History records no event so momentous to man. Through the vista of eighteen hundred years, the eye of faith still sees the unfolded radiance of the halcyon morning whose orient beams were the first dawning of an immortal day, and over which the lapse of ages has thrown no obscurity. It was an era which time can never blot from the recollections of man—which eternity cannot expunge from the archives of heaven. Then it was that the great scene of redemption opened, and the stupendous scheme of mercy, projected in the sublime councils of heaven, began to be developed. Then the great prophecy of ages was turned into history, and the Shiloh of early promise stood revealed. Then were promulgated those "good tidings of great joy" which first cheered to ecstasy the shepherds of Bethlehem, and which were soon to be "published to all people." Then "the morning stars sang together," and the arches of heaven rang with the hosannas of angels. Vain were the attempt to portray the glories of the auspicious day, which filled the earth with shouts of jubilation, and lighted up new lustres in the skies. The pens, the tongues, the language of mortals are impotent in the effort. Eloquence may array all its topics and figures; the muse may combine all her imagery, and soar on her sublimest wing; and, without the promptings of inspiration, leave the lofty theme all untold.
But, although we cannot portray the scene, we love to dwell on the portrait already drawn in the gospel, by more than mortal pen. We love to go back in imagination, to the long-lapsed period of his nativity; to linger around the hallowed spot; to witness the train of wonders involved in the process, and to ponder the auspicious sequel. The scene spreads itself anew23before the eye, and solemn awe gathers around the heart. The mighty birth is proclaimed in our ears. We see the infant Immanuel "wrapped in swaddling-clothes," and him to whom "is given all power in heaven and in earth," pillowed upon the rude manger of a stable! We see the "star in the east" stand gleaming in the heavens to guide the footsteps of the wise men. We hear him, while yet a child, confounding the wisdom of sages, and baffling Pharisaic subtlety. We follow him into the great scenes of his labors and toils, and behold acts of godlike benevolence circling his path, and miracles of mercy sealing his divine mission. We see water blushing into wine at his volition, and a few loaves and fishes swelled into profusion for thousands by his blessing. The eye-balls of the blind are unsealed at his touch; the sick are healed by his word; and the dead start into life at his summons.
We pursue him in his sufferings, mingle in his sorrows, and weep over the woes which beset his path to the cross. We see him treading the wine-press alone, and whelmed under waves of guilt not his own. We weep with him in the garden of Gethsemane, in the hour of agony, when the bitterness of anguish drew blood from every pore. We behold him betrayed by the kiss of a perfidious disciple; arraigned as a felon; tried in solemn mockery, amid the vociferations of a mob; and doomed to death by malice and perjury. We hear the declaration of his innocence and the sentence of his condemnation together, from the same mouth. We see the crown of thorns twining around his sacred head, and the last vial of wrath poured out, and the great tragedy of the cross closing the scene.
Closing, did I say? Does the scene close here? O, no! It only changes. A day of joy breaks upon this midnight of sorrows. The hour of triumph is at hand. Though he could not come down from the cross, he could break the seals of death, and the enclosures of the sepulchre. He arose, "the first fruits of them that slept," and taught us that sleeping millions shall one day burst their tombs and spring to life—the life of gods. If angels shouted at his birth, what notes of holy rapture should warble forth from human tongues at his triumph over the grave! This is the theme of human exultation. Here our human nature puts on immortal robes, and virtue dresses up for heaven. This great fact sweeps away at once the dreams of heathen speculation, and disperses the cloud that veiled the brightest pages of early philosophy.—Sel.