December 14

The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, because the Spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it.

MY spirit has been sent to dwell upon the star called "Earth," and now that star is hastening along a path which hides my dwelling-place more and more from the light of the sun. Night grows, day dwindles, and all things mourn in the shadows.

I pass about my garden plot, the pleasant paths are hidden by black sodden leaves, the branches they have left are bare above me,—their fruit is long since gathered and garnered, the flowering plants I loved have crept down to their little graves in the dark earth.

And I too, it is even so with me: feeble steps, failing sight, an autumn weariness, old age. Why all this fading and faltering? Who could have guessed so glorious an answer? "Because the Spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it." So in all this I meet Thee, I find Thee, I feel Thy very breath, O Master of my days, the Breath of Life, for there is no life without what we call "Death." Except the corn fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone. If it feel Thy breath it is alone no longer. Then welcome all Thy Winter—being Thine.

Thoughts of a Tertiary

WINTER'S HOPE