If anyone has produced some masterpiece of art or science, men say of him that his masterpiece will stand for all time as a monument to him. In the same way God’s works stand for all time as a monument to His greatness and wisdom, and silently praise Him by their grandeur or delicate beauty, their wisdom and perfection.
The sun was setting behind me one evening, as I followed a road which led over the moors and through pine-covered hills. Everything was bathed in a mellow golden light, and all things seemed to be singing to the Praise of God.
On each side stretched moors, covered with bracken, tufts of golden gorse, purple heather and the lighter magenta of ling; trails of blackberry vine, covered with fruit, overran the grassy bank by the roadside, and encroached upon the road itself.
Here and there small groups of pines stood out sharply against the pale blue green of the sky, the stems in the center of the groups straight and tall, those on the outside bent by the rough winds, twisted and bare. The trees were roofed with a dense mass of green, below which the sterns glowed a rich reddish sepia where the sun touched them.
As the road led higher amongst the hills, the pines became thicker, until they stood so close together that the sun could only penetrate a short way between the tall straight stems, flecking those near the road with patches of rich red, which gleamed brightly against the sombre mysteries of the deeper woods. The ground under the trees was soft with a springy carpet of pine needles, and was decked with scanty patches of light green bracken.
Somewhere, out of sight, a fire was burning, which filled the wood in its neighborhood with a bluish smoky haze through which the sun made long bars of light and shadow. The fragrance from the burning wood was a fitting incense offered at the time of evening sacrifice.
Here an old oak tree grew at the edge of the road, and there a bright berried ash, their colors glowing in the light of the setting sun made splashes of gold and crimson against the sombre woods.
The tall lines of pine trees diminished with the perspective, until they and the road became blended in the shadowy blue of the distant hills; that mysterious dreamland of gathering darkness.
It grew darker as I reached the further end, and looking back towards the place when the sun had set, the woods seemed more mysterious than ever, with the golden light filtering through the tree trunks and trembling on the rising mists.
“And they heard the voice of God walking in the garden in the cool of the day.” I think that the followers of Jesus still often hear His Voice in the cool and quiet of such places, away from the din of the cities; where the evening lights Nicker and change, and the shadows throw their quiet fingers across road and landscape, as they quietly draw together the curtains of night.
Praise ye the Lord!
Unitus.