Reflections on the New Year
Can it be that another year has fled? With all its joys and trials, all its sins and duties, all its instructions and privileges, — is it fled? Yes, it is gone. It has terminated the lives of millions, and like an irresistible current, has borne them on to the grave and the judgment. It has gone. Like a dream of the night, it has gone!
Amid the rapids of time, there are few objects a man observes with less care and distinctness than himself. To one standing on the shore, the current appears to pass by with inconceivable swiftness; but to one who is himself gliding down the stream, the face of this vast extent of waters is unruffled, and all around him is a dead calm. It is only by looking toward the shore, by discerning here and there a distant landmark, by casting his eye back upon the scenery that is retiring from his view, that he sees he is going forward. And how fast! The tall pine that stands alone on the
mountain’s brow, casts its shade far down the
valley; while the huge promontory throws its
shadow almost immeasurably on the plain below.
It is but a few years, and I was greeting life’s
opening day. But yesterday. I thought myself
approaching its meridian. To-day I look for those
meridian splendours, and they are either wholly
vanished, or just descending behind the evening
cloud. I cannot expect to weather out the storms
of this tempestuous clime much longer. A few
more billows on these dangerous seas, perhaps a
few days of fair weather is the most I can look
for, before I am either shipwrecked, or reach my
desired haven.
Why fly these years so rapidly? It is in anticipation rather than retrospect, that men put too high an estimate upon earthly things. I have been wandering to day in the grave yard. I have trodden softly on the place of my fathers’ sepulchres. I have been playing with the willow and the cypress that weep over their dust. The generations of men dwell here. Yes, here they are. Those whom I have loved, and still love, and hope to love, are here. The fashion of this world passeth away. The fair fabric of earthly good is built upon the sand. It rocks and falls under the first stroke of the tempest. Man, at his best estate is altogether vanity. It is well that it is so. Were it otherwise, we should put far off the evil day, and live as if we flattered ourselves with immortality on the earth. When the Duke of Venice shewed Charles the Fifth the treasury of St. Mark, and the glory of his princely palace, instead of admiring them, he remarked, “These are the things that make men so loth to die.”
On what rapid wings has this last year sped its course? How sure and certain an approximation to the close of this earthly existence! Every year adds to what is past and leaves less to come. What is your life? It is even as a vapour that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away. What is it, when compared with the amount of labour to be accomplished, and the magnitude of the interests at stake? What is it, compared with the facility with which it may be interrupted, and the ten thousand causes of decay and dissolution it is destined to encounter 7 What is it, compared with the ever enduring existence to which it is an introduction? How fugitive! how frail! Hardly has the weary traveller laid himself down to rest, when he is summoned away to pursue his journey, or called to his everlasting home. We spend our years as a tale that is told. The flying cloud, the evanescent vapour, the arrow just propelled from the string, the withering grass, the flower whose beauty scarcely blooms e’er it is faded, and whose fragrance is scarcely perceptible e’er it is gone, are apt similitudes of the life of man.
I am but a wanderer, a pilgrim, a sojourner on the earth. Though every thing is cheerful about me, I feel to day exiled and alone. A thousand recollections crowd upon my mind to remind me of the past, to premonish me of the future, and to lead me to some just conceptions of the present. This world is not my home. I have made it my resting place too long. I hear a voice to-day, in accents sweet as angels use, whispering to my lonely heart, Arise and depart hence for this is not your rest! I am away from my Father’s house. I have felt vexations and trials. I have experienced disappointments and losses. I have known the alienation of earthly friends. I am not a stranger to dejected hopes. I know something of conflicts within. But now and then I have a glimpse of the distant and promised inheritance, which more than compensates me for all. It is no grief of heart to me that I have no enduring portion beneath the sun. I am but a passing traveller here. T would fain feel like one who is passing from place to place, and going from object to object, with his eye fixed on some long-wished for abode beyond; while every successive scenebrings me nearer to theendof my course, and ail these earthly vicissitudes endear to me the hopes of that final rest. To live here, however happily, however usefully, however well, must not be my ultimate object. I was born for eternity. Nay, I am the tenant of eternity even now. Time belongs to eternity. It is a sort of isthmus, or rather a little gulph, with given demarcations, set off and bounded by lines of ignorance; but it mingles with the boundless flood — it belongs to eternity still. A great change indeed awaits us. We must drop this tabernacle and go into a world of spirits. But we shall be in the same duration. I must live for eternity.
