THESE two words, "Amen; Alleluia," may, we conceive, supply a suitable theme for meditation to all who rightly appreciate the joys and the sorrows, the conflicts and the victories, of their earthly sojourn. They may be used as an appropriate motto to be inscribed on our records of the past, and as a becoming song in anticipation of the future. Let us carefully examine the words, and see what valuable instruction they suggest to the pilgrim amid the lights and shadows of his homeward career.
But let us first remark the wonderful condensation of heavenly worship, the marvelous simplicity of perfected intelligence, which throws eternity of love and infinity of thought into the two words, "Amen; Alleluia.”
It would not be heaven if either were wanting it must be like heaven where both are felt. For what is "Amen?" It is perfect acquiescence in the will of God. And what is "Alleluia?" The cheerful giving back of all praise under every circumstance to the bosom of God. "Amen" is the open breast to receive; "Alleluia" is the full heart to return the ray. "Amen" is passive in entire submission; "Alleluia" soars upward on its strong wing of praise. The one is the expressive device, setting on the seal of life the words,—"Thy will be done;" words "oft mixed with tears" in this world, and wrung with strong anguish from the lips of the Son of God Himself. But in heaven, where no tears are left to be wiped away, "Alleluia" will encircle "Amen" with a halo of glory and joy.
“Alleluia; Amen"—gem-like words, condensing and reflecting the light of heaven.
For what is heaven?
It is a state of perfect conformity to the mind of God; and, yet more, it is a state that triumphs and rejoices in that conformity,—which says Amen because it conforms, and Alleluia because it exults in the conformity to Him.
It would not be enough to be perfectly molded, though this would be peace; nor enough to be ceaseless in praise, though this would be joy. Heaven will be a universe where all are so harmonized with God that they delight in all His counsels and in all His works. Their eyes range over creation, and their thoughts move throughout the works of God. But it is not with them as it is with the most deeply subdued or gladly rejoicing of God's children on earth. They do not place their Amen here in order to raise their Alleluia there. With them praise submits, and submission sings. All is unquestioning adoring love. The creature lives in the mind of God, and God receives His own mind again in the creature. His will is done, and He is magnified. He is the fountain from which all glory emanates, and the focus to which all returns. Ceaselessly do the redeemed in glory rejoice in the heavenly song, "Amen; Alleluia.”
Now, if heaven's bliss lies embodied in these two words,—if heaven be not so much the possession of this thing or that, as the beautiful harmony of soul which can receive all from God with satisfaction, and render all to God again with adoration,—then we see clearly the great principle of all duty and all happiness in this present life. We must strive to catch the tone of this key-note of a higher state, and move among the varying providences of our God with souls ever attuned to the song, "Amen; Alleluia.”
But here we must not forget our present circumstances. We shall be reminded at every step of our way how far the highest earth is from the lowest heaven. We must not forget that here our "faith, and love, and every grace, fall far below God's word." It is "when that which is perfect is come," that "that which is in part shall be done away." Our own hearts will tell us whether we have yet learned to make submission praise. According to natural temperament, or according as the hand of God has led us, we find our easier work, some in the one, some in the other.
This child of God is often lifted up, and soars away on his mercies: but his ardent spirit ill brooks the hour of trial, and he finds it hard to sit still and endure. He knows how to fly, but he has not learned to stoop. His Alleluia is better than his Amen.
Another, of different disposition, has learned to acquiesce without a murmur in the Father's will. His head bows meekly to every passing breath. He can look up from the depth and utter a full Amen, but his depressed spirit never rises into song. He hangs his harp upon the willows, and is far from the land of joy. He has learned his Amen, but does not reach Alleluia.
God knows—He knows far better than we do, for He sees the heart—how difficult it is for a man who has been borne along joyfully on the full tide of bliss, glorifying God in his prosperity, when suddenly arrested by some dark reverse, to make his mind as in a moment re-act, and when smitten and bereft, to say with meek submission, "Amen;" "Thy will be done." God knows how hard it is to raise the eyes to heaven when they are weary with bitter weeping. And shall the wounded heart, that has learned with so much difficulty to give the Amen, be required further to say Alleluia? How slowly came the Amen, the submission,—oh, when shall come the praise? Must I sing in sorrow? Rare and difficult is the union; but it is heaven's breath, and for every gift in glory there is a corresponding grace in the renewed spirit on earth. In gladness we must seek not to be grateful only, but subdued; and in trial to bend low, but only that we may make the higher elastic bound from the rock that we have touched.