On the old battlefield of Sempach, where in 1386 the Swiss won a notable
victory over the Austrians, there stands a monument of recognition to
Arnold von Winkelried, a Swiss peasant, who on the day of that battle
gave his life as the price of victory for his country.
The Austrians were massed together with presented spears—“A living wall,
a human wood.” There was only one hope of breaking through the armed line
and that was for some one to dash against the phalanx and make an
opening—at the cost of his life. Suddenly there was a cry: “Make way for
liberty,” and Arnold von Winkelried rushed forward, gathering an armful
of Austrian lances into his own breast, but opening a breach through
which his comrades poured themselves against their foes.
The Swiss marched to victory that day, but it was over the dead body of
a man who loved them and their cause even unto death, a man who was
moved by the love which lays down its life for its friends.
There is another spot—a place unmarked by any monument—where earth’s
supremest hero yielded up His life to make way for the liberty of His
people. He gathered the wrath and the sting of a great world’s sin into
His own heart, and led the way where others dared not tread.
In the hour that Jesus died, the veil of the temple was rent in twain
from the top to the bottom, and the breach was made through which every
man might make his way to the feet of his God and to the glory of the
eternities. The tragedy of Calvary opened up the way to liberty—the
liberty of the truth, the liberty of pardon, the liberty of eternal life.
So through the ages His people have been marching to the supreme hour of
joy in forgiveness and assurance, to success in the conquests of
righteousness, and through the gates of glory at the last. Each step of
the way they have found full of joy. But it has all been over the dead
body of one whose love was too great to know a fear, and whose devotion
was unfailing even in the hour of supreme agony.