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The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Third-day, January 14, 1868

FromReview and Herald, Vol. XXXI, No. 5

Read the full edition

IT IS FINISHED.

By S. S. Bartlett

[Bro. Smith: The following extract I cut from a newspaper many years ago. Thinking it might interest the readers of the Review, I now copy it for publication. S. S. Bartlett.]
The “Saviour of the world” hung on the cross quivering in the agony of death. Dark clouds obscured the brightness of the azure heavens, the sun was arrayed in sackcloth, the stars had forgotten to shine, and the silver moon had paled in the liquid sapphire and withdrawn her waning light. Day in the flush of his meridian splendor had fled affrighted from the world, and night had stalked forth in all her primeval darkness, and cast the diadem of stars from her mournful brow. The energies of Nature seemed paralyzed. The great heart of the universe fluttered with an uncertain and tremulous motion, as if ceasing to beat. The golden portals of the “Holy of Holies” were flung open, untouched by mortal hand, unmoved by human will. The veil of the sanctuary was rent in twain, and through the pillared arches of the beautiful temple rolled a strain of mournful and thrilling music—the love and agony of the universe contracted into sound, angels chanting the requiem of the dying Son of God.
The haughty dwellers in Jerusalem, the Pharisee, the Sadducee, thronged the hight of Calvary. They mocked and derided. They cried, “If thou be the Son of God, save thyself and come down from the cross.” He desires water and they fill a sponge with vinegar and give him to drink; and again they mock his agonies and cry, “He saved others, himself he cannot save.” Yet no anger arises in the soul of the Lamb of God. Tears mingle with the blood drops but they are tears of love; and the ashy and quivering lips move and open, but his dying words are a prayer for his persecutors. They come forth in mournful sweetness and ring clear and melodious through the unnatural gloom, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”
Afar off on a distant hight stand the weeping disciples. In a low and shadowed glen the betrayer of his Lord lies prostrate on the earth, robbing life in the pangs of a bitter repentance, suffocated by excess of grief. Kneeling at the foot of the cross appeared the three Marys, and the beloved disciple; the mother, whose faithful bosom has been his childhood’s pillow; the tender friend who had accompanied him in his wanderings and leaned upon his breast. And Jesus cast upon friend and mother the last long look of love. He turned his dying glance upon Mary and whispered, “Behold thy son.” He looked upon John and said, “Behold thy mother;” and from that day the disciple took her to his own home.
And now the last farewell is spoken, the last sad office of affection performed, the pangs of that dread agony have stricken to the heart. The last tear trembles in that loving eye, the last blood drop trickles from that bleeding brow and stains the whiteness of the calm and placid face. The crimson tide that gushed from pierced hands and wounded feet has ceased its flowing. The golden turret of the temple, the green hills of Hermon, the tearful look of the disciples, the wondering countenances of the Roman soldiery are fading from his weak and glassy vision. The audible sob of friend and lover, the suppressed breathing of the surrounding throng, the ocean-like murmuring of the innumerable multitude, all die in silence upon his closing ear.
His hour has come! yet mighty and glorious thoughts, high and mysterious emotions rise and swell within his breast. And sublime revelations of the future—revelations of the accomplishment of the perfected harmony of the universe, the eradication of evil, the triumph of truth and love in the reconciliation of man to God, are pictured in grand and transcendent glory upon his mighty heart. And feelings of triumphant gladness, foretastes of that ecstatic bliss when “he shall see of the travail of his soul and be satisfied,” thrill with rapture that God-like spirit. Oh! such a death is glorious! A bright and gleaming halo plays around the brow, a smile of ineffable beauty illumines his face; an audible stillness, a silence that may be felt, settles down upon the earth.
All those high and swelling aspirations, all those glorious revelations, all that triumphant gladness, all that boundless love swell forth in one thrilling and majestic strain. Hark to that eloquent voice! Hearken O, my soul! for men and angels listen with thee. Hearken! for that sublime sound shall find an echo in the living soul of God! IT IS FINISHED!
It is finished! Clear and loud rolls on that solemn strain. It rings through the leafy shades of Gethsemane, and along the aisles of the golden temple, and around the crest of Olivet, and the winds take up the burden and bear it on, and the starry mountain peaks repeat the echo, and old ocean with its voice of many waters is eloquent with the thrilling spell.
It is finished! That voice of power and majesty embraces the lifeless air with its living spirit. It rises above the darkness and the storm. It fills the desert and the wilderness with words of golden sound. And the blue skies above take up the echo and bear it unto the Heaven of heavens, where the angelic choir take up the chorus and sweep their starry lyres till crystal arches of the empyrean are vocal with its anthem of triumph and joy.
Eighteen centuries ago, that voice from Heaven died away upon our air; but even yet it has not subsided into utter stillness. In the heart of man, it still rings on. Age to age has borne on the swelling chorus. Generation after generation has listened to its voice of grandeur and of might. It circles the earth with the viewless wind. It mingles with the music of the ocean wave. We hear it in the glory and brightness of the day. At eventide it floats around us in low and gentle cadence, sweet as the voice of God that once echoed through the leafy shades of Eden. And we sink to slumber, yet, even then it dieth not, but mingles with the visions of the solemn night.
It is finished! We open the volume wherein are treasured the revelations of God’s infinite and unchanging love, and we read it there. We follow the melody of the Sabbath bells, we enter the courts of the house of prayer, the vaulted arches of the temple of our faith are ringing with the breath of music, and from the deep-toned organ and the singing lip, it echoes and we hear it there. And when the strain is hushed, and the “minister of the reconciliation” arises in his holy office, then once again is the sacred silence made eloquent with the thrilling spell.
It is finished! Your heart, mine, has long been gladdened by the joyful sound. Thousands of hearts, now mingled with the dust we tread upon, have shouted it. Its work is not yet done. It will warble from the lips of earth’s congregated millions, as they wake from slumber amid the breaking glories of the resurrection morn.
It is finished! When a few more fleeting years shallhave passed away, when time has been swallowed up in eternity, when the grave has become a forgotten word, and Death, the pale monarch of the tomb, has rested for ages in his eternal sleep; when we have dwelt for myriads of ages in the saints’ everlasting home, and are robed in the snowy garments of innocence and peace, and crowned with the golden coronet of triumphant virtue, and bear the green palm-branch of victory in our hands, and wing our free, unfettered way from star to star, and mingle with the angels who sweep their harps upon the sea of fire, and cast our starry diadems upon the amaranth-strewn floor of Heaven as we bow in high and holy adoration before the throne—then shall that expiring cry of the Saviour of the world, It is finished, ring through the redeemed, the sinless, the unshadowed universe, “And add new sweetness to the songs, That warble from immortal tongues.”