THE LARGER HOPE by George McCready Price

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Mar 11, 1903

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 29, No. 10.

THE LARGER HOPE.

By George McCready Price

[Suggested by Lord Salisbury's remarks on "Living and Dying Nations," in a speech before the Primrose League.]

THOU Eternal and Unchanging One! To Thee the future as the past appears, And to Thy prescient gaze the ages roll Alike in each: THOU ART, and that is all. There is no Future and no Past to Thee, 'Tis one eternal Present in Thy sight. How didst Thou deign to give to mortal man So much of this Thy own prerogative, And picture to his mind a coming scene? But do Thou this once more: Impart a glimpse Of those stern laws so little understood, Shaping the times and seasons of our world, As those fierce storms that huddle on the back Of this old, weary world, while it performs Its chasing round on the great track of time.

What is the key-note of Thy universe Of stars and systems in complex array, That, circling round Thy throne in symphonies Of praise and joy, declares Thy attributes: And nature?—Love, ceaseless, boundless love. So says Thy Word—but mortals scarce discern; Ill-read by treacherous sense and reason frail, This plot of nature lends us evil dreams. We can not read creation's final law Of love by trusting these frail, mortal powers. An apple may obscure a hundred worlds; So near and huge the things of sense appear. One little group, in all the myriad hosts Of worlds and systems pulsing with Thy life, Utters a note discordant to the ear Of Harmony. It was not always thus, Nor can a will at variance with Thine own, Which is the source of life, continue long. The term of sin is but an incident In the long history of Eternal Love. Thou, as our Father, art the only Good This universe can know; Thy will its law, And happiness found only in a life Whose heart-throbs move in unison with Thine. The puerile temerity that dares Retain a character—however formed— Not pulsing in rich sympathy with Thee, Deriving thence its source of power and life, E'en as the atoms move but at Thy word, Must sicken, waste, and die, and be no more. A living sin, a misshaped character, And thus a source of misery to itself, Daily augmenting guilt and wretchedness, May be allowed to live its little day, To show the nature of rebellious thoughts; But, severed from the Fount of joy and life, It soon must perish, death in mercy sent To end its course of self-increasing woe, And stop the discord in th' eternal song. O, could men read the history of our world From the eternal view-point of God's throne! For, as they looked along the vistas grand In His great temple, they might see the end Of sin and woe, coeval; and might trace In part, its cause, its progress, and results. A cause it has not, for a cause would be Its perfect vindication. Through no fault Or lack of foresight in creation's plan, But solely through the daring, selfish choice Of that bright covering cherub, whose fair form Shone brightest 'mid the radiant hosts of light. His glorious beauty fixed his mind on self; His heart was lifted up, and in the place Of thoughts unselfish for his fellows' good And thankful praise to God, his thoughts of self Corroded all the beauty of his soul And crystallized in hate. But what is hate? In this small germ of evil who could see This wilderness of woe that now o'erspreads This corner of the universe? Had now This new-born plant been plucked while yet in bud, A doubt as to its nature might have filled The minds of faithful sons; its lethal bloom Would not appear the hideous thing it is, If plucked thus early ere its fruit was ripe. Long ages since have shown the baleful fruit Of this vile parasite upon the world. And only by the pruning-knife of God, Sharp, cruel as it seems, yet loving still, That crops betimes its too luxuriant growth, By plague, or war of extermination, has There been preserved some precious grain of good. Some wheat amid the tares has ever been; Sufficient, when the gleanings of the years, Long treasured in the storehouse of the tomb, Have been transplanted in the purged soil Of earth, to make it bloom and blossom forth, An Eden-globe, new-born, the sparkling dew Of the eternal morning on each branch And flower, and shedding on the breeze of space The incense of a never-ending spring.

