The Ripest Communion

Psalin xxv. 1 v. 11 Unto Thee. 0 Lord, do I lift up my soul.”

There are three upliftings in the religious life — hope, faith, and love. Hope is the lifting up of the eyes; it is the time of youth. There is always a charm in unfinishedness when we are young; the unreached land is the desired land. Faith is the lifting up of the hands; it is the time of manhood. Every lifting of the man’s hand is a seed sown in faith. He is in all things a speculator; he trusts to the mercy of the coming day. Love is the lifting up of the soul: it is the time of age. I have always felt that the autumn of life is the season in which we first view things as they are. Hope and faith are in the future; love is in the present. The eye looks forward; the hand stretches onward; but the soul never moves from its place; it admires here and now. To have the soul lifted up to God is what men commonly call death. The Psalmist says we can reach it without dying, can reach it to-day, this moment, by one flight of love. Love is the true lifting of the soul — the true death. It brings me from time into eternity, from the changeful into the abiding. It raises me into a world where there is no future, no to-morrow, no wish to look forward — where the Divine presence is fulness of joy. It makes me independent of memory, independent of hope, independent of change. It restores to me the life of the butterfly; it magnifies the moment; it bids the sun stand still. It is the end of all climbing, the close of all longing, the satisfaction of all aspiring, the goal of all seeking — the rest that remaineth to the people of God.

Son of Man, lift up my soul. There is no need to wait for death; death lifts not so high as love. Love is the swiftest of all flights into Thy presence. I know why John lay on Thy bosom; because he had the most rapid wing. Hope is beautiful, but it cannot rest; it will not let Peter make a tabernacle for Thee. Faith is beautiful, but it cannot rest; it bids Paul press forward for the mark of Thy prize. But love reposes. It rests on Thy bosom because it is Thy bosom — because it can dream

N of nothing beyond. The uplifted eye has an expanse before it; the uplifted hand has a work before it; but the uplifted soul basks in Thy present glory. It says Thy will be done. It buries prayer in praise. It loses Thy rainbow in Thy Ararat. It forgets the thought of to-morrow in the rest of to-day. I shall say “Now is the accepted time” when Thou hast lifted up my soul.