There must be always remaining in everyone's life some place for the singing of angels, some place for that which in itself is breathlessly beautiful, and by an inherent prerogative, throws all the rest of life into a new and creative relatedness, something that gathers up in itself all the freshets of experience from drab and commonplace areas of living and glows in one bright white light of penetrating beauty and meaning—then passes. The commonplace is shot through with new glory; old burdens become lighter, deep and ancient wounds lose much of their old, old hurting. A crown is placed over our heads that for the rest of our lives we are trying to grow tall enough to wear. Despite all the crassness of life, despite all the hardness of life, despite all the harsh discords of life, life is saved by the singing of angels.
If to anyone the tumult of the flesh grew silent,
silent the images of earth and sea and air;
and if the heavens grew silent,
and the very soul grew silent to herself;
if all dreams and images grew silent,
and every tongue and every symbol --
everything that passes away ...
and in their silence You spoke to us,
not by them, but You yourself;
so that we should hear Your Word,
not by any tongue of the flesh,
not in the voices of an angel,
not in the sound of thunder,
nor in the darkness of a parable --
but that we should hear You ...
should hear You and not them.