I hear the low voice call that bids me come, — Me, even me, with all my grief opprest, With sins that burden my unquiet breast,
And in my heart the longing that is dumb, 1 Life Radiant: Memorials of the Rev. Francis Paynter, 144.
ST. MATTHEW xi. 28 267
Yet beats forever, like a muffled drum, For all delights whereof I, dispossest, Pine and repine, and find nor peace nor rest
This side the haven where He bids me come.
He bids me come and lay my sorrows down,
And have my sins washed white by His dear grace;
He smiles — what matter, then, though all men frown ? Naught can assail me, held in His embrace ;
And if His welcome home the end may crown, Shall I not hasten to that heavenly place ? x
4. The rest which Christ gives is not rest from toil, but rest in toil. That toil may be excessive, may be incompatible with health, may be very slightly remunerative, may be accompanied with condi- tions which are disagreeable, painful, depressing ; but Christ does not emancipate the individual from this toil. He does indeed slowly influence society so that the slave awakes to his rights and the slave-owner acknowledges them ; and so that all grievances which oppress the various sections of society are at length measured by Christ's standard of righteousness and charity, and tardy but lasting justice is at length done. But until the whole of society is imbued with Christian principle thousands of indi- viduals must suffer, and often suffer more intensely because they are Christians. Yet even to ordinary toil Christ brings what may well be called " rest." The Christian slave has thoughts and hopes that brighten his existence ; he leads two lives at once — the over- driven, crushed, hopeless life of the slave, and the hopeful, free, eternal, Divine life of Christ's free man. And, wherever in the most shameful parts of our social system the underpaid and over- driven workman or workwoman believes in Christ, there rest enters the spirit — the hunger, the cold, the tyrannous selfishness, the blank existence are outweighed by the consciousness of Christ's sympathy, and by the sure hope that even through all present distress and misery that sympathy is guiding the soul to a lasting joy and a worthy life. And surely this is glory indeed, that from Christ's words and life there should shine through all these centuries a brightness that penetrates the darkest shades of modern life and carries to broken hearts a reviving joy that nothing else can attempt to bring.
1 Louise Chandler Moulton, In th< Garden of Dream*.
268 THE GREAT INVITATION
TJ There is a sweet monastery in Florence, fragrant with sacred memories, rich with blessed history to the religious soul. Its very dust is dear, for there the saintly Bishop Antonio lived as Christ lived, and there the prophetic Savonarola wore out his noble heart, and there also lived the pious painter, Fra Barto- lommeo. It stands the forlorn relic of a dream. And even yet it breathes of the true domestic peace, with secluded cloisters where the noise of the city is hushed ; with its little cells, whose bare whitewashed walls are clad with the pure delicate frescoes of the angelic painter — the reflection of his own pure soul. In the centre is a little garden kissed by the sunshine ; and up from it is seen the deep blue of the Italian sky, speaking of eternal peace. It is natural to think that one might cultivate the soul there; might there forget the world, its hate, ambitions, and fierce passions. It is a dream. Christ's peace is not a hothouse plant blighted by the wind ; it rears its head to meet the storm. Christ's ideal is love in the world, though not of the world. It is rest for the toil ; it is peace for the battle. You must have a cloister in your heart ; you must not give your heart to a cloister. You can have it — you, in your narrow comer of life ; you, amid your distractions and labours ; you, with your fiery trials and temptations ; you, with your sorrow and your tears. It can- not be got for gold; it cannot be lost through poverty. The world cannot give it ; the world cannot take it away. It is not given by any manipulation of outward circumstances ; it rules in the heart ; it is an inward state. To be spiritually-minded is life and peace.1
TJ My real feelings about my work and duty have been so aroused by recent experiences that I do not estimate these external matters as I used to do. And it would be well indeed for my peace of mind — I do not see any other real source of peace — if I could rise above them altogether, and do all I do simply from a sense of duty, from thoughtful and quiet religious impulses, making my work as thorough and as good as I can, and leaving all the rest to God. That is tlie only rest, if one could only attain to it ; but with an excitable, sensitive nature like mine, so alive to the outside world, and with such an excessive craving for sympathy, it is very difficult to do this. If I could only learn quietness and patience, and not self-trust, which is simply self- delusion ; but 1 trust in God. If God will, I will learn this.2