Our last chapter concluded with the words, "For childhood and youth are
vanity": that is, childhood proves the emptiness of all "beneath the
sun," as well as old age. The heart of the child has the same
needs--the same capacity in kind--as that of the aged. _It needs God_.
Unless it knows Him, and His love is there, it is empty; and, in its
fleeting character, childhood proves its vanity. But this makes us
quite sure that if childhood can feel the need, then God has, in His
wide grace, _met the need_; nor is that early life to be debarred from
the provision that He has made for it. There are then the same
_possibilities_ of filling the heart and life of the young child with
that divine love that fills every void, and turns the cry of "Vanity"
into the Song of Praise: "Yea, out of the mouth of babes and sucklings
Thou hast perfected praise."
But our writer is by no means able thus to touch any chord in the young
heart that shall vibrate with the music of praise. Such as he has,
however, he gives us: "Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy
youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou
shalt say, I have no pleasure in them."
This counsel must not be separated from the context. It is based
absolutely and altogether on what has now been discerned: for not only
is our writer a man of the acutest intelligence, but he evidently
possesses the highest qualities of moral courage. He shirks no
question, closes his eyes to no fact, and least of all to that awful
fact of man's compulsory departure from this scene which is called
"death." But following on, he has found that even this cannot possibly
be all; there must be a _judgment_ that shall follow this present life.
It is in view of this he counsels "Remember thy Creator in the days of
thy youth," whilst the effect of time is to mature, and not destroy,
the powers He has given thee: for not forever will life's enjoyment
last; old age comes surely, and He who made thee, holds thy spirit in
His hand, so that whilst the body may return to dust, the spirit must
return to Him who gave it.
We will only pause for a moment again to admire the glorious elevation
of this counsel. How good were it if the remembrance of a Creator-God,
to whom all are accountable, could tone, with out quenching, the fire
and energy of youthful years, and lead in the clean paths of
righteousness. But, alas, how inadequate to meet the actual state of
things. Solomon himself shall serve to illustrate the utter inadequacy
of his own counsel. What comfort or hope could he extract from it?
His were now already the years in which he must say "I have no pleasure
in them." A more modern poet might have voiced his cry,--
"My age is in the yellow leaf,
The bud, the fruit of 'life,' is gone:
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Remain alone!"
His youth was no more: its bright days were forever past, never to be
restored. What remains, then, for Solomon, and the myriads like him?
What shall efface the memory of those wasted years, or what shall give
a quiet peace, in view of the fast-coming harvest of that wild sowing?
Can Reason--can any human Wisdom--find any satisfactory answer to these
weighty questions? _None_!
Verses 2 to 7 beautifully and poetically depict the fall of the city of
man's body under the slow but sure siege of the forces of Time.
Gradually, but without one moment's pause, the trenches approach the
walls. Outwork after outwork falls into the enemy's hands, until he is
victor over all, and the citadel itself is taken.
Verse 2.--First, clouds come over the spirit: the joyousness of life is
dulled,--the exuberance of youth is quenched. Sorrow follows quickly
on the heel of sorrow,--"clouds return after rain." Those waves that
youth's light bark rode gallantly and with exhilaration, now flood the
laboring vessel and shut out the light--the joy--of life.
Verse 3.--Then the hands (the keepers of the house) tremble with
weakness, and the once strong men (the knees) now feeble, bend under
the weight of the body they have so long borne. The few teeth
(grinders) that may remain fail to do their required service. Time's
finger touches, too, those watchers from the turret-windows (the eyes):
shade after shade falls over them; till, like slain sentinels that drop
at their posts, they look out again never-more.
Verse 4.--Closer still the enemy presses, till the close-beleaguered
fortress is shut out from all communication with the outer world; "the
doors are shut in the streets"; the ears are dulled to all sounds.
Even the grinding of the mill,[1] which in an eastern house rarely
ceases, reaches him but as a low murmur, though it be really as loud as
the shrill piping of a bird, and all the sweet melodies of song are no
longer to be enjoyed.
Verse 5.--Time's sappers, too, are busily at work, although unseen,
till the effect of their mining becomes evident in the alarm that is
felt at the slightest need of exertion. The white head, too, tells its
tale, and adds its testimony to the general decay. The least weight is
as a heavy burden; nor can the failing appetite be again awakened. The
man is going to his age-long home[2]; for now those four seats of life
are invaded and broken up--spinal-cord, brain, heart, and blood,--till
at length body and spirit part company, each going whence it
came;--that, to its kindred dust; this, to the God who gave it.
