One is tempted to continue in this strain. It would be pleasant to speak
of Hugh Kennedy, of Savonarola, and of others who found life and grace
and inspiration in the text on which poor Uncle Tom pillowed his dying
head. The testimony of such witnesses is strangely fascinating; their
name is legion; we may yet cite one or two of them before we close.
Meanwhile, we must pay some attention to the words of which they speak
so rapturously. And even to glance at them is to fall in love with them.
They are among the most stately, the most splendid, in all literature.
Macaulay, who read everything, once found himself in Scotland on a fast
day. It was a new experience for him, and he did not altogether enjoy
it. 'The place,' he said, 'had all the appearance of a Puritan Sunday.
Every shop was shut and every church open. I heard the worst and longest
sermon that I ever remember. Every sentence was repeated three or four
times over, and nothing in any sentence deserved to be said once. I
withdrew my attention and read the Epistle to the Romans. I was much
struck by the eloquence and force of some passages, and made out the
connection and argument of some others which had formerly seemed to me
unmeaning. I enjoyed the "_Who shall separate us from the love of
Christ?_" I know few things finer.'
The words constitute themselves the greatest challenge ever uttered.
Poets and painters have gloried in the conception of Ajax, on his lonely
rock, defying all the gods that be. But what is _that_ compared with
_this_? In the passage whose sublimities awoke the enthusiasm of
Macaulay, and delivered him from insufferable boredom, Paul claims to
have reached the limits of finality, and he hurls defiance at all the
forces of futurity.
'_Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Death? Life? Angels?
Principalities? Powers? Things Present? Things to Come? Height? Depth?
Any fresh Creation? I am persuaded that none of them can separate us
from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord._'