To Die Is Gain

Philippians 1:20‑23  •  9 min. read  •  grade level: 8
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There is one word in the above quoted beautiful testimony of the Apostle, which the Lord gave for comfort and sustainment of heart in a time of sore bereavement. A time when the deepest, and truest human sympathy seemed perfectly powerless, attempting as it appeared to do, to fill in the blank, and comfort the heart which lay so sorely crushed, by the severance from one round whom its deepest and tenderest affections were so strongly entwined.
“The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not with it;” in such a season of sorrow. But “He who made the ear, shall He not hear? He who formed the eye, shall He not see?” And we may surely add, He who framed the heart, Shall He not know, and be able to fathom its deepest and most hidden recesses, so far beyond the reach of human sympathy and love? Assuredly He can; and it is His joy to come in at such a time, and by His Spirit, minister that which exactly meets the unutterable longings, as well as soothes the wild bitter agony of the broken heart.
Thus the first gleam of light which broke into the thick darkness of those first days of agony, was conveyed by those four little words, “To die is gain.” And, day by day, the Lord brought the thought of his “gain” home with such increased power and certainty to the soul, that it enabled one, not merely to bow to His will, but to thank Him for taking one (who was far dearer than life) to the joy, and rest, and unspeakable blessedness of His presence. Away from all sorrow and possible loss here, to the certainty of eternal “gain” above!
It is with the earnest desire—in this world of bereaved homes and breaking hearts—to be “able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God,” that we desire to meditate upon this one little word gain, and have our hearts occupied with the present and eternal blessing of those dear to us, who have gone to be “with Christ.”
True it is— “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him. But God hath revealed them unto us by His Spirit: for the Spirit searcheth all things, yea, the deep things of God,” and it is our sweet privilege and consolation to let in, so far as they are revealed to us, the joys and blessedness of “the home over there.” So that already its calm, fair light may be filling our souls, and leading us to find all our repose in His presence, where those we love are, though “absent from the body,” present—at home—with Him there! Human reason and imagination must utterly fail to picture their perfect happiness. But faith, gazing up into an opened heaven, can see the Welcomer and Receiver of all His people—as of Stephen—and rest in the assurance that “in His presence is fullness of joy,” so that the ready words rise to our lips—
“Great gain is thine, beloved one, exchanging
Thy sorrow’s hour, for everlasting joy;
And we, in thought, o’er all thy gladness ranging,
Find praise to God, our seemliest employ.”
We little know the trials they have been removed from; nor, how truly, “the righteous have been taken away from the evil” which would have sorely crushed their sensitive hearts. What storms they have been sheltered from! What sorrows spared! Time only reveals these things to us; but faith shows us, now and at once their perfect and present blessing, in the presence of the Lord!
Let us look back for a moment at the past. Was not every thought and desire of our hearts linked with their joy? Were we not made glad by their pleasure, and cheered by their prosperity? Was not sorrow for them, dreaded, because it could be so poorly shared by us? Was not their suffering agony to us, and would we not have been content—yea, most happy—to have secured their joy, though it were at the expense of all that made life bright and attractive to us? The loving heart will unreservedly answer, Yes. There was not a hope—there was not a joy—not an attraction this world could present, which would not have been most freely surrendered, to have secured their happiness.
Well, beloved reader, the Lord has done in His great love that —Which we so sadly failed in doing. And we may rest assured—
“What His love ordaineth
Is better than our best.”
But oftentimes the question may rise in our hearts, Why is it God calls some of us to walk through life alone? Why does He remove from us those whose love and presence were all that made life sweet and pleasant to us here? One reason doubtless is, that He would seek by these means to make our hearts free for His love to get in. When one, absorbing earthly love, occupies our hearts, there is very little room left for His. Besides, He would have us enter more into what the sufferings of His Son were, when as a lonely, sorrowful man, He walked this earth—a despised, rejected, broken-hearted man, who “looked for some to take pity, but there was none; and for comforters, but He found none;” and whose—
“Path uncheered by earthly smiles,
Led only to the cross.”
And doubtless, if our sympathies were right with the Lord Jesus now, if our hearts were in that intimacy of communion which the language of the Song of Solomon so vividly portrays, His death would have desolated this scene to us, as none other could. “Can the children of the bride-chamber mourn, as long as the Bridegroom is with them?” are His own words. “But the days will come when the Bridegroom shall be taken away from them, and then shall they fast.” He counted upon His absence—His death—so darkening this scene to us, that we should find no rest or enjoyment save in the scene whence He had gone.
But alas! it is not so; and He can lovingly make allowance for those who slept in the presence of such agony as earth never witnessed before, and never will again—the agony of the Son of God, when “His sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground” —with all the unspeakable tenderness of One, who was even then “touched” with the feeling of our infirmities— “The Spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
He, too, who formed these relationships, whose own loving heart sought for human sympathy and attachment, who could say, “I looked for some to take pity, but there was none; and for comforters, but found none.” He can feel for us, as the most tender and sensitive human heart would utterly fail to do, when that one round whom every fiber of our being, was so strongly entwined, is taken from us, and we know that all the passionate yearning of our hearts can never bring him back. This is what calms the storm of our sorrows, as well as the assurance, brought home by His Spirit, that He is doing for our beloved one, far more, and far better than we could ever have done. Taken him away from our absorbing love truly, but taken him up to the Source and Giver of it all; taken him up to God, who “is Love.” Taken him from the pain and weakness of the poor, frail, sensitive body, to the enjoyment of that land, where “the inhabitant shall no more say, I am sick.” Taken him to be with the Man in Paradise—the Man who loved, and wept, and suffered, and died, and was buried down here; but now—up there in that bright scene—lives to die no more.
What an exchange? How it dries our tears; how it soothes our sorrow; how it sustains our hearts to contemplate it! May it help our souls to rise more readily, more habitually to that bright scene, where “old things are passed away,” and “all things are become new, and all things are of God, who hath reconciled us to Himself by Jesus Christ” —where there will be “no more sin, no more sorrow, no more separation, no more death.” Where the wants and weariness of the way will be forgotten; and gazing upon the “Lamb as it had been slain,” our heart will find
“All the sorrow yet remembered
In the else forgotten years;
His dark hour of bitter anguish
His strong crying and His tears.”
Well, as we think of these scenes into which He has taken our beloved ones, can we not say, He has done the best for them? What remains then for us, but to do the best we can for Him? There is no legality in this. There can be no legality in love. Love delights to be used. Its deepest joy is to be able to serve its object. So the Apostle can close that wondrous chapter of divine contrasts—of death and life, of weakness and power, of humiliation and glory, with the calm comforting exhortation, “Therefore my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, for as much as ye know that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.” (1 Cor. 15:5858Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye stedfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labor is not in vain in the Lord. (1 Corinthians 15:58)).
Where is thy sting,
O Death? thy conquest, O thou conquered Grave?
Tears flow, wounds bleed, but “Victory” we sing,
The Lord is strong to save!
Now nevermore
Thy spirit falters in its yearning quest,
Thy home is reached, thy strangership is o’er;
Sweet toil, yet sweeter rest.
The Father’s heart,
Thy blessed refuge, is our shelter too;
We see thee still, are with thee, where thou art,
Hid, but from mortal view.
Gone unto God!
Gone to the Father in His house to dwell:
Gone through the shadowed vale that Jesus trod—
Beloved, it is well!