The Victory over Death by H. Bonar

Publishing Committee · Rochester, N. Y. · Jul 10, 1855

The Victory over Death.

By H. Bonar

THE issue of the conflict between the saints and death was decided when the Lord arose. He met the enemy on his own territory, his own battle-field, and overcame. He entered the palace of the king of terrors, and there laid hold of the strong man, shaking his dwelling to its foundations as he came forth, carrying away its gates along with him, and giving warning of being about to return, in order to complete his conquest by "spoiling his goods," and robbing him of the treasures he which had kept so long—the dust of sleeping saints.

The first act of spoiling the strong man of his goods begins at the resurrection. Of this we have already spoken generally; but the subject is so largely dwelt upon in Scripture, that something more special is needed. For it is a hope so fruitful in consolation to us who are still sojourners in a dying world like this, and yet so little prized, that we must not pass it slightly by.

Let us look at it in the aspects in which the apostle spreads it out before us in the 15th of his first Epistle to the Corinthians.

The vision which he there holds before us, is one of glory and joy. It is a morning landscape, and contrasts brightly with present night and sorrow. It draws aside the veil that hides from view our much-longed-for

heritage, showing us from our prospect-hill the excellence of the land that shall so soon be ours—plains richer than Sharon, valleys more fruitful than Sibmah, mountains goodlier than Carmel or Lebanon. The then and the now, the there and the here, are strangely diverse. Here the mortal, there the immortal; here the corruptible, there the incorruptible; here the earthly, there the heavenly; here the dominion of death, there death swallowed up of victory; here the grave devouring its prey, there the spoiler of the grave coming forth in resurrection-power, to claim each particle of holy dust, undoing death's handiwork, spoiling the spoiler, bringing forth in beauty that which had been laid down in vileness, clothing with honor that which had been sown in shame.

"The trumpet shall sound, the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed!" All this "in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye." Other changes are gradual, this sudden. There is the ebbing and the flowing; there is the growing up into manhood, and the growing down into old age; there is the slow opening of spring into summer, and of summer into autumn; but this shall be unlike all these changes. It shall be instantaneous—like the lightning's flash, or the twinkling of an eye. He who spake and it was done, shall speak again, and it shall be done; he who said, Let there be light, and there was light, shall speak, and light shall come forth out of the grave's thick darkness.

"This corruptible shall put on incorruption!" There will be an entire casting aside of mortality with all its wrappings of corruption, with all its relics of dishonor. Every particle of evil shall be shaken out of us, and "this vile body" transfigured into the likeness of the Lord's own glorious body. We entered this world mortal and corruptible; all our life long we are imbibing mortality and corruption, becoming more and more thoroughly mortal and corruptible; the grave sets its seal to all this, and crumbles us down into common earth. But the trumpet sounds, and all this is gone. Mortality falls off and all pertaining to it is left behind. No more of dross or disease in our frame. We can then defy sickness, and pain, and death. We can say to our bodies, be pained no more; to our limbs, be weary no more; to our lips, be parched no more; to our eye, be dim no more.

"O death, where is thy sting?" He that hath the power of death is the devil, the old serpent, and he torments us here. Sin gave him his sting; and the law gave sin its strength; but now that sin has been forgiven and the law magnified, the sting is plucked out. The stinging begins with our birth; for life throughout is one unceasing battle with death, until, for a season, death conquers, and we fall beneath his power. But the prey shall be taken from the mighty and his victims rescued for ever. Now sin has passed away, and what has become of death's sting—its sharpness, its pain, its power to kill? It cannot touch the immortal and incorruptible!

"O grave, where is now thy victory?" A conqueror all along hast thou been—never yet baffled—thy course one perpetual triumph—the ally of death, following in his footsteps; not only smiting down the victim, but devouring it, taking it into thy den, and consuming it bone by bone, till every particle is crumbled into dust, as if to make victory so sure that a retrieval of it would be absolutely impossible. Yet thy victories are over; the tide of battle is turned in the twinkling of an eye. Look at these rising myriads—thou canst hold them no longer: thou thoughtest them thy prey, when they were but given to keep for a little moment. See these holy ones, without one spot, not one stain on which thy sting, O death, can fasten; not a weakness, which might encourage thee again to hope for a second victory! All thy doings of six thousand years undone in a moment! Not a scar remaining from all thy many wounds; not a trace, or disfigurement, or blot—all perfection—eternal beauty! And look at these other holy ones, also glorified! They have not tasted death, nor passed down into the grave. Over them thou hast had no power. Thou hast waged war with them in vain. They have seen no corruption, and they remain monuments that thou wert not invincible. They have defied thy power, and now they are beyond thy reach!

Ah, this is VICTORY! It is not escaping by stealth out of the hands of the enemy, it is conquering him! It is not bribing him to let us go; it is open and triumphant victory—victory which not only routs and disgraces the enemy, but swallows him up—victory achieved in righteousness, and in behalf of those who had once been "lawful captives."