Thus to the high wisdom of Solomon man is no mere beast, after all. He
may not penetrate the Beyond to describe that "age-long home," but
never of the _beast_ would he say "the spirit to God who gave it." But
his very wisdom again leads us to the most transcendent need of _more_.
To tell us this, is to lead us up a mountain-height, to a bridgeless
abyss which we have to cross, without having a plank or even a thread
to help us. To God the spirit goes,--to God who gave it,--to Whom,
then, it is responsible. But in what condition? Is it conscious
still, or does it lose consciousness as in a deep sleep? Where does it
now abide? How can it endure the searching Light--the infinite
holiness and purity--of the God to whom it goes? How shall it give
account for the wasted years? How answer for the myriad sins of life?
How reap what has been sown? Silence here--no answer here--is awful
indeed,--is _maddening_; and if reason does still hold her seat, then
"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity," is alone consistent with the
fearful silence to such questions, and the scene is fitly ended by a
groan.
Deep even unto the shadow of death is the gloom. Every syllable of
this last sad wail is as a funeral knell to all our hopes, tolling
mournfully; and, like a passing bell, attending _them_, too, to their
"age-long home"!
Oh, well for us if we have heard a clearer Voice than that of poor
feeble human Reason break in upon the silence, and, with a blessed,
perfect, lovely combination of Wisdom and Love, of Authority and
Tenderness, of Truth and Grace, give soul-satisfying answers to all our
questionings.
Then may we rejoice, if grace permit, with joy unspeakable; and, even
in the gloom of this sad scene, lift heart and voice in a shout of
victory. We, too, know what it is for the body thus to perish. We,
too, though redeemed, still await the redemption of the body, which in
the Christian is still subject to the same ravages of time,--sickness,
disease, pain, suffering, decay. But a gracious Revelation has taught
us a secret that Ecclesiastes never guessed at; and we may sing, even
with the fall of Nature's walls about us, "Though our outward man
perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day." Yea, every apparent
victory of the enemy is now only to be answered with a "new song" of
joyful praise.
It is true that, "under the sun," the clouds return after the rain;
and, because it is true, we turn to that firmament of faith where our
Lord Jesus is both Sun and Star, and where the light ever "shineth more
and more unto perfect day."
_Let_ the keepers tremble, and the strong men bow themselves. We may
now lean upon another and an everlasting Arm, and know another Strength
which is even _perfected_ in this very weakness.
The grinders may cease because they are few; but their loss cannot
prevent our feeding ever more and more heartily and to the fill on
God's Bread of Life.
_Let_ those that look out of the windows be darkened: the inward eye
becomes the more accustomed to another--purer, clearer--light; and we
see "that which is invisible," and seeing, we hopefully sing--
"City of the pearl-bright portal,
City of the jasper wall,
City of the golden pavement,
Seat of endless festival,--
City of Jehovah, Salera,
City of eternity,
To thy bridal-hall of gladness,
From this prison would I flee,--
Heir of glory,
That shall be for thee and me!"
_Let_ doors be shut in the streets, and _let_ all the daughters of
music be brought low, so that the Babel of this world's discord be
excluded, and so that the Lord Himself be on the _inside_ of the closed
door, we may the more undistractedly enjoy the _supper of our life_
with Him, and He (the blessed, gracious One!) with us. Then naught can
prevent His Voice being heard, whilst the more sweet and clear (though
still ever faint, perhaps) may the echo to that Voice arise in melody
within the heart, where God Himself is the gracious Listener!
_Let_ fears be in the way, we know a Love than can dispel all fear and
give a new and holy boldness even in full view of all the solemn
verities of eternity; for it is grounded on the perfect accepted work
of a divine Redeemer--the faithfulness of a divine Word.
The very hoary head becomes not merely the witness of decay, and of a
life fast passing; but the "almond-tree" has another, brighter meaning
now: it is a figure of that "crown of life" which in the new-creation
scene awaits the redeemed.
If appetite fail here, the more the inward longing, and the
satisfaction that ever goes hand in hand with it, may abound; and the
inward man thus be strengthened and enlarged so as to have greater
capacity for the enjoyment of those pleasures that are "at God's right
hand for evermore."
Till at length the earthly house of this tabernacle may be dissolved.
