatred—lust—filled their souls.

They killed—were killed——

The agonizing sorrow of Gethsemane again swept over Christ, as He stood by the Lake
and wondered if men would ever be worthy of the gift of life—
if they would ever make it beautiful—and not terrible—

They were endowed with a certain freedom—
they used it to make wars—
to think of barbarous machines that would kill and torture—

The fiendish cries of battle were in the great valley below—

Cannons roared
and flashed a red glare into the sky—

Tears filled His eyes as He thought of the unprepared souls which were being hurled into Eternity—
on both sides of the battle line—

The broken homes—

His heart was breaking in sorrow for the people He loved so well—

Moon streaks were playing on the water—

The cold night air blew through the trees.Christ wept—
men surely were not worthy of life—
of the beauty which filled the world—

He turned away—
and still hearing the noise of battle—
walked under the pines—

He came upon a small cabin—
sheltered by tall trees—
the roof was covered by fallen leaves—
a light shone from the window.

Inside—a babe slept in its cradle—
and the mother gently rocked it—
singing a soft lullaby—

Her thoughts were with him, in the valley below—battling in the iron clutch of war—

Scarcely knowing for what—or for whom he fought—

She kissed her babe
and knelt down before its cradle—

Oh Christ—
help me in my hour of need.
protect him—
protect my child—

The sorrow of Christ had gone—

The mother's soul leaned to Him—
for help—
unconsciously she had helped Him—
on that night of beauty in the mountains—
when below—the world was being torn—ravaged—

The noise of battle died away from Him—

He heard only the prayer—
the soft breathing of the child and the whispering of
the trees—

He gathered the mother's prayer into His heart
and blessed her as He walked away

Yes—men were worthy—
this hysteria of war would pass

Peace and love would come.