Chapter Twelve.
Post Tenebras Lux.
“So,” prayed we, “when our feet draw near
The river dark with mortal fear,
And the night cometh, chill with dew,
O Father, let Thy light break through!
So let the hills of doubt divide—
So bridge with faith the sunless tide—
So let the eyes that fail on earth
On Thine eternal hills look forth;
And, in Thy beckoning angels, know
The dear ones whom we loved below.”
Whittier.
This eventful year closed with death. Not a martyr death; God’s martyr train was closed in England now, for the last to join it had been Roger Holland. Another kind of death was this. Softly, and tenderly, as He called to Samuel, the Lord came and stood and called her—her who was loved so dearly, whose going out made the world darker. With a “Talitha cumi”—a “Come up higher”—He summoned the beloved to the Home where His beloved dwell with Him. And what answer was left for her but “Lord, here am I”? So she spread the angel wings which had been folded, that they could not be seen; and as she soared gladly up into the heavenly light, the darkness of time and of earth thickened around those she left behind.
O Lord our Master! Thy voice is very sweet here below. Not only Thy staff, but even Thy rod comforteth; yea, it is with Thy rod that Thou dost feed Thy people. How much sweeter, when as one whom his mother comforteth, so dost Thou comfort us! And sweetest of all it must be, to arise and go to Thee.
Wherefore, then, are we so unwilling? What mean we continually to talk of being “spared”—spared from that happy journey, from that heavenly Home! They that are not journeying home are spared indeed: but how faithless, how loveless is it in us to bring up an evil report of the good Land, to show such fear and distance from the forgiving and welcoming Father!
“He that is washed needeth only to wash his feet.” But, O our Father! the feet of Thy children need a perpetual washing, an hourly dipping in the blessed waters of the Fountain which Thou hast opened for sin and for uncleanness.
This was the last entry in Isoult Avery’s diary for the year 1558:—