As one or the other triumphs, he exhibits the passions of a demon or the attributes of a God.
Could we see this hidden war field, would it not be grand?
What were the plains of Marathon, the pass of Thermopylae, or Cannae paved with golden rings, compared to it?
Let us for a moment imagine the scene.

Not the moment of struggle, but the pause that succeeds.

The angels of good have triumphed, and though the plumage of their wings may droop, they are white and dazzling so as no "fuller of earth could whiten them." The moonlight of peace rests upon the battle field, where evil passions lie wounded and trampled under feet.

Strains of victorious music float in the air; but it comes from those who have triumphed in the conflict and entered into rest, those who behold the conflict from afar.

It is so still, that one can almost hear the trees of Paradise rustle in the ambrosial gales of heaven.
Is this poetry?
Is it sacrilege?
If so, forgive me, thou great Inspirer of thought,--"my spirit would fain not wander from thee.".