Gently once more he sighed; and, with hands folded on his breast, yielded up his spirit to God without a struggle.
This was at four o'clock in the morning of the 18th of February.
And now, in the house opposite the church where he was baptized, and signed with the cross for the Christian warfare, Martin Luther lies—his warfare accomplished, his weapons laid aside, his victory won—at rest beneath the standard he has borne so nobly. In the place where his eyes opened on this earthly life his spirit has awakened to the heavenly life. Often he used to speak of death as the Christian's true birth, and of this life as but a growing into the chrysalis-shell in which the spirit lives till its being is developed, and it bursts the shell, casts off the web, struggles into life, spreads its wings and sours up to God.
To Eva and me it seems a strange, mysterious seal set on his faith, that his birth-place and his place of death—the scene of his nativity to earth and heaven—should be the same.
We can only say, amidst irrepressible tears, those words often on his lips, "O death! bitter to those whom thou leavest in life!" and "Fear not, God liveth still."
XXXVIII.
Elsè's Story.
March, 1546
It is all over. The beloved, revered form is with us again, but Luther our Father, our pastor, our friend, will never be amongst us more. His ceaseless toil and care for us all have worn him out,—the care which wastes life more than sorrow,—care such as no man knew since the apostle Paul, which only faith such as St. Paul's enabled him to sustain so long.