Look at old age! A friend said to me, a lady, “I hate old age,” and there was a vehemency in it that left me no doubt as to the sincerity of the expression. A young friend wrote to me, “I can’t bear to think that I am growing old.” Such have no horizon. They have no foresight, I am growing old.
Do I not know it? Do I not rejoice in it? I have had my life; I have had my opportunities; and I thank God for such as it has been. I thank God that my eye grows dim. I thank God that my steps are not so alert as once they were. Why should men mourn that beauty which must fade before the glorious beauty of holiness settles upon them forever.
When I see in the spring the trees full of bud, and ready to bloom in the orchard, I hear complaint from the outside green coating of the bud, that has wrapped it up like an overcoat, and has carried it through the winter. As the balmy atmosphere begins to expand the bud, I hear the sepal mourn and say: “Alas, alas! I am being expelled and pushed down, the hinges are breaking off; I have got to drop.” And go it does in some high wind; but it goes in order that the blossom may live.
Then after a little while, I hear the blossom say, “I must fall;” and fall it does to the ground, in order that the fruit may spring forth. Now, when men mourn because they are losing this faculty, and that faculty, they forget that they are failing here, in order that glorious virtues and perfect holiness may emerge to ripen forever in heaven.— BEECHER.
