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“Wickedness is begotten by disease and misery. Violence comes from poverty and hunger. The cruelty of oppression is when the strong tread the weak under their feet; the bitterness of pride is when the wise and learned despise the simple; the crown of folly is when the rich think they are gods, and the poor think that God is not.

“Hatred and envy and contempt are the curse of life. And for these there is no remedy save love–the will to give and to bless–the will of the King himself, who gives to all and is loving unto every man. But how shall the hearts of men be won to this will? How shall it enter into them and possess them? Even the gods that men fashion for themselves are cruel and proud and false and unjust. How shall the miracle be wrought in human nature to reveal the meaning of humanity? How shall men be made like God?”

At this question a deep hush fell around the circle, and every listener was still, even as the rustling leaves hang motionless when the light breeze falls away in the hour of sunset. Then through the silence, like the song of a far-away thrush from its hermitage in the forest, a voice came ringing: “I know it, I know it, I know it.”

Clear and sweet–clear as a ray of light, sweeter than the smallest silver bell that rang the hour of rest–was that slender voice floating on the odorous and translucent air. Nearer and nearer it came, echoing down the valley, “I know it, I know it, I know it!”

Then from between the rounded hills, among which the brook of Brighthopes is born, appeared a young angel, a little child, with flying hair of gold, and green wreaths twined about his shoulders, and fluttering hands that played upon the air and seemed to lift him so lightly that he had no need of wings. As thistle-down, blown by the wind, dances across the water, so he came along the little stream, singing clear above the murmur of the brook.

All the angels rose and turned to look at him with wondering eyes. Multitudes of others came flying swiftly to the place from which the strange, new song was sounding. Rank within rank, like a garden of living flowers, they stood along the sloping banks of the brook while the child-angel floated into the midst of them, singing:

“I know it, I know it, I know it! Man shall be made like God because the Son of God shall become a man.”

At this all the angels looked at one another with amazement, and gathered more closely about the child-angel, as those who hear wonderful news.

“How can this be?” they asked. “How is it possible that the Son of God should be a man?”

“I do not know,” said the young angel. “I only know that it is to be.”

“But if he becomes a man,” said Raphael, “he will be at the mercy of men; the cruel and the wicked will have power upon him; he will suffer.”

“I know it,” answered the young angel, “and by suffering he will understand the meaning of all sorrow and pain; and he will be able to comfort every one who cries; and his own tears will be for the healing of sad hearts; and those who are healed by him will learn for his sake to be kind to each other.”

“But if the Son of God is a true man,” said Uriel, “he must first be a child, simple, and lowly, and helpless. It may be that he will never gain the learning of the schools. The masters of earthly wisdom will despise him and speak scorn of him.”

“I know it,” said the young angel, “but in meekness will he answer them; and to those who become as little children he will give the heavenly wisdom that comes, without seeking, to the pure and gentle of heart.”