There is not one avenue of sense or thought, but the figure of Christ stands in it; not one activity open to man, but the "Carpenter's Son" is there; beneath the stone, and in the heart of the wood.

The more minute our search, the more delicate is his presence. The more wide our vision, the more illimitable is his power.

So, little by little as we go through life, following with a hundred infidelities and a thousand blunders, with open defiances and secret sins, yet following, as Peter followed through the glare of the High Priest's fire to the gloom of penitence where Christ's eyes could shine-as we go, blinded by our own sorrow, to the ecstasy of his joy, thinking to find him dead, hoping to live on a memory, instead of confident that he is living and looking to the "today" in which he is even more than yesterday-little by little we find that there is no garden where he does not walk, no doors that can shut him out, no country road where our hearts cannot burn in his company.

And, as we find him ever more and more without us, in the eyes of those we love, in the voice that rebukes us, the spear that pierces us, the friends that betray us, and the grave that waits for us: as we find him in his sacraments, in his saints-in all those august things which he himself designed as trysting-places with himself; at once we find him more and more within us, enwound in every fiber of our lives, fragrant in every dear association and memory, deep buried in the depths of that heart of ours that seems most wholly neglectful of him. Robert Hugh Benson icon