Dust may still return to dust, and there await, what all Creation
awaits--the glorious resurrection, its redemption. Whilst the
spirit--yes, what of the spirit? To God who gave it? Ah, far better:
to God who loved and redeemed it,--to Him who has so cleansed it by His
own blood, that the very Light of God can detect no stain of sin upon
it, even though it be the chief of sinners. So amid the ruins of this
earthly tabernacle may the triumphant song ascend above the snapping of
cords, the breaking of golden bowls and pitchers, the very crash of
nature's citadel: "Oh, death, where is thy sting? Oh, grave, where is
thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the
law. But thanks be to God that giveth us the victory through our Lord
Jesus Christ."
This meets--meets fully, meets satisfactorily--the need. Now none will
deny that this need is deep,--_real_. Hence it can be no mere
sentiment, no airy speculation, no poetical imagination, no cunningly
devised fable that can meet that need. _The remedy must be as real as
the disease, or it avails nothing_. No phantom key may loosen so
hard-closed a lock as this: it must be real, and be made for it. For
suppose we find a lock of such delicate and complicated construction
that no key that can be made will adapt itself to all its windings.
Many skilled men have tried their hands and failed,--till at length the
wisest of all attempts it, and even he in despair cries "vanity." Then
another key is put into our hands by One who claims to have made the
very lock we have found. We apply it, and its intricacies meet every
corresponding intricacy; its flanges fill every chamber, and we open it
with perfect facility. What is the reasonable, necessary conclusion?
We say--and rightly, unavoidably say--"He who made the lock must have
made the key. His claim is just: they have been made by one maker."
So by the perfect rest it brings to the awakened conscience--by the
quiet calm it brings to the troubled mind--by the warm love that it
reveals to the craving heart--by the pure light that it sheds in
satisfactory answer to all the deep questions of the spirit--by the
unceasing unfoldings of depths of perfect transcendent wisdom--by its
admirable unity in variety--by the holy, righteous settlement of sin,
worthy of a holy, righteous God--by the peace it gives, even in view of
wasted years and the wild sowing of the past--by the joy it maintains
even in view of the trials and sorrows of the present--by the hope with
which it inspires the future;--by all these we know that our key (the
precious Word that God has put into our hands) is a reality indeed, and
as far above the powers of Reason as the heavens are above the earth,
therefore necessarily--incontestably--DIVINE!
This brings us to the concluding words of our book. Now who has been
leading us all through these exercises? A disappointed sensualist? A
gloomy stoic? A cynic--selfish, depressed? Not at all. Distinctly a
wise man;--wise, for he gives that unequivocal proof of wisdom, in that
he cares for others. It is the wise who ever seek to "win souls," "to
turn many to righteousness." "Because the preacher was wise, he still
_taught the people knowledge_." No cynic is Ecclesiastes. His
sympathies are still keen; he knows well and truly the needs of those
to whom he ministers: knows too, how man's wretched heart ever rejects
its own blessing; so, in true wisdom, he seeks "acceptable words":
endeavoring to sweeten the medicine he gives, clothes his counsel in
"words of delight" (margin). Thus here we find all the "words of
delight" that human wisdom _can_ find, in view of life in all its
aspects from youth to old age.
For whilst it is certainly difficult satisfactorily to trace the order
in detail in the book,--and perhaps this is perfectly consistent with
its character,--yet there can be no question but that it begins by
looking at, and testing, those sensual enjoyments that are peculiarly
attractive to _youth_, and ends with the departure of all in _old age_,
and, finally--dissolution. There is, evidently, that much method. We
may also, further, note that the body of the book is taken up with such
themes as interest men who are between these two extremes: occupations,
business, politics, and, as men speak, religion. All the various
states and conditions of man are looked at: kings, princes, nobles,
magistrates, rich and poor, are all taken up and discussed in this
search for the one thing that true human reason can call absolutely
"good" for man. Further method than this might perhaps be inconsistent
with the confusion of the scene "under the sun" he is regarding, and
his own inability to bring order out of the confusion. There would be
thus true method in the _absence_ of method, as the cry of "Vanity,"
doleful as it is, is alone in harmony with the failure of all his
efforts. Yes, for whilst here he speaks of "words of delight," one can
but wonder to what he can refer, unless it be to something still to
come. Thus far, as he has taken up and dropped, with bitter
discouragement, subject after subject, his burdened, overcharged heart
involuntarily has burst out with the cry, "Vanity of vanities, all is
vanity!" Words of delight! Find one in all that we have gone over
that can be to a guilty sinner's ear a "word of delight"--such as it
can really _take in as meeting its needs_; for this seems to be the
force of the word here translated "acceptable": so perfectly adapted to
the needs of the heart it addresses that that heart springs joyfully to
embrace it at once. We have surely, thus far, found none such. A
Judge has been discerned in God; but small delight in this surely, if I
am the sinner to be judged.
