A poem that expresses a love of the Divine.

April 1st, 1915.

Received by James Padgett.

Washington D.C.

I am here, your old Prof:

Yes, we are very happy, but she is more so than I. She has more love in her soul. She loves you very much and wants to write to you some time and tell you what a wonderful medium you are and how much happiness you give to all of us.

She is very beautiful and loving. She is not so beautiful and loving as your wife and very few spirits are.

Well, your mother is more beautiful still, but she is an exception.

Oh she is the most beautiful of all and so wise and good.

Yes, I was and thought it a wonderful production. She wrote it herself, no masculine mind had anything to do with it, as your friend remarked. My, she knows more of the things pertaining to the higher spiritual life than any male spirit I know of except Jesus. He, of course, is beyond comparison. But beside him I don’t know of any masculine spirit who is the equal of your grandmother in her knowledge of these spiritual things.

We all recognize this and submit our judgments to hers and besides she is so good and loving.

Well, it is so late tonight, I will not write very much but I am now prepared to write you my discourse on certain matters as I promised you some time ago. And when you say that you are ready I shall be glad to do so.

Yes, that will be best and you shall have it in minute detail as I have taken great pains to compose the best that I know how.

Yes, that was written when I had not my present spiritual development and the things then written are not of very much interest to me now. Yet there are some beautiful thoughts in the book.

Well, I will try.

Oh soul of mine when I realize the wonderful capacity that you have for loving and telling of your love, I stand in mute adoration of your great Creator.

You are the greatest creature of His Wisdom and Love and when in all your fullness, you possess the wonderful Love of the Father, Divinity is yours.

You possess the wonderful love of the Father, divinity is yours, and immortality is yours.

So let my love be –

I don’t seem to be able to write more. Let me try some other time when you are in better condition. No, I will complete it the next time I write. You see it is not in verse, but in prose which I like better for the meaning can be more plainly expressed.

But I will write it the next time I come.

Well, goodnight, my dear friend and brother,

Your own true friend,

Joseph Salyards