Sundown

“At even time it shall be light.” — Zechariah xiv., 7.

WHILE “night,” in all languages, is the symbol for

▼ gloom and suffering, it is often really cheerful, bright, and impressive. I speak not of such nights as come down with no -star pouring light from above, or silvered wave tossing up light from beneath — murky, hurtling, portentous, but such as you often see when the pomp and magnificence of heaven turn out on night-parade; and it seems as though the song which the morning stars began so long ago were chiming yet among the constellations, and the sons of God were shouting for joy. Such nights the sailor blesses from the forecastle, and the trapper on# the vast prairie, and the belated traveler by the road-side, and the soldier from the tent, earthly hosts gazing upon heavenly, and shepherds guarding their flocks afield, while angel hands above them set the silver bells a ringing: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace; good will toward men.”

What a solemn and glorious thing is night in the wilderness! Night among the mountains! Night on the

ocean! Fragrant night among tropical groves! Flash¬ ing night amid arctic severities! Calm night on Roman Campagna! Awful night among the Cordilleras! Glorious night 5mid sea after a tempest! Thank God for the night! The moon and the stars which rule it are light-houses on the coast, toward which I hope we all are sailing, and blind mariners are we if, with so many beam¬ ing, burning, flaming glories to guide us, we can not find our way into the harbor.

My text may well suggest that, as the natural evening is often luminous, so it shall be light in the evening of our sorrows — of old age — of the world’s history — of the Christian life.

“At eventime it shall be light.55

I. This prophecy will be fulfilled in the evening of Christian sorrow. For a long time it is broad daylight. The sun rides high. Innumerable activities go ahead with a thousand feet, and work with a thousand arms, and the pickaxe struck a mine, and the battery made a discovery, and the investment yielded its twenty per cent., and the book came to its twentieth edition, and the farm quadrupled in value, and sudden fortune hoisted to high position, and children wTere praised, and friends without number swayned into the family hive, and prosperity sang in the music, and stepped in the dance, and glowed in the wine, and ate at the banquet, and all the gods of music, and ease, and gratification gathered around this Jupiter holding in his hands so many thunderbolts of power. But every sun must set, and the brightest day must have its twilight. Suddenly the sky wTas overcast. The fountain dried up. The song hushed. The wolf broke into the family fold and carried off the best lamb. A deep howl of woe came crashing down through thQ joyous symphonies. At one rough twang of the hand of disaster the harp-strings all broke. Down went the strong business firm! Away went long-established credit! Up flew a flock of calumnies! The new book would not sell. A patent could not be secured for the invention. Stocks sank like lead. The insurance company exploded. “How much,” says the sheriff, “will you bid for this piano?” “How much for this library?” “How much for this family picture?” “How much? Will you let it go at less than half price? Going — going — gone!” Will the grace of God hold one up in such circumstances? What have become of the great multitude of God’s children who have been pounded of the flail, and crushed under the wheel, and trampled under the hoof? Did they lie down in the dust, weeping, wail¬ ing, and gnashing their teeth? Did they, like Job, curse God, and want to die because they had boils? When’ the rod of fatherly chastisement struck them, did they strike back? Because they found one bitter cup on the table of God’s supply, did they upset the whole table? Did they kneel down at their empty money-vault and say, “All my treasures are gone?” Did they stand by the grave of their dead, saying, •“There never will be a resurrection?”

Did they bemoan their thwarted plans and say, “The stocks are down — would God I were dead?” Did the night of their disaster come upon them moonless, star¬ less, dank, and howling, smothering and choking their life out? Ho! Ho! Ho! At eventime it was light. The swift promises overtook them. The eternal constellations, from their circuit about God’s throne, poured

down an infinite lustre. Under their shining the billows of trouble took on crests, and plumes of gold, and jasper, and amethyst, and flame. All the trees of life rustled in the midsummer air of God’s love. The night¬ blooming assurances of Christ’s sympathy filled all the atmosphere with heaven. The soul at every step seemed to start up from its feet bright- winged joys, warbling heavenward. “It is good that I have been afflicted,” cries David. “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,” exclaims Job. “Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing,” says St. Paul. “And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes,” exclaims John, in apocalyptic vision. At eventime it was light.. Light from the cross! Light from the promises! Light from the throne! S tr earning, joyous, outgushing, everlasting light!

II. The text shall find fulfillment in the time of old age. It is a grand thing to be young — to have the sight clear, and the hearing acute, and the step elastic, and all our pulses marching on to the drumming of a stout heart. Mid-life and old age will be denied many of us, but youth — we all know what that is. Those wrinkles were not always on your brow. That snow was not always on your head. That brawny muscle did not always bunch your arm. You have not always worn spectacles. Grave and dignified as you now are, you once went coasting down the hill-side, or threw off your hat for the race, or sent the ball flying sky-high. But youth will not always last. It stays only long enough to gwe us exuberant spirits, and broad shoulders for burden-carrying, and an arm with which to battle our way through difficulties. Life’s path, if you follow it long enough, will come under frowning crag and across

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trembling causeway. Blessed old age, if you let it come naturally. You can not hide it. You may try to cover the wrinkles, but you can not cover the wrinkles. If the time has come for you to be old, be not ashamed to be old. The grandest things in all the universe are old. Old mountains; old rivers; old seas; old stars, and an old eternity. Then do not be ashamed to be old, unless you are older than the mountains, and older than the stars.