Verses 11-14. Wisdom's words are not known by quantity, but quality.
Not many books, with the consequent weary study; but the right
word--like a "goad": sharp, pointed, effective--and on which may hang,
as on a "nail," much quiet meditation. "Given, too, from one
shepherd," hence not self-contradictory and confusing to the listeners.
In this way Ecclesiastes would evidently direct our most earnest
attention to what follows: "the conclusion of the whole matter." Here
is absolutely the highest counsel of true human wisdom--the climax of
her reasonings--the high-water-mark of her attainments--the limit to
which she can lead us: "Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this
is the whole duty of man. For God shall bring every work into
judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good or whether it be
evil."
Who will deny that this is indeed admirable? Is there not a glorious
moral elevation in this conclusion? Note how it gives the Creator-God
His rightful place; puts the creature, man, in the absolutely correct
relationship of obedience, and speaks with perfect assurance of a
discriminative judgment where every single work, yes, "secret thing,"
shall be shown out in its true character as it is good or evil in His
holy sight: where everything that is wrong and distorted here shall be
put right.
It is truly much, but alas for man if this were indeed the end. Alas
for one, conscious of having sinned already, and broken His
commandments, whether those commandments be expressed in the ten words
of the law, as given from Sinai, or in that other law which is common
to all men, the work of which, "written in their hearts," they
show--conscience. There is no gleam of light, ray of hope, or grain of
comfort here. A judgment to come, _assured_, can only be looked
forward to, with, at the best, gloomy uncertainty, and awful
misgiving--if not with assured conviction of a fearful condemnation;
and here our writer leaves us with the assurance that this is the
"conclusion of the whole matter."
Who can picture the terrors of this darkness in which such a conclusion
leaves us? Guilty, trembling, with untold sins and wasted years
behind; with the awful consciousness that my very being is the corrupt
fountain whence those sins flowed, and yet with a certain judgment
before in which no single thing is to escape a divinely searching
examination: better had it been to have left us still asleep and
unconscious of these things, and so to have permitted us to secure, at
least, what pleasure we could out of this present life "under the sun,"
without the shadow of the future ever thrown over us;--yea, such
"conclusion" leaves us "of all men most miserable."
I would, beloved reader, that we might by grace realize something of
this. Nor let our minds be just touched by the passing thoughts, but
pause for a few minutes, at least, and meditate on the scene at this
last verse in the only book in our Bible in which man at his best and
highest, in his richest and wisest, is heard telling us his exercises
as he looks at this tangled state of affairs "under the sun" and gives
us to see, as nowhere else can we see, the very utmost limit to which
he, as such, can attain. If this sinks down into our hearts, we shall
be the better prepared to apprehend and appreciate the grace that meets
him there at the edge of that precipice to which Reason leads but which
she cannot bridge. Oh, blessed grace! In the person of our royal
Preacher we are here indeed at our "wit's end" in every sense of the
word; but that is ever and always the place where another hand may lead
us, where another Wisdom than poor feeble human Reason may find a way
of escape, and "deliver us out of our distresses."
Then let us turn our ear and listen to another voice: "For we must all
appear before the judgment-seat of Christ, that every one may receive
the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether it
be good or bad." But stay. Is this the promised grace of which even
now we spoke? Is this the deliverance for which we hoped? A
judgment-seat still?--from which still no escape for any: and a
"reception" according to the things done, whether they be good or bad!
Wherein does this differ from Solomon's "conclusion of the whole
matter"? In just two words only--"_Of Christ_." It is now the
"judgment-seat of Christ." Added terror, I admit, to His despisers and
rejectors; but to you and me, dear fellow-believer, through grace the
difference these two words make is infinity itself. For look at Him
who sits upon the judgment-seat;--be not afraid; regard Him patiently
and well; He bears many a mark whereby you may know Him, and recognize
in the Judge the very One who has Himself borne the full penalty of all
your sins. See His hands and His feet, and behold His side! You stand
before _His_ judgment-seat. Remember, too, the word He spake long ago,
but as true as ever, "Verily, verily, I say unto you, he that heareth
my word, and believeth on Him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and
shall not come into judgment, but is passed from death unto life"--and
as we thus remember both His word and His work, we may be fully
assured, even as we stand here, that there must be a sense, and an
important sense, in which judgment for us is passed forever. I may not
be able to harmonize these Scriptures; but I will cleave, at least, to
that which I clearly understand; in other words, to that which meets my
present needs (for we only truly understand what meets our need);
afterward, other needs may arise that shall make the other scriptures
equally clear. He bore my sins--the judgment of God has been upon Him,
cannot, therefore, be upon me--into that judgment I shall never come.
