i. The Common Destiny.
We live to die. When or where, it is vain to inquire ; but that we must pass through the gates of death, no room is left for us to doubt. It is the common lot. Death is life's shadow. It is not coeval with life, but it is coexistent with it. Wherever you find the one in this world of ours, you find the other. There is not a tree that grows, not a bird that sings, not a flower that blooms, not a child that laughs, not a man that toils, not anything that lives, but is destined to die. So Moses the servant of the Lord died.
There is no pause in the succession. "One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever," — that is, throughout these successive genera- tions of men. It abides, but they are gone. The mount from whose flaming summit the voice of God came forth still looks down upon the depths around it, and the dreary wilderness beyond it; but Moses, the tribes, and the tents of Israel have disappeared. The Sea of Tiberias still lies embedded, bright and blue, amid the hills of Galilee ; but the men who crowded its shores to listen to the voice of One who spake as never man spake are nowhere to be found — all are " gatliered to their fathers."
DEUTERONOMY xxxiv. 5, 6 Sz
Leaves, leaves, dead leaves of autumn everywhere !
They reddened all the floor of Fontainebleau
And rustled under every heedless foot.
They choked the gutters of the streets and filled
The carts of scavengers. They danced before
My steps, an eerie ghostly dance, and touched
My cheek and wailed about my ears. "Brief life
Is theirs," said one who, passing, deemed he knew
My thought. "Brief life?" I captured one and read
A long, long story on its rusty face.
An age-long tale of life upon the tree
Alternating with death upon the ground.
I saw the forest dropping wintry tears
On leaves slow lapsing back to formlessness.
I saw the little sun, the little frost
Of verdant life, the fall, the death again.
The myriads and myriads of leaves
That make the forest mould cried out to me:
" Infinity, eternity we taste
Who have not breath enough to die, but what
Of man?" The roadway echoed to my steps:
"Infinity, eternity, but what
Of man?" And when I had attained the town
Each foot that hurried through the falling night
Beat out the words: "To-day the little sun
The little frost of life, but yesterday
We were not, and to-morrow shall not be —
Infinity, eternity, but what
Of man?"i
^ In the old times, before the settlements in the great north- west, when the fur companies would establish here and there a great trading post and send out their trappers to all parts of the country, trails were made in every direction, but they all ended at the post. North, south, east, west, for hundreds of miles in every direction, along large rivers, following small streams into the mountains, crossing lakes, searching through deep canyons, the trails would wind, but you could begin a hundred miles away, on any one of them, and however devious its course might be, it would end at the trader's camp. The grave is the end of the trail of this world's life. A man may start where he will. He may climb the heights of wealth or traverse the deep canyons of poverty. He may follow up the moimtains of hard struggle or
* Anna Bunston, The Porch of Paradise, 3,
84 THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF MOSES
paddle his canoe on a stream of idleness. But when you get to the end of the trail, it is all the same. It is an open grave. Whether he brings many pelts there or few, however great or small have been the spoils of his life chase is of no account, for the grave is too narrow to hold any of them. We brought nothing with us into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. God help us that we may learn over again the old, old lesson that we learn so often and forget so soon — that we are with rapid feet following the trail to the grave. As we go over the trail but once, we never know how near the end is. It may be a long way off. It may be just over the hill.^
ii. At the Word of God.
All life in the universe, our existence now and for ever, depends upon the Divine will. No one ever died a moment sooner than God designed, or lived a moment longer. We are entirely in His hands. He gave us birth. He willed our being. He placed us here, according to His wisdom, as was best for us. He takes us hence when it is best for us. We talk of accidental deaths, and premature graves. The language has really no meaning ; it expresses notions, not truths. What are chances to us are purposes with God. Our course, from first to last, is ordered by Him. We not only come but go at His bidding. He gives life when He pleases, and when He chooses He takes it away. "All the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come."