The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1896-05-06

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Shadow of cross on the road to Emmaus.
Shadow of a cross on the brook Kedron. and
on the temple. and on the side of Oivet.
:. Shadow OF cross on sunrise and sunset.
Constantine, marching with his army, saw
just once cross in the sky, but Christ saw
the cross all the time.
On rough journey we cheer ourselves
with the fact that 1t will end In warm hospi-
tality. but Christ knew that His rough path
would end at defoliaged tree without one
leaf and with only two branches, bearing
fruit OF such bitterness as no human lips had
ever tasted. Oh, what an exile-startlnS In
an infancy without any cradle and ending In
assassination! Thirst without any wafer
Day without any sunlight. The doom OF
desperate for more than angelic excellence:
For what that expatriation and that eXl,e!
Worldly good sometimes como from worioiy
evil. The accidental glance of sharp olade
from razor grinders wheel put out the eye
or Gambetta and excited sympath1es whlcn
gained bim IN education and started him on
a career that made his name more majestic
among Frenchmen than any other name In
| the last twenty years.
Hawthorne. turned out of the office OF col
lector at Salem, went home in despair. His
wife touched him on the shoulder aud said,
"Now is the time to write your oook, ana
his famous "Scarlet Letter" was the brill
liant consequence. Worldly good sometimes
comes from worldly evil. Then be not un-
believing when I tell you that from the
greatest crime of all eternity and OF the
whole universe, the murder of the Son OF
God, there shall come results which shall
eclipse all the grandeurs Of eternity past and
eternity to come. Christ, an exile from
heaven opening the way for the deportation
toward heaven and to heaven OF all those
who will accept the proffer. Atonement, a
ship large enough to take all the passengers
that will come aboardit.
For this royal exile bespeak the love and
service of all the exiles here present, and in
one sense or the other that includes all OF
US. The gates OF this continent have been so
widely opened that there are here many vol
untary exiles from other lands. Some OF
you are Scotchmen. I see 1t In your high
cheek bones and in the color that illumipes
your face when mention the land OF your
nativity. Bonny ScotlandI Dear old kirk2
Some Of your ancestors sleeping In Grey
friars churchyard, or by the deep lochs filled
out Of the pitchers Of heaven, or under the
heather, sometimes so deep OF color it makes
one think Of the blood OF the Covenanters
wko signed their names for Christ, dipping
their pens into the veins Of their own arms
opened for that purpose. How every
fiber OF your nature thrills as I mention
the names of Robert Bruce and the Camp
exile of my text the love and service OF all
Scotch exiles. Some Of you are Englishmen.
Your ancestry served the Lord. Have not
| read of the sufferings of the Haymarket, and
have Inot seen In Oxford the very spot where
Ridley and Latimer mounted the red char
lot? Some Of your ancestors heard George
| Whiteneld thunder. or heard Charles Wes-
ley sin, or beard John Bunyan tell his dream
Of the celestial city, and the cathedrals un-
4 ,hol - r,hi ~ VOL yUpr prQ
| born had in their grandest organ roll the
name of the Messiah.
Ibespeak for the royal exile Of my sermon
the love and the service OF all English ex-
| lies. Yes some OF you came from the island
OF distress over which hunger, on athrone OF
human skeletons, sat queen. All efforts at
amelioration halted by massacre. Process
sion OF famineS, procession OF martyrdomS
marching from northern Channel to Cape
Clear and from the Irish Sea across to the
Atlantic. An island not bounded as geogra-
pliers tell US, but, as every philanthropist
knows, bounded on the north and the south
and the east and the west by woe which no
human politics can alleviate and only AL
mighty God can assuage. Land Of Gold
smiths rhythm, and Sheridan's wit, and
O'Connell's eloquence, and Edmund Burke's
craftsmanship, and O'Brien's sacrifice.
Another Patmos with its apocalypse OF
blood. Yet you cannot think OF It to-day
without having your eyes blinded with emo
ton, for there your ancestors sleep In graves,
some Of which they entered for lack OF
bread. For this royal exile OF my sermon
bespeak the love and the service OF all Irish
exiles. Yes. some Of you are from Germany,
the land OF Luther, and some OF you are
from Italy, the land OF Garibaldi, and some
OF you are from France. the land OF John
Calvin, one Of the three mighties OF the
glorious reformation. Some Of you are de-
scendants Of the Puritans, and they were
exlles, and some OF you descendants OF the
Huguenots, and they were eIiles, and some
OF you are descendants OF the Holland refu-
gees, and they were edles.
Some o: you were born on the banks ofthe
Yazoo or tho Savannah, and you are now liv-
ing In this latitude. Some OF you on the
banks OF The Kennebec, or at the foot OF the
Green Mountains, and you are here now.
Some Of you on the prairies OF the West, or
the tablelands, and you are here now. on,
how many of us far away from home. All
Of US exiles. This is not our home. Heaven
when the royal exile went back He
left the gate ajar; or left 1t wide
open. "Going home" That is the dying
exclamation Of the majority of Christians.
I have seen many Christians die. I think
nine out OF ten of them in the last moment
say, "Going home." Going home out Of
Punishment and sin and sorrow and sad
ness. Going home to join in the hilarities OF
our parents and our dear children who have
already departed. Going home to Christ.
Going home to God. Going home to stay.
Where are your loved ones that died In
Christ? You pity them. Ah. they ought to
pity you! You are en- exile far from home.
They are home! Oh, what time 1t will be
for you when the gatekeeper Of heaven shall
say: "Take off that rough sandal, the jour
ney's ended. Put down that saber, the bat
ties won. Put off that iron coat Of mail
and put on the robe Of conqueror." At that
gate Of triumph I leave you to-day, only
reading three tender cantos translated from
the Italian. II yon ever heard anything
sweeter, I never did. although I cannot
adopt all its theology:
Twas whispered one morning in heaven
How the little child angel May,
In the shade OF the great white portal,
Sat sorrowing night and day;
How she said to the stately warden,
He of the key and bar:
"Ob, angel, sweet angel. I pray you
Set the beautiful gates ajar,
Only little, Ipray you,
Set the beautiful gates ajar.
81 can hear my mother weeping,
She Is lonely; she cannot see
A glimmer Of light in the darkness
When the gate shut after me.
Oh. turn me the key, sweet angel.
The splendor will shine so far"