Then why is it written we must all appear (or rather "be _manifested_,"
be clearly shown out in true light) before the judgment seat of Christ?
There is just one thing I need before entering the joys of eternity. I
am, as Jacob in Genesis xxxv., going up "to Bethel, to dwell there." I
must know that everything is fully suited to the place to which I go.
I need, _I must have_, everything out clearly. Yes, so clearly, that
it will not do to trust even my own memory to bring it out. I need the
Lord "who loved me and gave Himself for me" to do it. _He will_. How
precious this is for the believer who keeps his eye on the Judge! How
blessed for him that ere eternity begins full provision is made for the
perfect security of its peace--for a communion that may not be marred
by a thought! Never after this shall a suspicion arise in our hearts,
during the long ages that follow, that there is one thing--one secret
thing--that has not been known and dealt with holily and righteously,
according to the infinite purity of the Judgment Seat of Christ.
Suppose that this were not so written; let alone for a moment that
there never could be true discriminative rewards; might not memory be
busy, and might not some evil thought allowed during the days of the
life in the flesh, long, long forgotten, be suddenly remembered, and
the awful question arise, "Is it possible that that particular evil
thing has been overlooked? It was subsequent to the hour that I first
accepted Him for my Saviour. I have had no thought of it since. I am
not aware of ever having confessed it." Would not _that_ silence the
song of Heaven, embitter even its joy, and still leave tears to be
wiped away? _It shall not be_. All shall be out first. All--"every
secret thing." Other Scriptures shall show us how these things are
dealt with. "Every man's work shall be made manifest, for the day
shall declare it, because it (that is, the day) shall be revealed in
fire, and the fire shall try every man's work, of what sort it is. If
any man's work abide, he shall receive a reward. If any man's work
shall be burnt, he shall suffer loss, but he himself shall be saved,
yet so as by fire. If any man defile the temple of God, him shall God
destroy." (1 Cor. iii.)
That day is revealed in fire, (Divine judgment,) and gold, silver,
precious stones--those works which are of God--alone can stand the
test. All others burn like "wood, hay, stubble."
Look forward a little. In the light of these Scriptures, see one
standing before that Judgment Seat. He once hung by the side of the
Judge Himself upon a cross on earth. See his works being manifested.
Is there one that can be found gold, silver, precious stones? Not one.
They burn; they all burn: but mark carefully his countenance as his
works burn. Mark the emotions that manifest themselves through the
ever-deepening sense of the wondrous grace that could have snatched
such an one as is there being manifested from the burning. Not a sign
of terror. Not a question for a single instant as to his own salvation
now. He has been with Christ, in the Judge's own company, for a long
time already, and perfectly established is his heart, in the love that
said to him long ago, "This day thou shalt be with me in Paradise."
Now as all his works burn, the fire within burns too, and he is well
prepared to sing "unto Him who loves us and washed us from our sins in
His own blood." And yet stay:--Here is something at the very last. It
is his word, "Dost thou not fear God, seeing thou art in the same
condemnation, and we indeed justly, for we receive the due reward of
our deeds, but this man hath done nothing amiss. Lord, remember me
when Thou comest into Thy kingdom." Gold! gold at last! as we may say;
and he too receives praise of God. Yes, not one that shall have the
solemn joy of standing before that tribunal but has, in some measure,
that praise. For is it not written, "then" (at that very time) "shall
every one have praise of God." "This honor have all his saints."
Where and when does this judgment of our works, then, take place? It
must be subsequent to our rapture to the air of which we have spoken,
and prior to our manifestation with Christ as sons of God. For by all
the ways of God, through all the ages, those scenes could never be
carried out before an unbelieving hostile world. Never has He exposed,
never will He so expose His saints. All will be over when we come
forth with Him to live and reign a thousand years. "The bride has made
herself ready," and the robes in which she comes forth--the white
linen--are indeed the righteousnesses of the saints, but these have
been "washed and made white in the blood of the Lamb."
