You have help―powerful―near―always available, but you have no reserve fund of merit on which you can draw at large at the close of a lifetime of debauchery, sensuality and crime―when you have drunk to the very dregs, the cup of physical enjoyment, and so go straight to the Holy of Holies and the Sanctuary of God.
There is no store of merit except that which you lay up for yourself by slow and laborious processes.
There is no entrance to the spheres of bliss except by the path, which the blessed themselves have trod―
No magical incantation by which the sinner may be transformed into the saint―the hardened reprobate, the debased sensualist, the purely physical animal become spiritualised, refined, glorified, and fitted for what we call heaven.
Far from us [spirit-lives] such blasphemous imaginations.
