I believe in God.

If I wanted to know all about Russia (which I should like to), and could not go there - for one reason because I haven’t got enough money, am broke, skint, up the spout; for another because I must remain in Haggerston, at any rate while there’s a war on - I should put on my hat, walk down Dunloe Street, turn to the right by The Brunswick Arms on which the oil- bomb fell, pass the Wardens’ Post and the ruins of St. Mary’s Church, turn to the left along Laburnum Street (where there are no laburnum trees), and go to the public library in Kingsland Road, nearly opposite burned-out St. Columba’s clergy-house. There I should ask Mr. Jackson for books about Russia; and I should take them home and read them.

If I want to know (as of course I do) all that I can about God - more than I can find out from Nature, Angels, and Conscience - I read his book about himself, The Holy Bible. It is a large book: in fact it is sixty-six books, written at different times for God by holy men, collected into one book (“bible” is Greek for “book”).

The copy which my godfather gave me when I was baptised - and, so they say, screamed and kicked all the time - is in small print; but it has two thousand pages. So it is not to be read in a hurry, if one wants to know and understand it.

All great Christians, wherever they lived, have been people who knew and loved the Bible. It is an international book, printed in every language. It is the good book; God’s own history-book about himself for all who want to know all there is to be known about him, until they reach heaven, are with him for ever, and so need no more books about him (St. John 20, 30 and 31).

It is impossible to read it without saying I believe in God.