But "_all_" must stand before Him; and not even yet has that been
fulfilled. Cain and the long line of rejectors of mercy and light,
ever broadening as time's sad ages have passed till their path has been
called the "broad way," have not yet stood there. Has death saved them
from judgment? No, for we read of the "resurrection of judgment"--the
judgment that comes necessarily after death, and includes the dead, and
only the dead. "I saw a great white throne, and Him that sat on it,
from whose face the earth and the heavens fled away, and there was
found no place for them. And I saw the dead, small and great, stand
before God; and the books were opened, and another book was opened,
which is the Book of Life: and the dead were judged out of those things
which were written in the books, according to their works. And the sea
gave up the dead which were in it, and death and hell delivered up the
dead which were in them, and they were judged every man according to
their works, and death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This
is the second death. And whosoever was not found written in the Book
of Life was cast into the lake of fire." Here, too, we see an exact,
perfect, retributive, discriminating judgment. The Book of Life bears
not the name of one here. There is that one broad distinction between
the saved and the lost--the "life-line," as we may call it. How
carefully are we told at the very last of this Book of Life, that we
may most clearly understand, for our comfort, that the feeblest touch
of faith of but the hem of His garment--perhaps not even _directly_ His
Person, but that which is seen surrounding His Person, as the visible
creation may be said to do--(Psalms cii. 25, 6) let any have touched
Him there, and _life_ results. His name is found in the Book of Life,
and he shall not see the second death. Apart from this--the second
death: "the lake of fire!"
And yet, whilst "darkness and wrath" are the common lot of the
rejectors of "light and love," there is, necessarily, almost infinite
difference in the degrees of that darkness and fierceness of that
wrath, dependent exactly on the degree of rejection of light and love.
As our Lord tells us, "he that knew his Lord's will, and prepared not
himself, shall be beaten with many stripes. But he that knew not, and
did commit things worthy of stripes shall be beaten with few stripes.
For unto whomsoever much is given of him shall be much required; and to
whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more." All is
absolutely _right_. Nothing more now to be _made_ right The ages of
eternity may roll in unbroken peace; with God--manifested in all the
universe as light and love--all in all.
And now, dear readers, the time has come to say farewell for a season
to our writer and to each other. Let this leave-taking not be with the
groans of Ecclesiastes' helplessness in our ears. We have stood by his
side and tested with him the sad unsatisfying pleasures connected with
the senses under the sun. We have turned from them, and tried the
purer, higher pleasures of the intellect and reason, and groaned to
find _them_ equally unsatisfying. We have looked through his wearied
eyes at this scene, restless in its unending changes, and yet with
nothing really new. We have felt a little, with his sensitive,
sympathetic heart, for the oppressed and down-trodden "under the sun,"
and groaned in our helplessness to right their wrongs. We have
groaned, too, at his and our inability to understand or solve the
contradictory tangle of life that seemed to deny either the providence
or the goodness of a clearly recognized Creator. We have followed with
him along many a hopeful path till it led us to a tomb, and then we
have bowed head with him, and groaned in our agonizing inability to
pierce further. We have seen, too, with him that there is not the
slightest discrimination in that ending of man's race, and worse, even
than groans to our ears, has been the wild, sad counsel of despair,
"Merrily drink thy wine." But quickly recovering from this, we have
wondered with great admiration as our guide's clear reason led him, and
us, still on and on to discern, a final harvest-judgment that follows
all earth's sowings. But there, as we have stood beside him in spirit,
before that awful judgment-seat to which he has led us, and turned to
him for one word of light or comfort in view of our sin and wrong
doings--the deepest need of all--we have been met with a silence too
deeply agonizing, even for the groan of vanity. Groans, groans,
nothing but groans, at every turn!
And then with what relief--oh, what relief, ever increasing as the
needs increased--have we turned to the Greater than the greatest of men
"under the sun," and, placing the hand of faith in His, we have been
led into other scenes, and have found every single need of our being
fully, absolutely, satisfactorily met. Our body if now the seat of sin
and suffering, yet we have learned to sing in the joyful hope of its
soon being "like Him forever." Our soul's affections have in Him a
satisfying object, whilst His love may fill the poor, empty, craving
heart till it runs over with a song all unknown under the sun,--our
spirit's deep questions, as they have come up, have all been met and
answered in such sort that each answer strikes a chord that sounds with
the melody of delight;--till at last death itself is despoiled of his
terrors, and our song is still more sweet and clear in the tyrant's
presence, for he is no longer a "king" over us, but our "servant."
