Softly as a murmur it comes from all directions. To him whose life work is in one field it is a voice profound and comprehensive in nature, and he calls it the music of the spheres. To another, it seems as tender, loving and true as parental affection in its holiest moments, and this one takes his children into the fields and wood to see and hear. It pervades all life, this Voice of Thought, Being, Joy, in the resurrection of New Life. It is heard in the bird-notes from every bush as the little songsters sing to their mates, rejoicing in renewed virility and hope of cozy nests amid the youthful foliage; it is the voice of renewed youth speaking unto itself, yet not itself, but through itself into those whom it had created, preserved, saved,—a simple, child-like voice, asking questions.
Man pauses to listen. What are the questions asked in the early childhood of springtime?
Oh, how pure, sincere! Transparent, clear! How loving the motive and desire which prompts the children of men when close to nature to look up wistfully for an answer.
“Whence comes this Spirit of New Life?”
And lo! the inner voice:
“All things were made by Him, and without Him was not anything made that was made.”
And lo! again the voice:
“In Him was Life, and the Life was the Light of Men.”
And lo! yet again the voice—for the third time,—the voice of a man to his brother man:
“I am the Resurrection and the Life. Come unto Me.”