To My Son, by Cornelia Rice

Publishing Committee · Battle Creek, Mich. · Mar 18, 1858

To My Son,

By Cornelia Rice

BRO. SMITH: Some four weeks since I received a letter from my son, stating he had been listening to a Harmonial Philosopher, and had become convinced that the Bible, especially the Old Testament, was not inspired, but was a code of corrupt laws, and that that noble attribute, Reason, was a better guide. I returned him the following answer:

With my eyes full of tears, and my heart full of pain, I take up my pen to address you again; And I wish so to speak in an accent so mild, As to win back the heart of a wandering child; For truly my heart's filled with sorrow and grief, As I read in your last year's established belief, That with a Voltaire, a Hume, and a Paine, You had laid by the Bible to let reason reign. Look abroad o'er the earth where that book has no sway; Does the reason of man shed a holier ray? My son! O my son! I exclaim with surprise, Are you then led astray by the Author of lies? In that Book uninspired whose truths you dismiss? Then how can you prove there's a life after this? Does Philosophy teach it? How can you rely On the strength of its power; (for you know you must die;)

Can it raise you to life? Well, and what if it should? With the earth unrenewed, would you call it a good? And sure, it can't prove to a sceptical mind, That some other world after this we shall find. Ah! here's the enigma! I've found out the whole, Though mortal yourself, you've an immortal soul; And soon all that's intelligent, all that's refined, Will soar to the skies and the shell leave behind. Well, how do you know this? Pray give me the proof, Now don't from the word of the Lord stand aloof; For none can give life but the Father and Son, In nature and wisdom and power they are one. And the word that raised Lazarus can also raise me, Though lost in the depths of the fathomless sea, And this hope like an anchor, firm, steadfast and sure, Stays my tempest-tossed soul, and I rest quite secure.

Then recede, my dear son, from the whirlpool of ruin— Death lies at the end of the road you're pursuing. Speak no more with contempt of God's holy law, In his great moral code you cannot find a flaw; And if some are annexed that you think license crimes, They only were added because of the times. For man had so fallen from what he once was, He would not, or could not, keep God's holy laws; And God must revoke his unalterable word, Or the sinner must die—but here we have heard That a ransom is found, his Son dies in our stead, He purchased us back, but yet still we are dead; And if Christ had not risen again from the grave, We should have no assurance he was able to save. But this is attested by Gentile and Jew, And I've reason to think that their witness is true.

And this great gospel truth that the dead should be raised, O'er Palestine's plains, like a meteor blazed. Their Prophet had gone to be High Priest in heaven; When his office was finished, and their sins all forgiven, As a King he'll return; they, immortal and fair, Would burst from their tombs to meet him in the air, And the time of his coming, I think, draweth near, For the signs he predicted are already here. The sun has been darkened, the stars seemed to fall, The hour of his judgment, the Third Angel's call, The beasts, and the trumpets, the seals, and the woes, All speak that probation is near to its close. The seven last plagues soon will wind up the strife, The saints will be changed, and the dead raised to life. On the crystal-like sea the ransomed shall stand, With a crown on each head, and a palm in each hand; The wicked be slain, and the earth desolate, Till it is restored to its Eden-like state.

Then Jesus shall reign as a King on the throne, And sickness and sorrow will never be known. The thought is transporting. I cry, can it be Such a heaven as this has been purchased for me? I'll try to be faithful; though faggot and flame My path intercept, I'll make heaven my aim. And now, my dear son, you're no "Thus saith the Lord," That a heaven like this will be your reward. O, had we naught else but the poor, glimmering ray Of man's boasted reason to light up the way, Or shine on the future, O, sad were our case, Despair might be stamped upon every face. And in this dilemma, how many have fled To converse with the souls of the long silent dead. Like Saul they've no answer by Teraphim or dream; They flee to the wizards when in this extreme; They peep and they mutter, they lead them astray, They cause them to stumble, they take them their prey. O, flee as you would from a scorpion's den, These doctrines of Satan, these dogmas of men, Come back to the Bible, it's surely inspired, The events there foretold have already transpired; And this very delusion speaks loud on the ear, That the coming of Jesus is now very near, For Satan is working with power to deceive, And his great lying wonders how many behold! But Jesus may yet save you from his cruel power, Is the prayer of your mother from this very hour. CORNELIA RICE. Folsomdale, N. Y., March 1st, 1855.