Every cradle asks us 'whence,' and
every coffin 'whither?' The poor barbarian, weeping above his dead, can
answer these questions as intelligently and satisfactorily as the robed
priest of the most authentic creed. The tearful ignorance of the one is
just as good as the learned and unmeaning words of the other. No man,
standing where the horizon of life has touched a grave, has any right to
prophesy a future filled with pain and tears. It may be that death gives
all there is of worth to live. If those we press and strain against our
hearts could never die, perhaps that love would wither from the earth.
May be this common fate treads from out the paths between our hearts the
weeds of selfishness and hate, and I had rather live and love where
death is king, than have eternal life where love is not. Another life is
naught, unless we know and love again the ones who love us here. They
who stand with breaking hearts around this little grave need have no
fear. The larger and the nobler faith in all that is and is to be, tells
us that death, even at its worst, is only perfect rest. We know that
through the common wants of life, the needs and duties of each hour,
their grief will lessen day by day, until at last these graves will be
to them a place of rest and peace, almost of joy. There is for them this
consolation, the dead do not suffer. If they live again, their lives
will surely be as good as ours. We have no fear; we are all the children
of the same mother, and the same fate awaits us all.
Pages:
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339