And the victor, who is he? Not we, but our Brother-king. His sword smote the mighty one, and under his shield we have come off conquerors. The wreath is his of victorious battle, not ours; we are the trophies, not the conquerors. He overcame. How? By allowing himself to be overcome! He plucked the sting from death. How? By allowing it to pierce himself! He made the grave to let go its hold. How? By going down into its precincts and wrestling with it in the greatness of his strength. He brought round the law which was against us to be upon our side. How? By giving the law all that it sought, so that it could ask no more either at him or of us.

How complete the victory over us seemed for a while to be! yet how complete the reversal! These enemies are not only conquered, but more than conquered. No trace of their former conquests remains. We not only live, but are made immortal. We not only are rescued from the corruption of the grave, but made incorruptible for ever.

Victory, then, is our watchword. We entered on the conflict at first, assured of final victory by Him who said, "I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth on me, though he were dead yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth on me shall never die;"—by Him who to all his many promises of spiritual life and blessing added this, "and I will raise him up at the last day." When taking up sword and shield, we were sure of success; we could boast when putting on the harness as he that putteth it off in triumph. Victory was our watchword during every conflict, even the hardest and the sorest. Victory was our watchword on the bed of death, in the dark valley, when going down for a season into the tomb. Victory is to be our final watchword when re-appearing from the grave, leaving mortality beneath us, and ascending to glory.

"Then shall Jehovah God wipe away tears from off all faces." Isa. xxv, 8; xxx, 19; xxxv, 10; lx, 20; Jer. xxxi, 12; Rev. vii, 17; xxi, 4. We shall weep no more. The furrows of past tears are effaced. Tears of anguish, tears of parting, tears of bereavement, tears of adversity, tears of heart-breaking sorrow, these are forgotten. We cannot weep again. The fountain of tears is dried up. God our Lord wipes off all tears. It is not time that heals the sorrows of the saints, or dries up their tears; it is God; God himself; God alone. He reserves this for himself, as if it were his special joy. The world's only refuge in grief is time, or pleasure; but the refuge of the saints is God. This is the true healing of the wound; and the assurance to us that tears once wiped away by God cannot flow again.

"The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth." Isa. xxv, 8. Rebuke, reproach, persecution, have been the church's lot on earth. The world hated the Master, and they have hated the servant. The "reproach of Christ," [Heb. xi,] is a well-known reproach. Shame for his name is what his saints have been enduring, and shall endure until he comes again. But all this is to be reversed. Soon the world's taunt shall cease. They shall scorn no more; they shall hate no more; they shall revile no more, and no more cast out our names as evil. Honor crowns the saints, and their enemies are put to shame. It is but one day's reviling before men, and then an eternity of glory in the presence of God, and of the Lamb. Then the name of saint shall be a name of glory; both in earth and in heaven.

Why shrink then from the world's reproach, when it is but a breath at the most, and when we know that it so soon shall cease? Why not rejoice that we are counted worthy to suffer shame for the name of Jesus, when we know that all that affliction here is not worthy to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed in us? The morning, and the glory which the morning brings with it, will more than compensate for all. Let us be of good cheer, then, and press onward, through evil report as well as through good, having respect unto the recompense of reward.

"Creation shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the sons of God." That morning which brings resurrection to us brings restitution to creation—deliverance to a groaning earth. The same Lord that brings us out of the tomb, rolls back the curse from off creation, effacing the vestiges of the first Adam's sin, and presenting a fresh memorial of the second Adam's righteousness. Happy world! when the curse is obliterated, when the bondage is broken, when the air is purged, when the soil is cleansed, when the grave is emptied, and when the risen saints take the throne of creation to rule in righteousness with the sceptre of the righteous King.

Resurrection is our hope; our hope in life, our hope in death. It is a purifying hope. It is a gladdening hope. It comforts us when laying in the grave the clay of those whom we have loved. It refreshes and elevates when we remember how much precious dust earth has received since the day of righteous Abel. How sweet that name—RESURRECTION! It pours life into each vein and vigor into each nerve at the very mention of it!

It is not carnal thus to bend over the clay-cold corpse and long for the time when these very limbs shall move again; when that hand shall clasp ours as of old; when those eyes shall brighten; when those lips shall resume their suspended utterance; when we shall feel the throbbings of that heart again! No, it is scriptural, it is spiritual. Some may call it sentimental; but it is our very nature. We cannot feel otherwise, even if we would. We cannot but love the clay. We cannot but be loth to part with it. We cannot but desire its reanimation. The nature that God has given us can be satisfied with nothing less. And with nothing less has God purposed to satisfy it. "Thy brother shall rise again." "Them that have been laid to sleep by Jesus will God bring with him."

We feel the weight of that mortality that often makes life a burden; yet we say, "Not that we would be unclothed, but clothed upon, that mortality may be swallowed up of life." We lay within the tomb the desire of our eyes, yet we cling to the remains, and feel as if the earth that struck the coffin were wounding the body on which it falls. At such a moment the thought of opening graves and rising dust is unutterably precious. We shall see that face again. We shall hear that voice again. Our risen friend shall be in very deed—form, look, voice—the friend that we have known and loved. Our risen brother will be all that we knew him here when, hand in hand, we passed through the wilderness together, cheered with the blessed thought that no separation could part us long, and that the grave itself could unlink neither hands nor hearts.—H. Bonar.