“God help us, it was his to take away who gave.”
And now with more of submission under their affliction, with much of hope that cheered even in the midst of their bereavement, they will see their child laid in the funeral-vault to meet their eyes no more until the resurrection morning—and with chastened hearts, and more thoughtfully they will tread the path set before them, feeling convinced and thankful that sorrow has taught them a lesson of wisdom they never could have learned in a life like that they had lived.
Through the opened Gothic windows of the old church she is speeding, for what? To make beautiful by her presence the temple of the Lord. See! before the altar there is gathered a little group, and a maiden and a youth are answering the binding, “I will,” to a question than which none more fraught with deep and solemn meaning was ever propounded to mortal man and woman.
The bridegroom has placed upon his companion’s finger the uniting ring—she is his wife. You see she has arrayed herself gayly; it is the great festival of her life—may it not prove the adornment has been for the ceremony of the sacrifice of all the dearest and best hopes of her trusting young heart! Around these happy ones are gathered their most familiar, dearest friends; before them the “solemn priest,” and, hark! with mingled words of warning, and of counsel, and of blessing, he pronounces them now man and wife. And upon the newly-wedded ones is resting the congratulatory smile of Sunlight! She bids them joy in their love, and gives the bridegroom the comforting assurance that his will not prove a cross and turbulent bride, for his wedding-day is calm and bright, and over all the sky there is not one speck of cloud!
But why does the Sunlight linger when the bridal party has gone forth? She is about the altar and chancel, as though there were others yet who would need her presence and her blessing there.
Ah! there are steps—another group is approaching the awaiting “holy man of God.” A woman comes, bearing in her arms a child for baptism. The font containing the regenerating waters is there in readiness. Troops of invisible angels are nigh to listen to and make record of the solemn vows now to be made, and the spirit of the living God is there also, a witness, merciful in his omnipotence.
There are but few who accompany the woman—she comes in no pomp and state to dedicate her child to God in baptism; neither is the offering she brings adorned with the pride of wealth. The mother is poor—the child an heir of poverty. But will He therefore spurn the gift? “He that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.”
The father of the child, the husband of the mother is dead—and her widow’s weeds but “faintly tell the sorrow of her heart.” Therefore it is with so much the more trustful confidence she has come with her child to the altar, she will give him into the watchful care of the Almighty Father of the fatherless! With what a solemn earnest voice she takes upon herself, for the child, the vow of renouncement of the world and its sinful desires; and when the sign of the cross is laid upon the brow of her infant, and the holy waters which typify its regeneration are poured upon his head, it is with heartfelt gratitude she lifts her heart to heaven, with heartfelt confidence she implores his watchful love and care. And all the while on the uncovered head of the child the glance of the sunlight has rested, as if in token of the acceptance of the offering the mother has made, in token that the blessing and mercy of God would be upon that child for whom a holy vow was registered in heaven, which he must one day redeem, or else pay the fearful penalty.
And now the mother with her child and friends have left the church, and a sacred quiet reigns there once more; yet the priest lingers by the altar, still arrayed in his robes of office, and Sunlight also remains.
And, hark! once more the “deep-toned bell” is ringing now—tolling mournfully—no wedding-peal of joy is that, from out the heart of the strong iron is rung the stern tale that another mortal hath put on immortality! Now they come, a long and silent train, and foremost move the bearers treading heavily; “it is a man they bear”—an aged man, the measure of whose cup of life was well filled, reaching even the brim; and following after them are the children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren of the deceased, and the procession is closed by his many friends and neighbors. Of all that lengthened train there is not one who set out on the path of life with the dead man. One by one his early companions passed away, there are none who retain a recollection of that aged face when it was smooth, and of those locks now so very white and thin, as they were in earlier years; not one who shared the hopes of his childhood with him—few who mingled with him in the scenes remembered now as of the old, old time. Yet the mourners weep, and the bells toll mournfully.