oes that the bite feel its sures of s, either e of re ath, and was the tertained resurrec was past ence were an empty n writes its pires, so hu It is of. mentary course, but, like the lightkness of death. his regal splendor, and solitary and pensive on earth, he was brought a prisoner to Jerusalem. As he was led forward to the spot of execution, and gazed upon the fatal axe by which he was to be cloven down, he exclaimed, in the words of our text, "Surely the bitterness of death is past." Life, being the highest, the dearest gift of the munificent Creator, is consequently, when enshrined in virtue, the greatest possible blessing to the creature; and, in competition with it, all other blessings dwindle into insignificance and nothingness. It is that proud boon of inconceivable worth, which stamps, at once, all other blessings with value. It is the breathing spirit of the Almighty animating an organized frame, and conferring delight. As life is therefore sweet, so death, its opposite, is bitter. And as death tears us from all that we love and fondly cherish on earth, tears us from our homes and kindred, from the embrace of parents, friends, and children, from the glories of nature and the dear light of mortal life, so it has been, with the soundest propriety, styled the "king of terrors." But sweet as is life, and terrible and bitter as is death, yet such a combination of circumstances may transpire, as in the case of Agag, as shall not only overpower life, but remove the bitterness of death, and force us to let go our eager grasp on the world. When, by any train of providential events or of unforeseen misfortunes, our earthly hopes are blasted and our brightest expectations and prospects are darkened, if the clouds of adversity lower and thicken around our heads, and obscure and darken our bright mental sky; if those, whom we loved, and by whom we were beloved, are gone, we are then often weaned from the objects of this momentary being, and, in view of the accumulated woes that surround us, we can exclaim, "Surely the bitterness of death is past,' even before we feel its icy hand. The moment that all the pleasures of life are overbalanced by pain and distress, either of body or mind, with no cherished hope of relief, we then gladly resign ourselves to death, and seek repose in its solemn shroud. This was the case with Agag, who, being a heathen, entertained no hope of a future existence through a resurrection in Christ. The bitterness of death was past to him, because all the joys of his existence were overpowered by distress. Human life is a momentary dream; an empty shade. Like as the lightning, which writes its fiery path on the dark cloud and expires, so human existence is but a meteor's blaze. It is of ten bright and dazzling in its momentary course, is attended with many delights, but, like the lightning's flash, expires in the darkness of death. We come into existence ignorant and helpless. The first idea of which we have any distinct remembrance is, that we were encircled by a mother's arm, and hung upon a mother's smile. In her society, with those toys and playthings she gave us, was created our first little world. There we received our first impressions of those pleasurable delights of which our natures are so susceptible. From that dear twilight of our being we pass on to youth, thence to manhood and age; and in every period we find those enjoyments, which the hand of Heaven has sown in the whole path of mortal life, from infancy to age, and so varied those enjoyments as exactly to adapt them to each season and period of our present existence. But perhaps the happiest, as well as the most interesting, period of human life is the bloom of youth, when just ripening into manhood. Then the bones are moistened with marrow. The crimson current of life flows full, free, and warm, in its destined channels. The heart beats high with dearest hopes of earthly bliss, and the cheeks are mantled with living smiles. The step is firm and elastic, and through the lustre of the eye beams the ripening genius of the soul. Crime has not yet stained the hands, nor guilt polluted the fountains, of the heart. It is a stranger to disappointment and woe. Nothing but fairy dreams of bliss linger in its inmost recesses. The world |