"_Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations._"
Psalm xc. 1.
There are two reasons why the text which heads this paper should ring in our hearts with special power. It is the first verse of a deeply solemn Psalm,--the first bar of a wondrous piece of spiritual music. How others feel when they read the ninetieth Psalm I cannot tell. It always makes me lean back in my chair and think.
For one thing, this ninetieth Psalm is the only Psalm composed by "Moses, the man of God."[12] It expresses that holy man's feelings, as he saw the whole generation whom he had led forth from Egypt, dying in the wilderness. Year after year he saw that fearful judgment fulfilling, which Israel brought on itself by unbelief:--"Your carcases shall fall in this wilderness; and all that were numbered of you, according to your whole number, from twenty years old and upward, which have murmured against Me, doubtless ye shall not come into the land." (Num. xiv. 29.) One after another he saw the heads of the families whom he had led forth from Egypt, laying their bones in the desert. For forty long years he saw the strong, the swift, the wise, the tender, the beautiful, who had crossed the Red Sea with him in triumph, cut down and withering like grass. For forty years he saw his companions continually changing, consuming, and passing away. Who can wonder that he should say, "Lord, Thou art our dwelling-place." We are all pilgrims and strangers upon earth, and there is none abiding. "Lord, Thou art our home."
12: I am quite aware that I have no direct authority for this statement, except the prefatory heading at the beginning of the Psalm. However ancient those headings may be, it is agreed among learned men that they were not given by inspiration, and must not be regarded as a part of God's Word. There is, nevertheless, a curious amount of agreement among critics, that in the case of this ninetieth Psalm the tradition about its authorship is not without foundation.
For another thing, the ninetieth Psalm forms part of the Burial Service of the Church of England. Whatever fault men may find with the Prayer-book, I think no one can deny the singular beauty of the Burial Service. Beautiful are the texts which it puts into the minister's mouth as he meets the coffin at the churchyard gate, and leads the mourners into God's house. Beautiful is the chapter from the first Epistle to the Corinthians about the resurrection of the body. Beautiful are the sentences and prayers appointed to be read as the body is laid in its long home. But specially beautiful, to my mind, are the Psalms which are selected for reading when the mourners have just taken their places in church. I know nothing which sounds so soothing, solemnizing, heart-touching, and moving to man's spirit, at that trying moment, as the wondrous utterance of the old inspired law-giver: "Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place." "Lord, Thou art our home."
I want to draw from these words two thoughts that may do the readers of this paper some good. An English home is famous all over the world for its happiness and comfort. It is a little bit of heaven left upon earth. But even an English home is not for ever. The family nest is sure to be taken down, and its inmates are sure to be scattered. Bear with me for a few short minutes, while I try to set before you the best, truest, and happiest home.
I. The first thought that I will offer you is this:--I will show you _what the world is_.
It is a beautiful world in many respects, I freely admit. Its seas and rivers, its sunrises and sunsets, its mountains and valleys, its harvests and its forests, its fruits and its flowers, its days and its nights, all, all are beautiful in their way. Cold and unfeeling must that heart be which never finds a day in the year when it can admire anything in nature! But beautiful as the world is, there are many things in it to remind us that it is not home. It is an inn, a tent, a tabernacle, a lodging, a training school. But it is not home.
(_a_) It is a _changing_ world. All around us is continually moving, altering, and passing away. Families, properties, landlords, tenants, farmers, labourers, tradesmen, all are continually on the move. To find the same name in the same dwelling for three generations running is so uncommon, that it is the exception and not the rule. A world so full of change cannot be called home.
(_b_) It is a _trying and disappointing_ world. Who ever lives to be fifty years old and does not find to his cost that it is so? Trials in married life and trials in single life,--trials in children and trials in brothers and sisters,--trials in money matters and trials in health,--how many they are! Their name is legion. And not the tenth part of them perhaps ever comes to light. Few indeed are the families which have not "a skeleton in the closet." A world so full of trial and disappointment cannot be called home.