THIS is an ancient graveyard. The names of past generations who were born and died, who loved and suffered, who stormed and fought through the world, are engraven on these solid slabs. But there is no inscription to record their worth or demerit. Just names, and nothing more.
How strange to think that if Christ tarry, our names will be treated with the same apathy as these! So far as this world is concerned, we and all our generation shall pass away. As the flowers of the field, so we shall perish from the earth.
But each of these lives fulfilled a necessary part in the progress of the race. Each was in turn father and son; each passed on the torch of life; each contributed something to the fabric of humanity rising like a coral island from unknown depths. The hill‑tops would not be possible but for their lower courses which touch the valleys. We could not have the somebodies without an immense number of nobodies. The flowers of the race were prepared for by the slow progress of the plant through years of growth.
But each was the object of the love of God. Each was included in the redemptive purpose of our Lord; each contributed some minute particle to his nature; ach is living yet somewhere; each will have to stand before the judgment‑bar of God; each is predestined to live in the unknown world that lies on the other side. It is a stupendous thought to imagine the whole race, rooted in Adam, like one vast far‑spreading tree. Ah, reader, be sure that thou art taken out of the first Adam, and grafted into the second ‑‑ the Lord Jesus; and abiding in him, see 'that thou bring forth much fruit to his glory.