The Whole Creation Sigheth.
A sigh! you all know it well, this sigh of sadness, this sigh of expectation. Not a breast that has not heaved it; no lips from which it has not often risen to Heaven. We are ill at ease. All of us, whether we be happy or unhappy, have a burden to bear, the burden of human woes. There is no escape from our deep consciousness, intensified perhaps by the breathless hurry of our age,—that of the short duration of all earthly things. The best are soonest over, but all pass in exceeding haste, and we ourselves seem as though a mighty and restless wind were sweeping us away. Formerly, tidings, whether good or bad, were slow of step; we hardly knew what was going on at the other side of the globe till a year after the event. If blood had been spilled, the earth had had time to drink it up; if tears had flowed, the sun had had time to dry them. The griefs that spoke to us from afar, left the heart comparatively unmoved. Things are changed now. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil has bent its branches more within our reach, and each moment our greedy hands are raised to gather its fruit. And the result is not only an anxious restlessness, but a fund of bitter melancholy. Formerly, the general tone was one of gaiety. The note that an attentive observer would have heard prevailing over all others, was a crystalline serene note, echoing from the cottage to the palace. The note that echoes over our earth in this present hour, in the village, town, or quiet country, is a wailing note, akin to tears,—an immense sigh. As for me, from my heart there ever rises an unutterable groan. The world as it now is, does not satisfy me; still less do I satisfy myself. Creation suffers and laments with me. St. Paul expresses this mighty woe in one strong word,—"travaileth in pain." . . . What is it that creation hopes for? For its deliverance. For what does it sigh? For its restoration. What does it wait for? For Jesus, the King! He will come again! This cry echoes throughout the Scriptures. He will come again. He who publishes liberty to the captives, and crushes death beneath His foot—He will come again. With Him will come purity, love, the era of perfect blessedness foretold by the prophets. The messengers of the Lord in all times speak to us of a sanctified world, singing praises to God; we only know a sinful world, hurling complaints and blasphemies against Him. Happiness overflows the earth of which they speak. Our earth is the seat of desolation. They tell us of "times of refreshing;" our times are times of exhaustion. Peace, love, exceeding great joy here on earth, both with God and our fellow creatures; these are promised; and, behold, wars ravage, tears inundate our world; sorrow for the dead draws her dark veil round it; the angels as they pass it in their heavenward flight hear a murmur of plaintive cries, angry voices, and mad laughter, sadder still than tears. From age to age generations of believers have been laid in the grave, their faces turned to the east; and each, in dying, has left behind the sublime watchword, "Thy kingdom come!" Yea, Lord, Thy kingdom come! Scoffers, indeed, may laugh. "Where is the promise of His coming?" they say. "Since the fathers fell asleep, all things have gone on as they were." We have nothing to answer, and nothing to ask, but simply, Thy kingdom come! Thy kingdom come! It is at once a prayer and a pledge. He who told us thus to pray is He who will surely come. If hearts big with love, hands clasped,—if, with strong crying and tears, the whole earth were to raise this burning aspiration to the skies,—oh, I believe that the Lord would hear, I believe, indeed, that the Lord would come. "Even so, come, Lord Jesus!"—Gasparin's Heavenly Horizons.