How men and women will lie! They say they are forty, but they are sixty. They say they are twenty, but they are thirty. They say they are sixty, but they are eighty. How some people will lie!

Glorious old age, if found in the way of righteousness! How beautiful the old age of Jacob, leaning on the top of his staff; of John Quincy Adams, falling with the harness on; of Washington Irving, sitting, pen in hand, amid the scenes himself had made classical; of John Angell James, to the last proclaiming the Gospel to the masses of Birmingham; of Theodore Frelinghuysen, down to feebleness and emaciation devoting his illustrious faculties to the kingdom of God! At even¬ time it wTas light!

See that you do honor to the aged. A philosopher stood at the corner of the street day after day, saying to the passers-by, “You will be an old man; you will be an old man.” “You will be an old woman; you will be an old woman.” People thought that he was crazy. I do not think that he was. Smooth the way for that mother’s feet; they have not many more steps to take. Steady those tottering limbs; they will soon be at rest. Plow not up that face with any more wrinkles; trouble

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and care have marked it full enough. Thrust- no thorn into that old heart; it will soon cease to beat. “The eye that mocketh its father, and refuseth to obey its mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it.” The bright morning and hot noon¬ day of life have passed with many. It is four o’clock! five o’clock! six o’clock! The shadows fall longer, and thicker, and faster. Seven o’clock! eight o’clock! The sun has dipped below the horizon; the warmth has gone out of the air. Nine o’clock! ten o’clock! The heavy dews are falling; the activities of life’s day are all hushed; it is time to go to bed. Eleven o’ clock! twelve o’clock! The patriarch sleeps the blessed sleep, the cool sleep, the long sleep. Heaven’s messengers of light have kindled bonfires of victory all over the heavens. At even¬ time it is light! light!

III. My text shall find fulfillment in the latter day of the Church. Only a few missionaries, a few churches, a few good men, compared with the institutions leprous and putrefied.

It is early yet in the history of every thing good. Civilization and Christianity are just getting out of the cradle. The light of martyr-stakes, flashing all up and down the sky, is but the flaming of the morning; but when the evening of the world shall come, glory to God’s conquering truth, it shall be light. War’s sword clanging back in the scabbard; intemperance buried under ten ’ thousand broken decanters; the world’s impurity turning its brow heavenward for the benediction, “Blessed are the pure in heart;” the last vestige of selfishness sub¬ merged in heaven-descending charities; all China worshiping. Dr. Abeel’s Savior; all India believing in Henry Martyn’s Bible; aboriginal superstition acknowledging David Brainard’s piety; human bondage delivered through .Thomas Clarkson’s Christianity; vagrancy coming back from its pollution at the call of Elizabeth Fry’s Redeemer; the mountains coming down; the valleys going up; holiness” inscribed on horse’s bell, and silk¬ worm’s thread, and brown-thrasher’s wing, and shell’s tinge, and manufacturer’s shuttle, and chemist’s laboratory, and king’s sceptre, and nation’s Magna Charta. Not a hospital, for there are no wounds; not an asylum, for there are no orphans; not a prison, for there are no criminals; not an almshouse, for there are no paupers; not a tear, for there are no sorrows. The long dirge of earth’s lamentation has ended in the triumphal march of redeemed empires, the forests harping it on vine-strung branches, the waters chanting it among the gorges, the thunders drumming it among the hills, the ocean giving it forth with its organs, trade-winds touching the keys, and Euroclydon’s foot on the pedal. I want to see John Howard when the last prisoner .is reformed; I want to see Florence Nightingale when the last sabre-wound has stopped hurting; I want to see William Penn when the last Indian has been civilized; I want to see John Huss when the last flame of persecution has been extinguished; I want to see John Bunyan after the last pilgrim has come to the gate of the celestial city; above all, I want to see Jesus after the last saint has his throne, and begun to sing Hallelujah!

You have watched the calmness and the glory of the evening hour. The laborers have come from the fleld. The heavens are glowing with an indescribable effulgence, as though the sun in departing had forgotten to

shut the gate after it. All the beauty of cloud and leaf swim in the lake. For a star in the sky, a star in the water; heaven above, and heaven beneath. Not a leaf rustling, or a ‘bee humming, or a grasshopper chirping. Silence in the meadow; silence in the orchard; silence among the hills.

Thus bright and beautiful shall be the evening of the world. The heats of earthly conflict are cooled. The glory of heaven fills all the scene with love, and joy, and peace. At eventime it is light! light!

IV. Finally, my text shall find fulfillment at the end of the Christian’s life. You know how short a winter’s day is, and how little work you can do. Now, my friends, life is a short winter’s day. The sun rises at eight and sets at four. The birth - angel and the death - angel fly only a little way apart. Baptism and burial are near to¬ gether. With one hand the mother rocks the cradle, and with the other she touches a grave.

