The Prophet

by Kahlil Gibran

It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.

And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

You often say, “I would give, but only to the deserving.” The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture. They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.

And he alone is great who turns the voice of the wind into a song made sweeter by his own loving.

And if there come the singers and the dancers and the flute players, – buy of their gifts also. For they too are gatherers of fruit and frankincense, and that which they bring, though fashioned of dreams, is raiment and food for your soul.

Your hearts know in silence the secrets of the days and the nights. But your ears thirst for the sound of your heart’s knowledge.

Who can separate his faith from his actions, or his belief from his occupations? Who can spread his hours before him, saying, “This for God and this for myself; “This for my soul and this other for my body”? All your hours are wings that beat through space from self to self. He who wears his morality but as his best garment were better naked.

And if you would know God, be not therefore a solver of riddles. Rather look about you and you shall see Him playing with your children. And look into space; you shall see Him walking in the cloud, outstretching His arms in the lightning and descending in rain. You shall see Him smiling in flowers, then rising and waving His hands in trees.