The Bolivar bulletin. (Bolivar, Tenn.) 1888-1946, 1900-06-22
SUBSCRIPTION: s1.OO Per Year

While you are not to omit any oppOr-
tunity of setting yourselves right.
want to tell you of one who had the
hardest things said about him, whose
sobriety was disputed, whose missions
was secuted, whose companionship
was denounced, who was pursued as
a babe and spit upon as man, who
was howled at after he was dead. /
will have you go unto Him with your
humble child prayer, saying: Il see
Thy wounds-wounds of head, wounds
of feet, wounds of heart. Now, look
at my wounds and see what / have
suffered and through what battles
am going, ana l entreat Thee by those
wounds of Thine to sympathize with
me-" And He will sympathize, and He
will help. Go and tell Jesus.
Again, 1 commend the behavior of
the disciples to all the bereaved. How
many in garb of mourning? How many
emblems of sorrow you behold every
where? God has His own way of taxi
ing apart family. We must get out of
the way for coming generations. We
must get off the stage that others may
come on, and for this reason there is a
long procession reaching down all the
time into the valley of shadows. This
emigration from time into eternity is
so vast an enterprise that we cannot
understand it. Every hour we hear the
clang of the sepulchral gate. The sod
must be broken. The ground must be
| plowed for resurrection harvest. Eter-
nifty must be peopled. The dust must
press our eyelids. ''It is appointed
unto all men once to die" This emf
| grafton from time into eternity keeps
three-fourths of the families of the
earth in desolation. The air is rent
with farewells, and the black taseled
vehicles of death rumble through every
street. The body of the child that was
folded so closely to the mothers heart
| is put away in the cold and the dark
ness. The laughter freezes to the girls
| lip, and the rose scatters. The boy in
the harvest field of Shunem says: 'My
head! My head!" And they carry him
home to die on the lap of his mother.
Widowhood stands with tragedies of
woe struck into the pallor of the cheek.
Orphanage cries in vain for father and
mother. Oh, the grave is cruel! With
teeth of stone it clutches for its prey.
Between the closing gates of the sepul-
cher our hearts are mangled and
crushed.
Is there any earthly solace? None.
We come to the obsequies, we sit with
the grief stricken, we talk pathetically
to their soul; but soon the obseqGies
have passed, the carriages have left us
at the door, the friends who staid for
a few days are gone, and the heart sits
in desolation listening for the little
feet that will never again patter
through the hall, or looking for the en-
trance of those who will never come
again-sighing into the darkness-ever
and anon coming across some book or
garment or little shoe or picture that
arouses former association, almost kin
ing the heart. Long days and nights
of suffering that wear out the spirit
and expunge the bright lines of life and
give haggardness to the face and draw
the flesh tight down over the cheek
bone and draw dark lines under the
sunken eye, and the hand is tremulous,
and the voice is husky and uncertain,
and the grief is wearing, grinding, ac-
cumulating, exhausting.
Now, what are such to do? Are they
merely to look up into brazen and un-
pitying sky? Are they to walk a blast
ed heath unfed of stream, unshelterei
by overarching trees? Has God turned
us out on the barren common to die?
Oh, no! no! no! He has not. He comes
with sympathy and kindness and love.
He understands all our grief. He sees
the height and depth and the length
and the breadth of it. He is the only
one that can fully sympathize. Go and
tell Jesus. Sometimes when we have
trouble we go to our friends and we
explain it, and they try to sympathize;
but they do not understand it, They
cannot understand it, But Christ sees
all over it and all through it. He not
only counts the tears and records the
groans, but before the tears started,
before the groans began Christ saw the
inmost hiding place of your sorrow,
and He takes it, and He weighs it, and
He measures it, and He pities it with an
all absorbing pity. Bone of our bone.
Flesh of our flesh. Heart of our heart.
Sorrow of our sorrow. AS long as He
remembers Lazarus grave He will
as He remembers His own heartbreak
He will stand by you in the laceration
of your affections. When He forgets
the footsore way, the sleepless nights,
the weary body, the exhausted mind,
the awful cross, the solemn grave, then
He will forget you, but not until then.
Often when we were in trouble we
sent for our friends, but they were far
away; they could not get to us. We
wrote to them: "Come right away
or telegraphed:, "Take the next train"
They came at last, yet were great
while in coming or perhaps were too
late. But Christ is always near-before
you, behind you, within you. No moth
er ever threw her arms around her
child with such warmth and ecstasy
of affection as Christ has shown toward
you. Close at hand-nearer than the
staff upon which you lean, nearer than
the cup you put to your lip, nearer than
the handkerchief with which you wipe
away your tears-I preach Him an ever
present, all sympathizing, compassion
ate Jesus. How can you stay away one
moment from Him with your griefs?
Go now. Go and tell Jesus.
It is often that our friends have no
power to relieve US. They would very
much like to do it, but they cannot dis
entangle our finances, they cannot cure
our sickness and raise our dead, but
glory be to God that He to whom the
disciples went has all the power in
Heaven and on earth, and at our call
He will balk our calamities and at just
the right time in the presence of an
earth and a resounding