le it is
by no means easy to accomplish the work of life, it is harder still to
bear suffering and to benefit by it. Have you ever seen a man to whom
nature had given great talents and grace great virtues, so that the
possibilities of his life seemed unbounded, while he had imagination
enough to expatiate over them: a man who might have been a missionary,
opening up dark countries to civilisation and the gospel; or a
statesman, swaying a parliament with his eloquence and shaping the
destinies of millions by his wisdom; or a thinker, wrestling with the
problems of the age, sowing the seeds of light, and raising for himself
an imperishable monument: but who was laid hold of by some remorseless
disease or suddenly crushed by some accident; so that all at once his
schemes were upset and his life narrowed to petty anxieties about his
health and shifts to avoid the evil day, which could not, however, be
long postponed? And did it not seem to you, as you watched him, to be
far harder for him to accept this destiny with a good grace and with
cheerful submission than it would have been to accomplish the career of
enterprise and achievement which once seemed to lie before him? To do
nothing is often more difficult than to do the greatest things, and to
submit requires more faith than to achieve.

The life of Christ was hemmed and crushed in on every hand. Evil men
were the proximate cause of this; but He acknowledged behind them the
will of God. He had to accept a career of shame instead of glory, of
brief and limited activity instead of far-travelling beneficence, of
premature and violent death instead of world-wide and everlasting
empire. But He never murmured; however bitter any sacrifice might be
on other grounds, He made it sweet to Himself by reflecting that it was
the will of His Father. When the worst came to the worst, and He was
forced to cry, "If it be possible, let this cup pass from Me," He was
swift to add, "Nevertheless not My will, but Thine, be done." And thus
on step after step of the ladder His thoughts were brought into perfect
accord with His Father's, and His will with His Father's will.

At last on the cross the cup out of which He had drunk so often was put
into His hands for the last time. The draught was large, black and
bitter as never before. But He did not flinch. He drank it up. As He
did so, the last segment of the circle of His own perfection completed
itself; and, while, flinging the