Showing posts from May, 2013

His Mother's Sermon

(Taken from Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush by Ian Maclaren)

During a pause in the sermon I glanced up the church, and saw the
same spell held the people. Donald Menzies had long ago been caught
into the third heaven, and was now hearing words which it is not
lawful to utter. Campbell in his watch-tower at the back had closed
his eyes, and was praying. The women were weeping quietly, and the
rugged faces of our men were subdued and softened, as when the
evening sun plays on the granite stone.

But what will stand out for ever before my mind was the sight of
Marget Howe. Her face was as white as death, and her wonderful grey
eyes were shining through a mist of tears, so that I caught the
light in the manse pew. She was thinking of George, and had taken
the minister to her heart.

The elders, one by one, gripped the minister's hand in the vestry,
and, though plain, homely men, they were the godliest in the glen;
but no man spoke save Burnbrae.

"I a' but lost ae fairm for the Free…


So glad that I could do it
In fleeting gasps of pain With arms outstretched On Roman beams And clouds begun to rain. The One beside me Shows no hate His Mother down below And eye meets eye As oft before They held each other so. But this is not a common crowd The holy men preside And urge the rabble's Thirst for blood Most likely they had lied. "A King", they mock, "And is your Court A bloodied perch and crown?" Oh Saviour, time to save yourself Display your power Come down! But death is part And parcel yet You have your Father's word And you beseeched the darkening sky And He most surely heard. And I with scarce the breath to spare And justly here for crime Turn to you King And gladly sing Your  pardon, Kingdom mine. Luke 23: 43