Even the deepest, most awful terror of all to sinners such as we--the
Judgment-seat--has given us new cause for still more joyful singing;
for we have in that pure clear light recognized in God--our
Creator-God, our Redeemer-God--a love so full, so true,--working with a
wisdom so infinite, so pure,--in perfect harmony with a righteousness
so unbending, so inflexible,--with a holiness not to be flecked or
tarnished by a breath,--all combining to put us at joyful ease in the
very presence of judgment--to find there, as nowhere else possible, all
that is in God in His infinity told out, ("love with us made perfect,")
and that means that all the creatures' responsive love must find sweet
relief in a song that it will take eternity itself to end. In our
Father's House we only "begin to be merry," and end nevermore, as we
sound the depths of a wisdom that is fathomless, know a "love that
passeth knowledge";--singing, singing, nothing but singing, and ever a
new song!
May God, in His grace, make this the joyful experience of reader and
writer, for the Lord Jesus Christ's sake! Amen.
[1] This differs from the usual interpretation, which makes this verse
a metaphor of the mouth and teeth. This has been rejected above, not
only on account of the direct evidence of its faultiness, and the
fanciful interpretation given to the "sound of grinding," but for the
twofold reason that it would make the teeth to be alluded to _twice_,
whilst all reference to the equally important sense of "hearing" would
be omitted altogether. I have therefore followed Dr. Lewis's metrical
version:--
"And closing are the doors that lead abroad,
When the hum of the mill is sounding low,
Though it rise to the sparrow's note,
And voices loudest in the song, do all to faintness sink."
Although, I might here add, I cannot follow this writer in his view
that Ecclesiastes is describing only the old age of the sensualist.
Rather is it man as man,--at his highest,--but with only what he can
find "under the sun" to enlighten him.
[2] The word rendered above "age-long," in our authorized version
"long,"--"man goeth to his _long_ home"--is one of those suggestive
words with which the Hebrew Scriptures abound, and which are well worth
pondering with interest. To transfer and not translate it into English
we might call it "olamic," speaking of a cycle: having a limit, and yet
a shadowy, undefined limit. The word therefore in itself beautifully
and significantly expresses both the confidence, the faith of the
speaker as well as his ignorance. Man's existence after death is
distinctly predicated. The mere grave is not that olamic home; for the
spirit would, in that case, be quite lost sight of; nor, indeed, is the
spirit alone there,--the _man_ goes there. It appears to correspond
very closely to the Greek word Hades, "the Unseen." Man has gone to
that sphere beyond human ken, but when the purposes of God are
fulfilled, his abode there shall have an end: it is for an "age," but
only an "age." All this seems to be wrapped up, as it were, in that
one phrase--_Beth-olam_, the age-long home. How blessed for us the
light that has since been shed on all this. In One case (and indeed
already more than in that One) that "age" has already come to an end,
and the first fruits of that harvest with which our earth is sown has
even now been gathered. We await merely the completion of that
harvest: "Christ the first fruits: afterwards they that are Christ's,
at His coming."
THE BIBLE TRUTH PRESS, 63 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
"ABOVE THE SUN."
Cease, ye Saints, your occupation with the sorrow-scenes of earth;
Let the ear of faith be opened, use the sight of second birth.
Long your hearts have been acquainted with the tear-drop and the groan;
These are _weeds_ of foreign growing, seek the _flowers_ that are your own.
He who in the sandy desert looks for springs to quench his thirst
Finds his fountains are but slime-pits such as Siddim's vale accursed;
He who hopes to still the longing of the heart within his breast
Must not search within a scene where naught is at one moment's rest.
Lift your eyes _above_ the heavens to a sphere as pure as fair;
There, no spot of earth's defilement, never fleck of sin-stain there.
Linger not to gaze on Angels, Principalities, nor Powers;
Brighter visions yet shall greet you, higher dignities are ours.
All night's golden constellations dimly shine as day draws on,
And the moon must veil her beauties at the rising of the sun.
Let the grove be wrapt in silence as the nightingale outflings
Her unrivaled minstrelsy, th' eclipse of every bird that sings.
Michael, Israel's Prince, is glorious, clad in panoply of war;
*"Who is as the God of Israel" is his challenge near and far;
But a higher still than Michael soon shall meet your raptured gaze,
And ye shall forget his glories in _your_ Captain's brighter rays.
* "Michael" means "Who is as God."