And two results are thus traced out; the one, The vindication of God's holy law Of righteousness, the proving to the worlds That 'tis no arbitrary act of power To blot out sin and sinners from the face Of the creation, but an act of love. The peace of all created stands alone In meek dependence on creation's God, Living a life of faith for moral power, Choosing each moment to obey His will, E'en as the atoms or the starry spheres Move momently by His sustaining word. The other, like a trumpet-blast of joy, Proclaims the birthday of a world redeemed— A little salvage from the wrecks of time, Gathered successively, and stored away In graves of hope, and now brought forth again, On this glad gathering day, sufficient all To people with rejoicing forms the earth, Made pure and spotless from the stains of sin. It seems a weary process to our souls, As through long years of schooling here we pass, And scarcely then can learn to trust His love, While millions all around us, bound beneath Environments they can or will not break, Go out into the night without a hope: So few will learn, so many never will, In spite of all His Father-love can do And yet respect their sanctity of choice. Alone this sacred freedom of the will Enjoyed by us the creatures, marks the rule, Not of a tyrant, but a God of love.

It seems a weary process, but how short Compared with all the future years of God! Heirs of eternity can bear delay, Nor with impatience do they watch the course Of time develop these great purposes. With reverent suspense the circling orbs, By countless millions peopled, watch the course Of these great problems in development, On this arena which we call the earth. The fruits of evil they begin to trace In that first fratricide, and in its wake A lurid history, written with the tears And streaming heart-blood of the race; the act Which sealed the doom of evil and its King, Was done in Galilee and Judah's streets. That persecution of the Harmless One, With such relentless fury, by the fiend, Who turned Judea's heart against her Lord, And taught her that last act on Calvary, Amid the jeers of erstwhile praising throats— That act forever showed what thoughts of self Produce, when cherished in the heart of one With glory, beauty, wisdom all endowed, Familiar with the love and peace of heaven. O what a transformation! What a dread

Of evil it inspires! Who can see A cherub thus transformed into a fiend Malignant, warring ever 'gainst his God, Nor loathe and fear forever to transgress, E'en by a thought the perfect law of love. Time's record will eternal safeguards place Against experiment; but cheerful hearts, Redeemed from sin, or proof against its wiles, Will, age by age, new beauties find in Him Whose law is freedom, love, and perfect bliss.

We see a nation springing into life Upon the Tiber, Tigris, or the Nile. We watch its progress. Year by year it grows, And seems to have no knowledge of the truth. But tender shoots of piety sincere, In vital contact with the Parent Vine, Appear, mature, and ripen, whether we Or any others recognize their life. But not the crowded marts conduce to this— Centers where fashion rules with iron rod, And each soul lives just as his neighbor does, With thoughts intent upon the things of sense And time, and things eternal all ignored. 'Tis where the child, in hardy virtue trained By godly sire, amid the mountain steeps, Holds daily intercourse with nature's God— 'Tis here the vast majority have grown Who can be trusted with immortal life. Great nations ever have been great in sin, Forging great fetters for God's training work. Yet even in the centers of the world, And 'neath the eye of despots, have there lived A few brave souls, who daily walked with God. No age, no nation, e'er monopolized The truth and light from Heaven. None have long Survived their usefulness in growing fruit For God's great storehouse. At the harvest home, When wake the myriads from their silent sleep Of hope, each race and nation will report The bugle-call to everlasting life;— A varied host from every clime and age, Some few from each, the gleanings of the years. The tombs of Memphis, and the frozen sands That skirt the Yukon, send their quota forth; Hesperia sends her bands, and Nineveh; Tasmania, and Japan, and Africa; Even that long-lived race before the Flood, A race of giant mind and kingly form, But whose pursuit of selfish aims, the name And worship of their ever-patient Lord Had well-nigh banished from the youthful earth. He could not see the world thus given o'er To evil in its infancy; in love He saved a few, and blotted out the rest. With these eight souls the world once more began, 'Neath darker skies, and on a wasted earth, Her work of increase; but oft nations since Have shared the fate which then befell the world. When they become an obstacle to truth Such that Almighty Love itself can not Dissolve the bands of gross environment Wrapped tight about the infant soul from birth, And thus the unborn future knows no hope, They serve no more the purposes of God; Another takes their place, and they are named Among the fallen. This, repeated o'er, Makes up the history of our wayward world. The final lesson, not quite manifest, But hastening with the tread of marching years, Proclaims the hopelessness of the disease Lodged in the vitals of the long-tried race. The century now sinking 'neath the west Dawned smiling on the buoyant hopes of man. 'Twas said that Liberty would soothe our woes, Would purge our nature of its selfishness, And usher in the reign of peace and joy. Democracy, with youthful arrogance, Assumed the task of educating man In justice, peace, and altruistic love. Days roll to years, and every year's decline Now tells the failure of his promises. Nor Knowledge, Science, Culture, can reform The heart, or purify the secret springs Of motives, or assist the feeble will To live a life of mind-clean purity. A marble palace or a doctor's cap May lodge or cover but a stunted soul At war with God and man, and doomed to die. Ah, truly 'tis the grandest hour of time, The most sublime that this old world has seen;

