The Cave of Machpelah

 THE  CAVE  OF  MACHPELAH 

Calm  is  it  in  the  dim  cathedral  cloister,
Where  lie  the  dead  all  couched  in  marble  rare,
Where  the  shades  thicken,  and  the  breath  hangs  moister
Than  in  the  sunlit  air.

Where  the  chance  ray  that  makes  the  carved  stone  whiter,
Tints  with  a  crimson  or  a  violet  light
Some  pale  old  bishop  with  his  staff  and mitre,
Some  stiff  crusading  knight!

Sweet  is  it  where  the  little  graves  fling  shadows
In  the  green  churchyard,  on  the  shaven  grass,
And  a  faint  cowslip  fragrance  from  the  meadows
O'er  the  low  wall  doth  pass !

More  sweet,  more  calm  in  that  fair  valley's  bosom
The  burial-place  in  Ephron's  pasture-ground,
Where  the  oil-olive  shed  her  snowy  blossom,
And  the  red  grape  was  found;

When  the  great  pastoral  prince,  with  love  undying,
Rose  up  in  anguish  from  the  face  of  death,
And  weighed  the  silver  shekels  for  its  buying
Before  the  sons  of  Heth.

Here,  when  the  measure  of  his  days  was  numbered,  
Days  few  and  evil  in  this  vale  of  tears!
At  Sarah's  side  the  faithful  patriarch  slumbered,
An  old  man  full  of  years:

Here,  holy  Isaac,  meek  of  heart  and  gentle,
And  the  fair  maid  who  came  to  him  from  far,
And  the  sad  sire  who  knew  all  throes  parental,
And  meek-eyed  Leah,  are.

She  rests  not  here,  the  beautiful  of  feature,
For  whom  her  Jacob  wrought  his  years  twice  o'er,
And  deemed  them  but  as  one,  for  that  fair  creature,
-  So  dear  the  love  he  bore,  -

Nor  Israel's  son  beloved, who  brought  him  sleeping
With  a  long  pomp  of  woe  to  Canaan's  shade,
Till  all  the  people  wondered  at  the  weeping
By  the  Egyptians  made.

Like  roses  from  the  same  tree  gathered  yearly,
And  Hung  together  in  one  vase  to  keep,  -
Some,  but  not  all  who  loved  so  well  and  dearly,
Lie  here  in  quiet  sleep.

What  though  the  Moslem  mosque  be  in  the  valley,
Though  faithless  hands  have  sealed  the  sacred  cave,
And  the  red  Prophet's  children  shout  ''El  Allah!''
Over  the  Hebrews'  grave;

Yet  a  day  cometh  when  those  white  walls  shaking
Shall  give  again  to  light  the  living  dead,
And  Abraham,  Isaac,  Jacob,  reawaking,
Spring  from  their  rocky  bed.

Mrs.  C.  F.  Alexander.

The End

 The End
by Annie R. Johnson

Dear, suffering soul, bear up!
The pain can not be long!
Across the chasm of our griefs
I cry to thee, "Be strong!"

Yes, though within the dark
Woe's brink we both have trod;
As pilgrim's lost, we call to each
These words, "Hope thou in God!"

The end lies just before;
Mayhap, with glad surprise,
Thou soon shall see the way made clear,
Before thy wondering eyes!

Lo! even now his light
Strikes through dim forest ways!
Beyond! Beyond! Fly, bleeding feet,
To gain the "Gates of Praise!"

No more! no more to weep!
(Oh, clasp the full, rich joy,)
Thy hunted soul shall rest! yes, rest,
Where naught can e'er annoy.

Then, cheer thee, dear, sad heart,
The end lies just before!
Though dark the forest maze doth seem,
He leads! Canst ask for more?

The Cave of Machpelah

 THE CAVE OF MACHPELAH

Calm is it in the dim cathedral cloister,
Where lie the dead all couched in marble rare,
Where the shades thicken, and the breath hangs moister
Than in the sunlit air.

Where the chance ray that makes the carved stone whiter,
Tints with a crimson or a violet light
Some pale old bishop with his staff and mitre,
Some stiff crusading knight!

Sweet is it where the little graves fling shadows
In the green churchyard, on the shaven grass,
And a faint cowslip fragrance from the meadows
O'er the low wall doth pass!

More sweet, more calm in that fair valley's bosom
The burial-place in Ephron's pasture-ground,
Where the oil-olive shed her snowy blossom,
And the red grape was found;

When the great pastoral prince, with love undying,
Rose up in anguish from the face of death,
And weighed the silver shekels for its buying
Before the sons of Heth.

Here, when the measure of his days was numbered,--
Days few and evil in this vale of tears!--
At Sarah's side the faithful patriarch slumbered,
An old man full of years:

Here, holy Isaac, meek of heart and gentle,
And the fair maid who came to him from far,
And the sad sire who knew all throes parental,
And meek-eyed Leah, are.

