What is the far-reaching power of the Spirit?

In the dust under your feet, in the green slips by your side, there, in the hedges, in the ditches, above and under the ground, work of a comprehensive nature is going on minute by minute, unceasingly, and without definite periods of rest.

That is the comprehensive view because in nature there is no cessation of effort or labour at all. While the animals rest, the soil works on, and the growth of the trees is not retarded because the night is gathered in.

And then, in the fields, this idea is multiplied even more. There is a struggle, there is effort, there is a labour of a kind inconceivable to the physical mind, but, nevertheless, it goes on, and not in an inconsequential way—nothing is haphazard with the plans of God, but in a regular orderly manner, and although to you the seasons seem to change, the labour of the earth is unchanging—unchanging and unchangeable—because only by its efforts can man live.

To your physical eyes, there is the outward, and very often, the beautiful, and to the eyes of the spirit, there is that of which no man can speak—a network of arrangement, a most marvellous system worked out to perfection; to you, automatic, but to spiritual sight that sees the far-reaching power of the Spirit, the Spirit knows and understands that only the Mind of One could have conceived of anything so wonderful, and yet so straightforward and simple.

It is, of all things, the most difficult to rid the physical mind of that invisible, but permanent and insurmountable dividing line between life and so-called death. 

Again and again, you swing back to your early conception that this existence of yours upon earth is governed by laws entirely separate from those, which are in evidence in the life of the Spirit.

I want you to think about this most earnestly; I want you to try and take in more the real position of affairs. 

To use a crude illustration, it is just as though a child were taken blindfolded through a beautiful land of flowers, colour and changing scenes, and the companion who walks by her side tries, so far as he is able, to describe what lies on this side and on that. 

Many questions are asked, but his best powers seem totally inadequate to present the picture that lies around, and the child says—

But what does that look like, and how does this happen, and why is that? 

The questions go on and on, and the answers do not satisfy the mind, which wants to know so much; and again and again, fretting under the restrictions so imposed, the child cries out—

Take off the bandage and let me see for myself.

He who walks beside the child longs to uncover the eyes and grant a request so natural.