The Penn's Grove record., 1911-06-30
NUMBER 81.
In the
Garden of
Life

H0W NAHW 4 ~
~A0N cher-its place OF terror.
@H of sadness, and of death.
w. The fairest city on earth
has It's dens of sin, it's lair Of thieves
and criminals, it's homes Of wretched-
ness and miserable poverty. The
grandest mansion on the venue may
hold a skeleton. The noblest face and
form may hide a sepulcher in which
high and holy purposes, truth and
purity, lie slaughtered. The %serenest,
most peaceful countenance may
screen the death Of many a hope OF
which you know nothing. The garden
places of this earth are not all fair.
You have but to thread your way
within to find in their luxuriant cover
ing growth a spot where hearts are
broken and tears are she'd.
Is not this true of the garden Of
the home. You think of the flowers
of love and sympathy that grow there.
What a place 1t Is to come to, to rest
in, after the dusty road Of duty and
the heat and burden Of the day. How
sweet and fragrant, like the breath of
flowers, the condolences that are ex-
changed there; and the smiles OF
friendly faces-how they cheer the
heart, as the wayside buttercup
brightens and lightens the heart OF
the traveller on his way! But that
very sympathy, that sense of relaxa-
ton, makes possible the quick and
thoughtless criticism. the sharp re-
Duke, the caustic, burning sarcasm
which you withhold from mere &C
quaintances and In other places. Quar-
rels arise in the house over petty
faults and differences which else
where you would let go unnoticed!
Before you are aware, you find a
yawning grave there into which all
that is lovely and beautiful about
your home threatens to fall and die.
All, this is what you must do. You
must lay the Christ in that sepulcher.
You must learn his lesson Of s~elf-sacri-
fee and Of self-forgetful love. Then
the garden will be glad again and all
it's flowers will blow.
In the Garden of Hope.
And there again is the garden Of
Hope. How bright 1t is as we look
at 1t from over the wall. But when
we enter in and tread its winding
paths, how soon there falls upon US
the chill shadow Of anxiety. What
will the morrow bring? Will the flow
ers we have gathered wither in u
hands? VIII the pleasures last? There
is nothing that builds SC capacious. SO
greedy a grave as anxiety.
1t devours our strength, our enjoy
ment of the beautiful things that sur
round our feet, our zest in u daily
tasks. You must bring Christ with
you into that garden of hope. You
must borrow his freedom from anxiety,
his answering trust, his unfailing
hopefulness. And thus death too will
be vanquished, and the earth will
laugh all its loneliness for you again.
And then once more there is the
garden of Service. Bright and unfad-
ing are the flowers which men gath
er out of that garden. The kindness
done to another, the work which has
helped a struggling soul on Its way
these are immortelles, garlands that
never die. But IN this garden there
Is also a grave-it is the grave of dis
couragement and dependency. Christ
must come and seal that sepulcher.
He must make you feel that his shud-
der is under your burden. He nus
teach you to walk with him along his
unhasting unresting way. You u
borrow his strength, and find that his
yoke is easy and his burden light.
Flowers in Garden Of Pain.
And last of all, there is the garden
of Pain. For Pain is a garden where
in such flowers grow as are nourished
by no other soil in all Gods universe.
The flowers of sympathy and charity
grow there; the flowers Of patience
and courage and prayer. What would
the world be without these delicate,
fragrant things? Any yet they only
grow i'll the garden of Pain. Yet Pain
seems to us the very grave Itself
where proud ambitions and eager
hopes lie buried. What makes it such
a rich and fruitful soil? Christ has
made it so. He suffered. He learned
obedience, patience, meekness, through
suffering, and has taught the secret
to us. Out of that discarded soil, that
despised garden, that hated grave OF
human hopes, he has shown us how to
gather garlands which are beyond
price. The wonder-worker Master has
laid his hands upon many a crushed
and broken life, and that life has
yielded a perfume which has sweet
ened the whole world.-Rey. Henry
E. Cobb, D. D.