the cross-during some of these terrific scenes there were times when His great soul seemed almost overcome by sorrow or by pity -but midst it all, at no moment, however awful or appalling, has the severest and most prejudiced critic ever yet been able to discover the faintest gleam of fear in the intrepid breast of Jesus Christ. But the chief advantage which Jesus has been to the State as a citizen, comes from the imperishable love for liberty which He has ever implanted in the hearts of His followers. Show me a genuine disciple of Jesus Christ, and I will show you a man who will die before he will give up his freedom. What the old guard was to Napoleon, and ten fold more, "the soldiers of the cross" have ever been to liberty. As the servant of Elisha, when his eyes were opened, saw chariots and horses on the mountain tops, so Christians, with the eye of faith, have ever looked up and beheld Him "who went forth upon the white horse, conquering and to conquer," marching through the skies and beckoning them on from struggle to struggle and victory to victory. In liberty's darkest hours, their war cry has ever been, "resistance to tyrants is obedience to God," and they have willingly crimsoned old Earth with their blood and whitened the long meandering pathway of the centuries with their bones. As to that great tribal family to which we belong, it is sufficient to say that if there has ever been a gory field on which the conquering plumes of the AngloSaxon race were waving in the cause of freedom, where the soldiers of the cross fought not in the van, pouring out their blood and giving up their lives, then the eagle eye of history has not found it. We in America, Christian or infidel, will never sufficiently pay our debt of gratitude to the Apocalyptic rider on the white horse. Those who quit the tyrannies of the old World, and in their frail barks braved the winds and waves of the blue Atlantic, did so, that here upon our shores they might follow His plume according to the dictates of their own consciences. As the Jews, after their return from captivity, built again the walls of Jerusalem with the sword in one hand and the trowel in the other, so our forefathers, the rugged followers of Jesus Christ, blazed the path of civilization through our primeval forests, with the rifle in one hand and the axe in the other, and here they laid deep and strong the foundations of this glorious Republic, whose liberties we today enjoy. Every man who leaped from the Mayflower to Plymouth Rock was a disciple of the peerless Gallilean. Bancroft, our greatest historian, tells us that the first hand raised in America against the tyranny of Great Britain, was not by a convention of politicians or even of statesmen, for neither had yet summoned the necessary courage, but was raised by a little band of Christians, the fearless followers of the fearless Nazarene, assembled down in North Carolina. It is a remarkable fact, too, not generally known, that those immortal words, "all men are created equal," were first penned by this little band of Christian patriots, and afterwards copied verbatim by Thomas Jefferson and made by him the very core of the Declaration of Independence. In the long and terrific struggle which followed, nineteen twentieths, and more, of the soldiers who shivered half clad around the camp fires of the Revolution, and the blood of whose bare feet reddened the snows of the Atlantic slope, were believers in Jesus Christ. It is an historic fact, that, in the darkest hours, in scores of instances, ministers of the Gospel went to the front of battle at the head of all the male members of their congregations, performing the double duty of chaplain and captain, and praying as they fought. It is now becoming more and more popular in some quarters to prate much about "the want of culture," "the narrowness," "the intolerance," "the religious fanaticism" of the heroes of the Carolinas, of Virginia, of New York, Pennsylvania and New England, who stood on guard during the long black night which gave birth to our Republic, and whose rough, faithful hands rocked its cradle. But let others do as they will on lecture platform, in great magazines, or in leading editorials in metropolitan dailies, in defaming these old patriots, as for me, when I strike the word gratitude from my vocabulary, when I hate my country, when I despise liberty, when I curse the sweet memory of the mother who brought me into being, then, and not till then, will I defame and malign the Puritan fathers through whose blood and suffering has come our freedom, and who were the intrepid followers of Jesus Christ. There has been some discussion in recent years as to who founded America. Some claim it was George Washington. All glory to him, but it was not he. Others say it was Thomas Jefferson. I stand with warm heart and uncovered head above his grave, but it was not he. Let us place honor where honor is due. Jesus of Nazareth founded this glorious Republic; and if I were an infidel, and, if I were also an American patriot, I would kiss the hem of Jesus' garment, whenever His name was mentioned. JESUS OF NAZARETH AS A PHILANTHROPIST. We live in the age of big things, when men are amassing vast millions and even billions of dollars, and then startling mankind with the magnitude and magnificence of their philanthropy. I must not cause you to misunderstand me at this point. The intense struggles of boyhood and early manhood have wedded my heart forever to the poor, but I had a friend once whose benevolence bestowed at the right moment took me from between the plow handles for a time, and assisted in enabling me to obtain an education, and I must not despise the benefactions of the rich. I love to see those whom God has permitted to possess great wealth, giving their vast sums to assist the victims of poverty or disease, or to advance the noble causes of education and religion. But somehow I cannot resist the temptation to look up and thank Heaven that Earth's greatest philanthropist was not possessed of a single farthing, either in money or property. As I contemplate Him in this behalf, some sublime scenes rise before me. In the first scene I see an humble dwelling nestled down among the clustering trees. It is break of day. Golden beams of light are chasing each other athwart the heavens. The dewdrops are glistening. The birds are singing. The bright sun is about to mount the skies. From out this humble dwelling I see come its owner, either to his work in the field hard by, where, ever and anon, he may drink from the gourd at the old spring, or to his study, or to mart of trade, or to his station beside the blazing forge. While he is gone I hear his wife within, singing as she goes cheerily about the routine of her daily duties. Night comes and the whole family are assembled; father is reading, mother often reads too, but just as often with her work in her lap, she is doing what mother is so much wont to do, she is trying to help everyone. The children gathered like lambs in the fold and protected from the wolves of vice, are at their books. After a while the youngest of them leaves the company with the sweet words upon its lips, Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Erelong, when a chapter has been read from the well-worn Bible and the evening prayer ascended, the dancing flames die down in the old fireplace and Morpheus claims them all for his guests. |