Nor can that endure
Which has not its foundations upon love,
For love alone diminishes not, but shines with its own light,
Makes an end of discord, softens the fires of hate,
Restores peace in the world,
Brings together the sundered, redresses wrong,
Aids all and injures none.
And who so invokes its aid will find peace and safety,
And have no fear of future ill.
There is a church in Umbria, Little Portion, already old eight hundred years ago. Abandoned and in disrepair, it was called St. Mary of the Angels, for it was known to be the haunt of angels. Often at night the country people could hear angels singing there.
What was it like, to listen to the angels, to hear those mountain-fresh, those simple voices, poured out of the bare stones of Little Portion in hymns of joy? No one has told us. Perhaps its needs another language that we have still to learn, an altogether different language.