Volume 9

HOW soon has 1863 hurried forward to the years beyond the flood! Truly our years fly as the eagle and are as the swift ships. We cannot say that our days are here, but only that they are gone. As the waters of the cataract are ever leaping down the rock and hurrying on their way, even so our days hasten as a torrent and are gone as the bubble on the stream.

Let us be content that it is so, for the unmoving air yields no music to the harp of Aeolus and the stagnant pool turns not the wheel of industry. A horse in its stable wins not the race--it must speed if it would serve its owner. Time, like a ship, brings no wealth except as it makes its passages. To stay the flight of time were to clip the wings of angels.

If we use our hours in the service of God, they are better spent than hoarded--to have a wealth of time to come is not to be compared with the riches of time already spent for the God of heaven. Our days unused are the ploughed field, but the good time past has already yielded its harvest. As the shipwright is happy that the vessel is launched--as the warrior shouts that the battle is fought--and as the woman in travail rejoices that a man-child is born--so are we grateful to the eternal God that another year has gone.