List a moment to the music of the mighty Gabriel's voice,
With its message strange and tender, making Mary's heart rejoice.
Then on-speed, for sweeter music soon expectant faith shall greet:
His who chained another Mary willing captive at His feet.
But, let mem'ry first glance backward to the scenes "beneath the sun,"
How the fairest earthly landscape echoed soon some dying groan.
There the old-creation's story, shared between the dismal Three:
Sin and Suffering and Sorrow summed that Babel's history.
Now the contrast--vain ye listen for one jarring note to fall;
For each dweller in that scene's in perfect harmony with all.
Joy has here expelled all sadness, perfect peace displaced all fears--
All around that central Throne makes the true "music of the spheres."
Now upsoar ye on faith's pinion, leave all creature things behind,
And approach yon throne of glory. Love in Light ye there shall find;
For with thrill of joy behold One--woman-born--upon that Throne,
And, with deepest self-abasement, in _His_ beauties read your own.
Joyful scan the glories sparkling from His gracious Head to Feet;,
Never one that does not touch some tender chord of memory sweet;
And e'en heaven's music lacks till blood-bought ones _their_ voices raise
High o'er feebler angel choirs; for richer grace wakes nobler praise.
Vain the quest amongst the thronging of the heavenly angel band
For one trace of human kinship, for one touch of human hand;
'Mongst those spirits bright, ethereal, "man" would stand a man alone;
Higher must he seek for kinship--thought amazing--on God's Throne!
Does it not attract your nature, is it not a rest to see
One e'en there at glory's summit, yet with human form like thee?
Form assumed when love compelled Him to take up your hopeless case,
Form He never will relinquish; ever shall it voice His grace.
Wondrous grace! thus making heaven but our Father's house prepared;
Since, by One who tells God's love, in wounded human form 'tis shared.
See, His Head is crowned with glory! yet a glory not distinct
From an hour of deepest suffering, and a crown of thorns succinct.
Draw still closer, with the rev'rence born of love and holy fear;
Look into those tender eyes which have been dimmed with human tear--
Tears in which _ye_ see a glory hidden from th' Angelic powers;
Ours alone the state that caused them, their beauty then alone is ours.
Look once more upon that Head: finds memory no attraction there
In the time when, homeless-wandering, night-dews filled that very hair?
Brightest glories sparkle round it--crowned with honor now; and yet,
Once it found its only pillow on storm-tossed Gennesaret!
See that Hand! it once grasped Peter's as he sank beneath the wave,--
Snatched the widow's son at Nain from the portal of the grave,--
Touched with healing grace the leper, gave the light to him born dark.
_Deeper love to you is spoken in that nail-print--precious mark_!
Let your tender gaze now rest on those dear Feet that erstwhile trod
All the weary, painful journey leading Him _from_ God _to_ God;
Took Him in His gentle grace wherever need and suffering thronged,
Or one lonely soul was found who for the living water longed.
Those the very Feet once bathed with a pardoned sinner's tears,
And anointed, too, with spikenard speaking Mary's love and fears;
Took Him weary on His journey under Sychar's noontide heat,
Till the thirsty quenched His thirsting, and the hungry gave Him meat.
Blessed Feet! 'tis only _sinners_ see the depth of beauty there;
_Angels_ never have bowed o'er them with a penitential tear.
Angels may regard the nail-print, with a holy, reverent calm;
Ye who read the _love_ it tells of, _must_ break forth with thankful psalm.
Draw yet nearer, look more fondly; yea, e'en nestle and abide
In that covert from the storm-blast, in the haven of His Side.
That deep wound speaks man's great hatred, but His love surpassing great:
_There were focused, at one spear-point, all God's love and all man's hate_!
Rest, ye saints! your search is ended; ye have reached the source of peace.
By the side of Jesus risen, earth's dull cares and sorrows cease.
Here are Elim's wells and palm-trees, grateful shade and waters cool,
Whilst in Christ's deep love there's healing far beyond Bethesda's pool.
Closer, closer, cluster round Him, till the kindling of that Love
Melt your hearts to like compassions whilst amid like scenes ye move.
Only thus abiding in Him can ye fruitfulness expect,
Or, 'mid old-creation sorrows, new-creation love reflect.
Ever closer gather round Him, till "the glory of that Light"
Dims the old creation glitter, proves earth's glare to be but--night!
Gaze upon Him till His beauties wing your feet as on ye run,
Faith soon bursting into sight, in God's clear day "Above the Sun."
F. C. J.
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