Part 1 — CHAPTER III.
Reading edition
CLOSING REFLECTIONS.
Thus it has pleased our Heavenly Father to "take away from us the desire of our eyes, with a stroke." The first impression of such a loss is that of amazement—overwhelming and bewildering the soul, and with strange horror, destroying for a time, the power to feel. "Deep calleth unto deep—all thy waves, and billows have gone over me." Such is the abyss of grief! At such a time, our part is "to be still"—sitting, like the Marys, "over against the sepulchre."
When the disciples of John lost their earthly Master, "they came and took the body, and buried it, and went and told Jesus." This ought to be the first act of every mourner, to tell it unto Jesus. With him we shall find both sympathy and support. And more than this: He resolves the death of our friends into his own gracious sovereignty, when he calls it, "the coming of the Son of Man." Death loses its terror when it becomes his act of grace. "The death of his saints is precious in his sight," and is always ordered with a supreme regard to their blessedness, and his glory. So that the feeblest of his dying children may confidently say, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him." "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me."
There is a feeling about the death of our friends, which is made up in part of unbelief, and in part of that tender regard which is produced by their dependence on us through life. Those endearing relations which make us their protectors, and supports, send their deep sympathies even into the grave. Who of us that is a husband, or a parent, that does not feel the horror of the separation aggravated by the spectacle of our helpless kindred struggling alone in mortal strife with "the king of terrors"? We, to whom they have always looked for succour, are then as helpless as they, in their extremest need. We cannot even share their agony. It is this which gives a nameless anguish to such a moment.[8]
But it is because we forget that "when father and mother," and all they most depended on in life, "forsake them, then the Lord doth take them up." The Christian is never so little alone as on the verge of heaven. The Lord of life is there. Underneath are the everlasting arms; and through all the terrors of the grave; and above all the tumult of that last hour, the Shepherd's voice is heard, saying—"It is I—be not afraid." While some pass over Jordan on the wing, and some struggle through the waves, yet all safely pass. Not one of them shall perish, but each appear in Zion before God.
It adds tenderness and force to these consoling hopes, that Jesus once "tasted death himself." It moves us, that "Jesus wept." But it gives a new nature to death, that Jesus died! For while the merit of his death takes the sting from ours, his presence in the tomb dispels all its terrors. Therefore, since Jesus died, let us consent to death; and surrender at his call those most dear to us.
The graves of all his saints he blest, And softened every bed— Where should the dying members rest, But with their dying head!
It must be sweet to lie in that grave which he has hallowed by his presence among the dead.
One of the considerations which should make us acquiesce in the removal of our beloved friends who die in the Lord, is this—that we are suffering for their sakes; and that they could not be blessed without our sufferings. For their death, (the dread cause of all our grief,) was necessary to their perfect and eternal blessedness. This thought ought to soften every pang. If we really love them, and if our sacrifices for them while they were here below, were the fruit of our love, then we have only to remember that this is one prolonged, supreme sacrifice for their sakes.—This reflection if properly pursued, would often turn our mourning into gladness.[9] And then, if this weight of sorrow that is laid on us may but be duly improved and meekly borne; if it may not only mark the bliss of our friends begun on high, but be made by a wise and good God conducive to our growth in grace—it will have in it the pledge of our everlasting re-union in heaven; and thus be an affliction doubly blessed.
But the silencing, yea, elevating thought of all is, that it is for Jesus' sake, we are called to suffer. "The Master is come and called for her." It is indeed the richest of our earthly treasures. Our own life were a far lighter offering. But for that reason we honour him the more. It is our Isaac that God calls for; and it is then indeed we honour God when we can offer like Abraham. We shall receive the offering back, if not as soon, as certainly—and at no distant day! When, therefore, He who laid down his life for us, asks for our richest gift, let us not call him a hard master, but give without a murmur.
The death of our friends should have the effect of bringing Heaven nearer to us. We ought to cultivate, if we may so speak, domestic views of that blessed world to which we are so much honoured as to have sent up angels from our households. While all superstitious emotions are carefully to be quelled, we are permitted to draw very nigh to them. We may cherish their image in our memories and hearts; we still belong to the same great communion—and all are members of that body of which Jesus is the head. "As death does not separate from the Lord, neither does it divide the saints from one another. Our spirit and theirs daily meet at the one throne—they to praise, we to pray; therefore, in that sense, though we are absent in body, we are present in spirit."
And the distance which lies between them and us is daily growing less. How swiftly we travel, yea, fly, in all the speed of time! It may not be an inappropriate close to these meditations, to insert the family hymn, with which the remnant of a bereaved household often close the day, and comfort each others' hearts, at the hour when we feel most desolate.
Come let us join our friends above, That have obtained the prize; And on the eagle wings of love, To joy celestial rise. Let saints below his praises sing, With those to glory gone; For all the servants of our King, In heaven and earth are one. One family, we dwell in him, One church above, beneath: Though now divided by the stream, The narrow stream of death. One army of the living God, To his commands we bow; Part of the host have crossed the flood, And part are crossing now. Ten thousand to their endless home, This solemn moment fly; And we are to the margin come, And soon expect to die. Dear Saviour, be our constant guide, Then when the word is given, Bid the cold waves of death divide, And land us safe in heaven.
And now, in bringing to a close these very imperfect notices of a beloved saint of God, it is proper to say, that much more might truly have been added in reference to many points of her character, that would have been proper, and interesting: as for example, her intellectual endowments; her extensive acquirements; her domestic life; her personal accomplishments. But we fear to indulge our feelings. Nor is it needful. For it was her Christian character mainly which we designed to illustrate. Her love for the Redeemer, and her sacrifices for his sake, were the jewels which adorned her on earth, and which lose not their lustre in death. It was the glory of all those qualities which so eminently fitted her to attract the admiration of this world, that she meekly laid them at the Saviour's feet. There also, we desire to leave this humble tribute to one whose "sun went down while it was yet day," praying that he who thus early fitted her for heaven, may by these poor means prolong her usefulness, and bless her memory on earth.