In entering on another year, I know not from what unexpected quarter, or at what an unguarded hour, difficulties and dangers may come. O that I could enjoy more of the favour of God, more of the presence of the Saviour, more of the sealing of the ever blessed Spirit! O for more of a calm, approving conscience, and more of the delightful influence of the peace-speaking blood of Jesus Christ! From some cause, or other, I begin this year with a trembling heart. I fear I may loose my way. I am afraid lest I should turn aside from the straight path; lest I may repose in the bower of indolence and ease; lest I may sleep on enchanted ground; lest I should be ensnared, if not destroyed by an unhallowed curiosity; lest I should be betrayed by my own presumption and self-confidence. I can remember some who have forsaken the way and fallen into snares; and the sad memorials of their folly are strewed along my path. Why should I hope to pass unwatched or unmolested? The enemy is not asleep. Many a time have I been baffled by his artifices. Rest where I will, and rise when I may, he is always at my side. And shall I dream of peace? Shall I not watch and pray? Will not presumption and sloth cost me dear? Blessed God! hold thou me up, and I shall be safe! Pity thy erring creature. Forgive thy wandering child. Keep, and with the bounties of thy grace, bless thy poor suppliant. Preserve him another year. Let him not be conformed to this world. Give him a warm and humble heart. Let nothing interrupt, or retard his progress toward the Zion above!
I would live another year, if it be my Heavenly Father’s will. And yet I would not live to sin, and fall, and reproach my Saviour and his blessed cause. Better die than live to no good purpose!
I would live till my work is done — cheerful when it is most arduous, and grateful for strength according to my day. But I would not be afraid to die. Shall the child desire to be away from his Fathers house? Shall the traveller, already weary, choose to have his stay in the wilderness prolonged? It were a sad sight to see a Christian die with regret — to see him go home, as if he were going to a prison! O let me think much and often of my heavenly home!
“Jerusalem, my happy home!
“Name ever dear to me!
” When shall my labours have an end,
“In joy and peace in thee?
“Jerusalem, my happy home!
“My soul stills pants for thee;
” Then shall my labours have an end,
“When I thy joys shall see.”
Let me then often climb the mount of contemplation, and prayer, and praise, and there try to catch a glimpse of the glory to be revealed and get my cold heart affected with a view of its yet distant endearments. Love to God — communion with Qod — devotedness to God, these are the foretastes of heaven. If through the cares and duties of secular life, I cannot preserve an invariable tendency of mind toward that holy world, — let it be a more habitual and frequent tendency! I feel the sorrows of this guilty insensibility, this languor of spiritual affection, and long for those hallowed moments when the meltings of contrition, the fervours of desire, the vividness of faith, and the hope full of immortality shall shed their sacred fragrance over my spirit, and make me pant for heaven. Nor let it be a transient emotion, kindled by some momentary excitement, or awakened by some impulse of the imagination; but marked by all the ardour of passion and all the constancy of principle. Spirit of the Redeemer! shed abroad thine own love in this poor heart of mine, and thus seal it to the day of eternal redemption. Let me greet every truth, every providence, every meditation that shall invite me to more intimate intercourse with heaven. Let me dwell upon the communications sent down from that blessed world to cheer my fainting spirit and revive my courage by the way. Let me welcome those messages of divine providence that are designed and adapted to intercept my constant view of earth, and bring the realities of eternity near. Let me grieve at nothing that makes me familiar with heaven. Let me never mourn when some little stream of comfort and joy is dried up, and I am driven more directly to the Fountain. Let me take a fresh departure for the land of promise from the beginning of this New Year. I would fain look upward with a more stedfast eye, and inarch onward with a firmer step. Nor would I lose sight of the cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night, but go where it goes, and rest where it rests.
And who, — who will remain behind? Who will be content to have his hopes bounded by the narrow scenes of earth? Go up fellow traveller to eternity, go up to some selected eminence of thought, where the splendours of the Holy City shall break upon your view. This world is not your home any more than mine. It cannot comfort you, more than it has comforted me. You may be called away from all its scenes as soon as I. Your journey to the grave may be shorter even than mine. Nay, this year, thou mayest die.