I went into the house of one of my parishioners on Thanksgiving day. The little child of the household was bright and glad, and with it I bounded up and down the hall. Christmas day came, and the light of that household had perished. We stood, with black book, reading over the grave, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

But I hurl away this darkness. I can not have you weep. Thanks be unto God, who giveth us the victory, at eventime it shall be light!

*1 have seen many Christians die. I never saw any of them die in darkness. What if the billows of death do rise above our girdle, who does not love to bathe? What though other lights do go out in the blast, what do we want of them when all the gates of glory swing open before us, and from a myriad voices, a myriad harps, a myriad thrones, a myriad palaces, there dash upon us “Hosannah! Hosannah!”

“Throw back the shutters and let the sun in,” said dying Scoville McCollum, one of my Sabbath-school boys.

You can see Paul putting on robes and wings of ascension as he exclaims, “I have fought the good fight; I have finished my course; I have kept the faith.”

Hugh M‘Kail went to one side of the scaffold of martyrdom and cried, “Farewell sun, moon, and stars! fare¬ well all earthly delights!” Then went to the other side of the scaffold and cried, “Welcome, God and Father! Welcome, sweet Jesus Christ, the Mediator of the covenant! Welcome, death! Welcome, glory!”

A fninister of Christ in Philadelphia, dying, said, in his last moments, C6I move into the light”

They did not go down doubting, and fearing, and shivering, but their battle - cry rang through all the caverns of the sepulchre, and was echoed back from all the thrones of heaven, “O death! where is thy sting? O grave! where is thy victory?” Sing, my soul, of joys to come.

I saw a beautiful being wandering up and down the earth.. She touched the aged, and they became young. She touched the poor, and they became rich. I said, “Who is this beautiful being, wandering up and down the earth?” They told me that her name was Death. What a strange thrill of joy when the palsied Christiah begins to use his arm again! When the blind Christian begins to see again! When the deaf Christian begins to hear again! When the poor pilgrim puts his feet on such pavement, and joins in such company, and has a

free seat in such a great temple! Hungry men no more to hunger; thirsty men no more to thirst; weeping men no more to weep; dying men no more to die. Gather up all sweet words, all jubilant expressions, all rapturous exclamations: bring them to me, and I will pour them upon this stupendous theme of the soul’s disenthralment! Oh! the joy of the spirit as it shall mount up toward the throne of God, shouting Freeh Free! Your eye has gazed upon the garniture of earth and heaven; but eye hath not seen it. Your ear has caught harmonies uncounted and indescribable — caught them from harp’s trill, and bird’s carol, and waterfall’s dash, and ocean’s doxology; but the ear hath not heard it. How did those blessed ones get up into the light? What hammer knocked off their chains? What loom wove’ their robes of light? Who gave them wings? Ah! eternity is not long enough to tell it; seraphim have not capacity enough to realize it — the marvels of redeeming love! Let the palms wave; let the crowns glitter; let the anthems ascend; let the trees of Lebanon clap their hands — they can not tell the half of it. Archangel be¬ fore the throne, thou failest!

Sing on, praise on, ye hosts of the glorified; and if with your sceptres you can not reach it, and with your songs you can not express it, then let all the myriads of the saved unite in the exclamation, “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!”

There will be a password at the gate of heaven. A great multitude come up and knock at the gate. The gatekeeper says, “The password.” They say, uWe have no password.. We were great on earth, and now we come up to be great in heaven.” A voice from within answers, “I never knew yon.” Another group come up to the gate of heaven and knock. The gatekeeper says, “The password.” They say, “We have no password. We did a great many noble things on earth. We endowed colleges, and took care of the poor.” The voice from within says, “I never knew you.” Another group come up to the gate of heaven and knock. The gate¬ keeper says, “The password.” They answer, “We were wanderers from God, and deserved to die; but we heard the voice of Jesus —” “Ay! ay!” says the gatekeeper, “that is the password! Lift up your heads, ye ever¬ lasting gates, and let these people come in.” They go in and surround the throne, jubilant forever!

Ah! do you wonder that the last hours of the Christian on earth are illuminated by thoughts of the coming glory*

Light in the evening. The medicines may be bitter. The pain may be sharp. The parting may be heart¬ rending. Yet, light in the evening. As all the stars of this night sink their anchors of pearl in lake, and river, and sea, so the waves of Jordan shall be illuminated with the down-flashing of the glory to come.

The dying soul looks up at the constellations. “The Lord is my light and my salvation: whom shall I fear?” “Thb Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall lead them to living fountains of water, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”

Close the eyes of the departed one: earth would seem tame to its enchanted vision. Fold the hands: life’s work is ended. Veil the face: it has been transfigured.

Mr. Toplady, in his dying hour, said, “Light.” Coming nearer the expiring moment, he exclaimed, with illu-SUNDOWN.

minated countenance, “Light l” In the last instant of his breathing, he lifted up his hands and cried Light! Light!”

Thank God for light in the evening!