Or else behold the chorus, rising tier upon tier, and culminating in the giant organ. But their thunder is just hushed.
Some Liliputian figure, male or female, as the case may be, rises on its little legs amid the great Liliputian throng, and through the sacred stillness there peals forth a perfect voice (by no means Liliputian). It bids us “Rest in the Lord,” or else it tells us that “He was despised and rejected of men”; but, again, what matter the words? They are almost a hinderance, beautiful though they be.
The hardened soul melts at the tones of the singer, at the unspeakable pathos of the sounds that cannot lie; one almost believes—one believes at least in the belief of others. At last one understands, and is purged of intolerance and cynical contempt, and would kneel with the res
