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Religions are mostly Poems. The misery, the grief, the cruelty, which Man has had to suffer and still suffers, have brought him to a state which, ever since he has become conscious, has bordered upon despair. It may be said, that there is no evil, no moral or bodily awfulness, which has been spared Mankind during the countless ages of its existence.

During all these ages Man knew one thing which could not be doubted. It was this, that happiness existed. For, however much he had to suffer, during his life he had some moments of bliss. Was it not strange and cruel that these moments were so few and short ? And could a Supreme Being have meant them to be so for ever ? He could not bring himself to believe it. Deep down in the recesses of his Mind, where consciousness seldom penetrated, lay the treasures which only a chosen few were allowed to behold. When they had brought them to the surface, they looked like wondrous jewels. And they were cherished and adored and placed in Temples, and splendid books were written about them.

When Man feit despair coming upon him, to invade his Mind, to make it explode in self-destruction, he took the Book, and from it he poured its wondrous balm into his soul that bied from a thousand wounds.

And when, in meditation, he tried to fathom the

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