Mostly this we have of God—we have man.
Of God I know not; but this I know,
I can comprehend no being more wonderful than man.
Thou, thou, the ideal man,
Complete in body and dilate in spirit,
Be thou my god.
A worship new I sing—all gathers to the worship of man,
The new theologies bring forward man,
The divine pride of man in himself is the radical foundation of the new religion.
None has begun to think how divine he himself is,
The divine mind of man, the divinity of his mouth, or the shaping of his great hands.
It is not consistent with the reality of the soul to admit that there is anything in the known universe more divine than men and women,
The human soul, by its innate tests, must be the judge and standard of all things, even of the knowledge of God.
Never was average man, his soul, more like a god,
No condition is prohibited, not God’s or any.
A man realizes the venerable myth—he is a god walking the earth,
That is what the oldest and newest myths finally mean;
Unless the Christ you talk so much of is present in yourselves, here and now, there is no Christ.
The soul addresses God as his equal—as one who knows his own greatness—as a younger brother:
I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
Waiting my time to be one of the supremes,
The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as the best,
Who knows but I too shall in time be a god as pure and prodigious as any of them.
I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain,
The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms,
The lover true for whom I pine, waiting content, invisible yet, but certain.
The great Camerado—lover divine and perfect comrade—will be there, O soul,
When thou, the time achiev’d,
Surrounded, copest, frontest God, yieldest, the aim attain’d,
As, fill’d with friendship, love complete, the elder brother found,
The younger melts in fondness in his arms.
There is nothing in the universe any more divine than man,
Before the rage of whose passions the storms of heaven are but a breath,
Before whose caprices the lightning is slow and less fatal,
Man, microcosm of all creation’s wildness, terror, beauty, and power,
Man is a God; he walks over all.
Anyone may know that the great heroes and poets are divine,
But red, white, black, are all deific,
They who have eyes and can walk are divine, and the blind and lame are equally divine.
There is no god any more divine than myself,
I can yet comprehend nothing so tremendous as my own soul,
I am awed even by its works—
Not even God is so great to me as myself is great to me.
If the presence of God were made visible immediately before me, I could not abase myself,
If I walk with Jah in heaven and he assumes to be intrinsically a greater than I, it offends me, and I shall certainly withdraw from heaven.
O thou transcendent,
Thou pulse—thou motive of the stars, suns, systems, shedding forth universes,
How should I think, how breathe a single breath, how speak, if, out of myself, I could not launch, to those, superior universes, becoming already a creator?
Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from.
Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?
Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel’d with doctors and calculated close,
I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones,
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds,
The scent of these armpits aroma finer than prayer.
Magnifying and applying come I,
Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah,
Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself,
Bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see.
To be indeed a god! To be this incredible god I am!
To have gone forth among other gods, these men and women I love!
What gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand?
I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-color’d light,
From my hand from the brain of every man and woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever.
I claim for one of those framers over the way framing a house,
The young man there with rolled-up sleeves and sweat on his superb face,
More than Kronos, or Zeus his son, or Hercules his grandson;
Lads ahold of fire engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less to me than the gods of the antique wars,
Their foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames;
The mechanic’s wife with her babe at her nipple interceding for every person born;
The snag-tooth’d hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to come.
What do you suppose I would intimate to you in a hundred ways, but that man or woman is as good as God,
To grow through infinite time finally to be a supreme god himself or herself,
Acknowledging none greater, now or after death, than himself or herself.
Have you thought there could be but a single supreme?
There can be any number of supremes—
One does not countervail another any more than one eyesight countervails another, or one life countervails another.
That is blasphemous, petty, and infidel which denies any immortal soul to be eligible to advance onward to be as supreme as any.
The sum of all known reverence, the fountain of all naked theology, all religion, all worship, all the truth to which you are possibly eligible, I add up in you, whoever you are, and your inherent relations.
When the psalm sings instead of the singer,
When the script preaches instead of the preacher,
I intend to reach them my hand, and make as much of them as I do of men and women like you, O yourself!
O god! O divine average!
There is no god any more divine than yourself.