p. 1 | The Burial of Jesus

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Oct 4, 1870

The Burial of Jesus.

JESUS was dead. With blood-matted hair and marble features, drooping eye-lids and bowed head, with deathly pallor and pierced hands and feet, with anguished countenance and gaping side, the Son of God hung upon the cross. That dreadful cry, “My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken me?” had thrilled with strange emotion all who heard it. There seemed to be in it the wail of ages of sin and woe, the gathered agonies of a thousand lost souls. But all was now over; the struggle, the anguish, the quenchless thirst, the fevered frame, the wailing prayer, and the last sob and sigh.

The evening shades were coming on, and an unearthly stillness hung over Calvary. Never before had such strange scenes been witnessed in Jerusalem. Accursed of God and man, forsaken by every friend until he stood alone, the King of glory had patiently submitted to the cruel and disgraceful death. And though quivering with pain, and faint with the loss of blood, the hand of human love was not suffered to relieve him; no kind voice cheered him to his awful death; the pitying angels could not rescue the spotless Prince. High on the cross he hung, bleeding and white, God’s dying Lamb, the King of kings, grand in his martyrdom, sublime even in the grasp of the tyrant death:—a dead monarch on a throne of torture. Oh! marvel of the ages! Is this feeble form the Christ who shall have all power in heaven and earth? Is this pale hand the one that shall control the universe? Is this dead victim, the mighty One whom death and hell cannot bind? Are these lusterless eyes the orbs that shall become like flames of fire? Are these bloodless lips that uttered the faint cry, “I thirst,” the lips of Him who shall one day descend from heaven with a shout, with the chief angel, and with the trump of God? Even so: Amen.

But will the holy Lamb remain till morning upon the tree, the sport of the winds and the prey of the night-bird? Nay, verily. A holy task is now to be performed. Oh! rich, rare privilege! Two men with their attendants approach Calvary. They bring an order from the governor, and demand of those on guard the body of the Nazarene.

Standing beside the cross, they look up at the dead Master through their tears. Weep, oh, men of Jerusalem; he died for you. Begin the sacred task. “Send back our dead tenderly,” said a governor, calling for dead soldiers who had fallen far from home. If deeds of love toward those who die for their country, seem holy, what shall we say when men come to bury Him who died for the world? Chosen to high honor are ye, oh! servants of God. What were the countless riches of the one, or the mastership held in Israel by the other, compared to this never-to-be-forgotten act of love; the sad, sweet privilege of burying God’s dearly beloved Son! When our beloved

die, we, with inexpressible tenderness, prepare them for burial, and lay them away beneath the sod. This was God’s dear Son who was dead; his only begotten. Who shall take him down from the cross tenderly? How unfasten the cruel nails? How disentangle the crown of thorns?

Oh! that we had been there on that eventful night to share the task with solemn care. No ambition so holy, no other work so coveted as this. Carefully, now. Draw the iron from those mangled hands and feet. The royal head hangs drooping; hold it up with gentle hands, let it rest on thy shoulder, Joseph. Far richer is this privilege than to count over all thy silver and gold. Tenderly, O men, for never did human arms bear such a precious burden. Those eyes have looked love, and flashed unearthly brightness, but they are rayless now. Those hands have ever been stretched out to guide, and heal, and bless, and save; but they are wan, and white, and powerless, now. Take them into thine own, O Nicodemus, and wonder and adore. He is still thy Lord. They give back now no clasp, but one day he will place upon thy head, and on the brow of thy selected companion a crown that fadeth not away. He who remembers and loves the dead King in the season of his shame and dishonor, shall by that King be remembered when he comes again in his glory. Softly, now. Bathe with water the bloody forehead, and comb out the matted locks. Press your lips to the cold, white brow, for a greater sinner once dared to kiss his worn feet. Now fold the still hands over the quiet breast; wrap the loved form in the snow white linen; hide the pallid face under the napkin and the shroud. It is well; now bear him away. The gate of hades is open: lower the holy sleeper into the tomb: take the last look. Death is lord now, but Almighty Love folds the dead Lamb asleep on the bosom of the Infinite. Well done, ye servants of Jesus! now the task is over; turn homeward with measured steps. Do angels light your way? Did these two men dream of Eden on that night?

Now the King lies in state; let the cherubim visit and look upon him. Sleep on blessed Master, till the summons of the mighty God shall break thy slumber, and thou hear it said, “Ascend the skies, and sit upon my throne!” In the day when thou returnest to earth again, O Christ, thou wilt remember those who performed for thee the last funeral rites; and who wrapping thy dead form with spices in the winding-sheet, laid thee tenderly, and perchance with sobs and sighing, in the tomb. What a meeting, when the once dead Jesus and those who handled his body, and with awe and reverence clasped God’s dead Lamb in their arms in the memorable descent from the cross, stand at last on the mount, face to face! And what a change from that awful night at Calvary to the high noon of immortality and the bliss of the age of ages.

It may not be ours to shelter Jesus under our roof as did Lazarus, to sit at his feet as did Mary, to lean upon his breast as did John, to feel the clasp of his rescuing hand as did Peter, to walk by his side and hear him converse, as did the disciples bound for Emmaus, to anoint his body for the burial as did the woman who loved so much, or to take him down from the cross, and tenderly lay him in the grave, as did Joseph and Nicodemus; but Jesus still lives, and we can all do something for him. We may not bury the dead Christ, but we can live for the living Christ. We can believe in him, serve him, love him, adore him. We can please him, honor him, do his will, obey his precepts, receive his great salvation, and magnify his truth. We can associate with his people, labor in his cause, help to save the souls for whom he died, and spread the glad tidings of his reign. We can clothe the naked, feed the hungry, visit the sick and the imprisoned, shelter the distressed, compassionate the deaf, the lame, the maimed, and the blind, give to the poor, and bless a perishing world.

And lest we suppose that in doing all these good deeds to suffering humanity we miss our mark, and have no return for love lavished and labor spent, our blessed Lord has plainly told us that whatever we do to the least of these humble followers, whom he is graciously pleased to style his “brethren,” we do it unto him.

We then who sometimes wish that we had been near to anoint the Saviour for his burial, or take him down from the cross, can do these kind deeds to the Lord when we comfort, care for, and bless his people, or when we bury his poor friends. The head and body are one in all interests; so is Christ and the church. Doing for them we do for him. Let us then do all things for his people as “unto the Lord,” whether it is to the little ones under his training, the aged servants of Jesus under our charge, or the church of the Beloved in all the earth. And the King who notes and records each and every act of love toward himself or his own, and who will alike remember the dying thief, and the rich and honored men who found him a grave when others denied him decent burial; this King, who is soon to come, will remember us when we appear in his kingdom and glory.

Reader, have you done all you can for Jesus? Think of it.—The Christian.