She rests not here, the beautiful of feature,
For whom her Jacob wrought his years twice o'er,
And deemed them but as one, for that fair creature,
- - So dear the love he bore, --

Nor Israel's son beloved, who brought him sleeping
With a long pomp of woe to Canaan's shade,
Till all the people wondered at the weeping
By the Egyptians made.

Like roses from the same tree gathered yearly,
And Hung together in one vase to keep, --
Some, but not all who loved so well and dearly,
Lie here in quiet sleep.

What though the Moslem mosque be in the valley,
Though faithless hands have sealed the sacred cave,
And the red Prophet's children shout " El Allah!"
Over the Hebrews' grave;

Yet a day cometh when those white walls shaking
Shall give again to light the living dead,
And Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, reawaking,
Spring from their rocky bed.

Mrs. C. F. Alexander.

Remember your Creator...

Description of Illustration: scriptures "Remember your Creator before the silver cord is loosed, Or the golden bowl is broken, Or the pitcher shattered at the fountain, Or the wheel broken as the well. Then the dust will return to the earth as it was, And the spirit will return to God who gave it." Ecclesiates 12: 6-7 and "In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread Till you return to the ground, For out of you were taken; For dust you are, And dust you shall return." Genesis 3:19, A monk studies his scriptures. He points to a human skull which represents mortality. A city behind him and scroll rests at his finger tips; he rests on a cobbled road.

Have a question about the illustration? Just type it in the comment box and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. I only publish content that is closely related to the subject folks.

Now and Then

Now and Then

by Rev. W. C. Richards

Now - the tumult of the battle surging,

Now - the clouds that shut the warriors in;

Some who faint, and more the conflict urging -

Sighs and shouts together in the din!

Then - the splendor of the conquest shining,

Not a victor on the plain uncrowned;

Not a sigh for any loss repining -

Rapture waking all the sky around!

Now - our shrinkings from so many crosses,

And life's valleys watered by our tears.

Foolish tears we weep o'er little losses -

Trailing always through their mists our fears.

Then - the one cross we'll remember only -

Making of our crosses steps to Christ;

One dear cross whose passion vast and lonely

Bound us sweetly in redemption's tryst.

Now - the hidings of our Father's glory -

Walls that close around the earth and sun;

Weak unrest with nature's half-told story,

Knowledge only evermore begun.

Then - then the curtain of the universes

Rolled away, as mists at morning fled;

Each star that shines its history rehearses,

And ignorance, with sin and death, is dead.

Now - the anguish of all mortal sorrow.

Now, the groans that from our hearts are wrung,

Vain expectancies of bliss to-morrow,

All to-morrows with deep sackcloth hung.

Then - all sorrow from the bosom banished,

God himself to wipe our tears away;

Then - the cheats of earthly hopes evanished,

All to-morrows merged in heaven's to-day!

Now - the psalm that tells us death is strongest:

Strongest, surest of the foes we have;

Now - the waiting for the shadow's longest,

Till it falls upon the hallowed grave.

Then - the anthem of the resurrection -

We shall chant death's sure destructive o'er;

And shadows to the grave in dark direction,

From heaven's sunlight shall grow long no more.

The Inevitable Result Of Living...

The Inevitable Result Of Living, And Dying, Without Christ

Death like an archer, staunch and true,
That never missed a mark:
At last will send his arrow through.
The stubborn sinner's heart.
And then that stubborn sinner dies,
An angry God to meet:
In vain he then laments, and sighs,
His ruin is complete.
Excluded from eternal life,
In darkness and despair
Without lone single ray of light, 

To cheer him anywhere:
To realize the second death.
Is what he must endure;
And he of all good things bereft
Because he is impure;
The blood of Christ that purifies
The human soul from sin:
And the believer justifies,
Who trusts alone in Him;
On earth he slighted, and refused,
Or put it off till death; 

And thus God's grace, he then refused.
Until of life bereft,
He has himself alone to blame,
That he is suffering so:
It's useless for him to complain,
He's made his bed in woe. 

by Collings

A Prayer by Phoebe Cary

Prayer

by Phoebe Cary

Father! thou didst hear my prayer.

When I plead with thee to spare,

When I asked for length of years,

Thou didst pitying see my tears,

And thy words in answer were,

"Respite from the sepulchre!"

Lo! no more the prayer I raise:

Life hath waned to evil days;

Veiling in the dust my woes,

I would bless the grave's repose;

Sweeter, sweeter would it be,

Than a lover's dream to me.

Long enough thy child hath been

Struggling in a world of sin,

Long enough have doubts assailed,

Long enough the flesh prevailed,

Long enough hath sorrow tried

One it hath not purified.

In life's hours of rosy dawn,

Hope with white hand let me on,

Showing gorgeous imagery

Of a happier time to be;

But, in noonday's clearer flame,

Blest fruition never came.

Hastening now towards its close

Is the day that brightly rose,

And the hope that fled its prime

Comes not at evening time,

Hear me, pity, and recall,

Ere the midnight shadows fall!

Willing, eager to depart,

Old in years and old in heart,

Waiting but the messanger

To unseal the sepulchre,

Lo! again to Thee I come-

Take me, Father, take me home!