A Buried Life.
A few weeks ago the newspapers told of a man in New York, seventy years old, who had spent eight years in a tomb.
His wife, whom he loved dearly, had passed away. Every day since that sad event, through the weeks and months of eight weary years, that mourner had entered the cemetery as soon as the gates were open, gone to his wife's grave, entered the vault and spent the time till sunset sorrowing over the crumbling dust.
Finally he was stricken with apoplexy one afternoon, and was found lying on the stone floor of the vault.
Eight wasted years!
Worse than wasted, worse than negative, for they testified positively to infidelity and despair.
Since no one could live like that who believed in the immortality of the soul, and that in a few years he would begin a blessed eternity with all his loved ones passed on before.
Or, who believed in heaven, and that it is so much happier than earth as to make it a folly and almost a sin to wish our dear ones back from there, or not to be glad that they are there.
Or, who believed in Christ and His words,—Christ, our Resurrection; Christ, who has gone before to prepare a place for us.
You have seen—we have all seen—wretched men and women who, though they do not live in material tombs, yet have sent their souls to the grave with the cast-off bodies of loved ones, and never got them back again. Oh, may such unchristian folly never be yours or mine!