The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936, 1896-05-08

more solemn than that of Montgomery,
more bold than that of Milton, more ter
rible than that of Dante, more natural
than that Of Wordsworth, more impas-
stoned than that of Pollock, more ten
than that of Spencer.
This great poem brings all the gems
OF the earth into it's coronet, and it
weaves the flames of judgment into its
garlands, and pourS eternal harmonies
in its rhythm. Everything this book
touches it makes beautiful, from the
plain stones of the summer threshing-
floor to the daughters of Major filling
the trough for the camels; from the fish
pools Of Heshbon up to the Psalmist
praising God with the %diapason Of
storm and whirlwind, and Jobs mag
cry of Orion, Arcturus and the Pleiades.
My text leads US into a scene of SUM-
mer redolence. The world has had a
great many beautiful gardens. CharIc-
magne added to the glory of his reign
by decreeing that they be established
all through the realm-deciding ven
the ame of the flowers to be planted
there. Henry ~, at Montpelier, estab-
lished gardens of bewitching beauty
and luXuriance, gathering into them AL
pine, Pyrenean and French plants. One
Of the sweetest spots on earth was the
garden of Shenstone, the poet. His
writings have made but little impress
sion on the world; but his garden, The
Leasowes," will be immortal. To the
natural advantage of that place was
brought the perfection of art. Arbor
and terrace and slope and rustic temple
and reservoir and urn and fountain mere
had their crowning. Oak and yew and
hazel put forth their richest foliage.
There was no life more diligent, no soul
more ingenious, than that of Shenstone,
and all that diligence and genius he
brought to the adornment of that one
treasured spot. He gave three hun
dred pounds for it; he sold it for seven
teen thousand. And yet l am to tell
you today of a richer garden than any
/ have mentioned. 1t is the garden
spoken of in my text, the garden Of the
Church, which belongs to Christ. He
bought it, he planted it, he owns it, and
ne shall have it. Walter Scott, in his
outlay at Abbotsford, ruined his for
tune; and now, in the crimson flowers
of those gardens, you can almost think
or imagine that o see the blood of
that old mans broken heart. The
payment of the last one hundred thou
sand pounds sacrificed him. But l
have to tell you that Christ's life and
Christ's death were the outlay of this
beautiful garden of the Church, of
which my text speaks. Oh, how many
sighs and tears and pangs and agonies!
Tell ME, We women who saw him hang!
Tell me, We executioners who lifted him
and let him down! Tell me, thou sun
that didst hide; We rocks that fell!
Christ loved the Church, and gave him
self for it. If the garden of the Church
belongs to Christ, certainly he has a
right to walk in it. Come, thou, o
blessed Jesus, today; walk up and down
these aisles and pluck what thou wilt of
sweetness for thyself.
The Church, in my text, is a%pproDri-
ately compared to a garden, because it
Is Iut pldCS VI SIOlSC HoWClo, VI StISCI
fruits, and of thorough irrigation. That
would be a strange garden in which
there we're no flowers. If nowhere else.
they would be along the borders or at
the gateway. The homeliest taste will
dictate something, if it be only the old
fashioned hollyhock, or dahlia, or daffo-
dill; but if there be larger means, then
III Cd 1Lo NHoy;oo- ooo+,. -
blazing ~azalea, and clustering o%leander.
Well, now, Christ comes to his garden
and he plants there some of the bright
est spirits that ever lowered the world.
Some of them are violets, inconspicu-
Gus, but sweet as heaven. You have TO
search and find them. You do lot see
them very often, perhaps, but you see
where they have been by the Frightened
face of the invalid, and the sprig of
geranium on the stand, and the new
window curtains keeping out the glare
of the sunlight. They are, perhaps,
more like the ranunculus, creeping
sweetly along amid the thorns and
briars of life, giving kiss for sting; and
many a man who has had in his way
SOME STSdt UldCh lOCh VI llOuDfC, udS
found that they had covered it all over
with fiowery jasmine. running in and
out amid the crevices. These flowers
IN Christ's garden are not, like the sun
flower, gaudy in the light, but wherever
darkness hovers over a soul that needs
to be comforted, there they stand,
night-blooming
But in Christ's garden there are
plants that may be better compared to
the Mexican cactus-thorns without,
loneliness within; men with sharp
points of character. They wound al
most everyone that touches them.
They are hard to handle. Men pro-
nounce them nothing but thorns, but
Christ loves them Notwithstanding all
their sharpness. Many a man has had
q very hard ground to cultivate, and 1t
has only been through severe trial he
has raised even the smallest crop of
grace. A very harsh minister was talk
o1oo;6 oJdor and tha n1acid