The day at which the countless lines converge That, stretching back, enclose creation's life; The glad fruition of the church's hope, The day when sinners rise to meet their doom;— The fruit of seed which their own hands have sown. What can compare? The day of Salamis, Of Actium, or yet of Waterloo, Decided but a few brief hours of sway When mortals strut in pomp. The conquerors there Had fought for power or liberty. What then? Did not the world still move the same? But now Creation's destiny is balanced high, And God and angels watch the trembling beam. Shall mortals not feel int'rest? Is earth's doom A smaller matter than a kingdom's fall? O, how the prisoned ages of the past Grow restless in their dust, as now draws near The time of their release! Their voiceless tongues Proclaim their hopes of joy, their fears of wrath, That shall be consummated in that day; And yet their living fellows heed it not. The hills and woods that now so bright appear, The beauteous flowers, and the purling brooks, All shout in exultation of that day That changes their dull charms for Eden's bloom. Like nature do the children of the Dawn Await its breaking, feasting hungry eyes On every streak that flashes in the east. This night of time is dark, and damp, and chill; Break, break, thou Morn of Endless Ages, break!

Oh sacred church of Christ! No more forget Thy blessed embassy; reform the world Thou canst not, nor were given this to do. Give up the hope of reigning as a queen Upon a world subdued to Gospel charms: 'Twas this that proved thy Latin sister's death. Ask not the civil arm to smooth thy path, Or guide the sinner to thy altar-steps. The sin, which is the cause of all our woe, Is not the act of man, however bad; 'Tis being, and not doing, that is sin. The help of Cæsar's laws, the blood-bought wealth Of baptized worldlings showered in thy lap, May train the senses of a cultured few, Or purge our statutes of a thousand wrongs,— A noble work, perhaps, but not the work To thee entrusted. Thine the task alone To train the children lent to thee by God, That they may never know the ways of sin, And gather from a groaning, dying world A few whom Christ may safely trust with life On that glad morn of universal joy. This age no more than Constantine's will prove The prelude to a world from sin redeemed And marshaled 'neath the banners of the cross. The horrors of that blunder echo yet, Forbidding thee repeat the same mistake. Give up the effort to reform the State— Thou wilt but soil thy robes in the attempt— But take up earnestly thine ancient work To preach the Gospel of thy absent Lord, Training thy children for this work alone, Content to be engaged in this, amid The jeers and curses of the multitude, When He appears again upon the cloud. He left this world an outcast, and expects To find thee treated thus on His return. This age, this boasted age of light and peace, An age of culture, human brotherhood, Can but disguise, even for a time, the pangs Of dissolution. 'Tis a pessimist That would prolong the life of such a world. The optimist is he whose patient eye Can view with hope a nation or a world In the last throes of agony convulsed, Can look beyond the grave, the flight of time, The wreck of nations, and a world's decease, And trace the rosy brilliance of the morn That speaks the dawning of Eternal Day.

GEO. E. McCREADY PRICE.

Midland, N. B.