Secondly, There is an absolute lack of all discrimination in the death that ends all; and,
Thirdly, So complete is that end, bringing all so exactly to one dead level, without the slightest difference; and so impenetrable is the tomb to which all go, that I counsel, in my despair, "Eat, drink, and be merry, irrespective of any future."
Fourthly, But, alas! that, too, is impossible; for no "work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom," can assure freedom from the evil doom that haps, soon or late, to all.
Intensified misery! awful darkness indeed! And our own souls tremble as we stand with Ecclesiastes under its shadow and respond to his groanings. For the same scene still spreads itself before us as before him. Mixed with the mad laughter and song of fools is the continued groan of sorrow, pain, and suffering, that still tells of "time and doom."
A striking instance of this comes to my hand even as I write; and since its pathetic sadness makes it stand out even from the sorrows of this sad world, I would take it as a direct illustration of Ecclesiastes's groan. At Nyack on the Hudson a Christian family retire to rest after the happy services of last Lord's Day, the 21st of October—an unbroken circle of seven children, with their parents. Early on the following morning, before it is light, a fire is raging in the house, and four of the little children are consumed in the conflagration. The account concludes: "The funeral took place at eleven o'clock to-day." That is, in a little more than twelve hours after retiring to sleep, four of the members of that family circle were in their graves! Here is an "evil time" that has fallen suddenly indeed; and the sad and awful incident enables us to realize just what our writer felt as he penned the words. With one stroke, in one moment, four children, who have had for years their parents' daily thought and care, meet an awful doom, and all that those parents themselves have believed receives a blow whose force it is hard to measure. Now listen, as the heathen cry, "Where is now their God?" Why was not His shield thrown about them? Had he not the power to warn the sleeping household of the impending danger? Is He so bound by some law of His own making as to forbid his interfering with its working? Worse still, was He indifferent to the awful catastrophe that was about to crush the joy out of that family circle? If His was the power, was His love lacking?
Oh, awful questions when no answer can be given to them;—and nature gives no answer. She is absolutely silent. No human wisdom, even though it be his who was gifted "with a wise and understanding heart, so that none was like him before him, neither after him should any arise like unto him," could give any answer to questions like these. And think you, my reader, that nature does not cry out for comfort, and feel about for light at such a time? Nor that the enemy of our souls is not quick in his malignant activity to suggest all kinds of awful doubt? Every form of darkness and unbelief is alive to seize such incidents, and make them the texts on which they may level their attacks against the Christian's God.
But is there really no eye to pity?—no heart to love?—no arm to save? Are men really subject to blind law—"time and doom"?
Hark, my reader, and turn once more to that sweetest music that ever broke on distracted reason's ear. It comes not to charm with a false hope, but with the full authority of God. None but His Son who had lain so long in His Father's bosom that He knew its blessed heart-beats thoroughly, could speak such words—"Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings." Here are poor worthless things indeed that may be truly called creatures of chance. "Time and doom" must surely "hap" to these. Indeed no; "not one of them is forgotten before God." Ponder every precious word in simple faith. God's memory bears upon it the lot of every worthless sparrow; it may "fall to the ground," but not without Him. He controls their destiny and is interested in their very flight. If it be so with the sparrow, that may be bought for a single mite, shall the saint, who has been bought at a price infinitely beyond all the treasures of silver and gold in the universe, even at the cost of the precious blood of His dear Son,—shall he be subject to "time and doom"? Shall his lot not be shaped by infinite love and wisdom? Yes, verily. Even the very hairs of his head are all numbered. No joy, no happiness, no disappointment, no perplexity, no sorrow, so infinitesimally small (let alone the greatest) but that the One who controls all worlds takes the closest interest therein, and turns, in His love, every thing to blessing, forcing "all to work together for good," and making the very storms of life obedient servants to speed His children to their Home.
Faith alone triumphs here; but faith triumphs; and apart from such tests and trials, what opportunity would there be for faith to triumph? May we not bless God, then, (humbly enough, for we know how quickly we fail under trial,) that He does leave opportunity for faith to be in exercise and to get victories?
God first reveals Himself, and then says, as it were, "Now let Me see if you have so learned what I am as to trust Me against all circumstances, against all that you see, feel, or suffer." And what virtue there must be in the Light of God, when so little of it is needed to sustain His child! Even in the dim early twilight of the dawning of divine revelation, Job, suffering under a very similar and fully equal "evil time," could say, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord:" accents sweet and refreshing to Him who values at an unknown price the confidence of this poor heart of man. And yet what did Job know of God? He had not seen the cross. He had not had anything of the display of tenderest unspeakable love that have we. It was but the dawn, as we may say, of revelation; but it was enough to enable that poor grief-wrung heart to cry, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him." Shall we, who enjoy the very meridian of revelation light;—shall we, who have seen Him slain for us, say less? Nay, look at the wondrous possibilities of our calling, my reader,—a song, nothing but a song will do now. Not quiet resignation only; but "strengthened with all might, according to His glorious power, unto all patience and long-suffering with joyfulness,"—and that means a song.