question, nor go into details as to what the future life would be. In my Father's house are many mansions— Said the Lord If it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. Our faith accepts this assurance. We would be questioning our own beliefs if we expected to be told of the particular mansion a man would occupy. Enough for us mortals to realize that a place has been prepared for those of us who are worthy of being received in the Father's house. Thus our belief in immortality is based upon faith, which, we are told in Paul's Epistle to the Hebrews, is— The substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. We firmly believe that we shall meet our departed colleagues again in that— House not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. We rest assured that our dear friends have only Gone before To that unknown and silent shore. Life is like the march of an army; it is attended by tremendous hardships and losses. How unjust, how incomplete, and how pathetic life would be without immortality. Man is a biworld creature. The testimony of reason and experience teaches that life is too short for his unfoldings; threescore and ten years are not sufficient. St. Paul recalled his career of sufferings during which he had been mobbed, stoned, and flogged; and he said that were there no hope beyond the grave, he would be of all men the most miserable. If this world ends all, what a tragedy of injustice it all is, and nothing has been so cheap as man. What initiative and aspirations stir in his heart. The heart will smother unless it finds breathing room in a larger world. In the London Tower Sir Walter Raleigh could pace only twice his length. How his soul cried out against the limits of his dungeon life bounded by four walls. So man rebels against those walls called the cradle and the grave. He asks all the air there is between his soul and God's throne. He wants the sweep of the eternities. Our lives are but marches to the grave. Death is no stranger to us, but is continually in our presence. The very moment we were born we began to die, yet because we have faith in the hereafter we are not afraid. We realize that death is only the way to a fuller life. Though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we fear no evil. Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust We are prepared to approach our grave Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch The grave is like the gate in the old temple, iron on one side but beaten gold on the other. Dying is transportation, home-going, happiness, and a satisfied heart forever. As I stand here today participating in these memorial services, my mind wanders back to a somewhat similar service held within these four walls a number of years ago when there lay here, still in death, all that was mortal of the illustrious and beloved former Speaker, the late lamented Champ Clark. On that occasion the then senior Senator from Missouri, the Hon. James A. Reed, delivered what to my mind was one of the most beautiful and eloquent funeral orations ever uttered. His words were so inspiring and touching, and so far beyond my power of expression, that I want to repeat now one or two passages that especially appealed to me. He said: A wonderful stream is the river of life. A slender thread emerging from the mysterious realm of birth, it laughs and dances through the wonderland of childhood. Its broadening currents sweep between the flower-decked banks of youth, romance, and hope. A mighty torrent, it rushes over the rapids of manhood and breaks in form upon the rocks of opposition and defeat, then glides away across the barren, sterile fields of age until it is engulfed and lost within the waters of the eternal sea. There queenly robes, the beggar's rags, the rich man's gold, the pauper's copper pence, the jeweled diadem of princes, and the thorny crown of martyrs are washed and swept by the same ceaseless tides. The miracle of birth and the mystery of death remain the unsolved problems of all time. The shepherd who 3,000 years ago upon the plains of Syria observed the procession of the planets and contemplated the decrees of fate was as wise perhaps as is the wisest of today. He only knew that, standing here upon the bank of time, his straining eyes could not glimpse even the shadowy outline of a farther shore. He only could behold the white sails of receding fleets-ships that sail out but never come again. He only knew that at the grave's dread mouth all men must cast aside alike the burden of their honors and their griefs; that man takes with him only that which he has freely given away, that even death may not despoil him of the riches of service and self-sacrifice. Some listening to my voice heard these words delivered. Some of those whose memories we honor today were our colleagues then. In the course of inevitable changes I am repeating them today as applicable to our departed brethren of the year as they were to the former Speaker of this House in whose memory they were first uttered. The years are forming and disappearing; they are woven and unraveled; time is speeding on. Let the chaff and the evil part of this life pass with them; let us expel from our lives all sordid aims and purposes; bring them together with all jealousies and passions and drop them into the gulf of oblivion and turn glad feet unto the way that leads unto permanent happiness and virtue. Beyond the flood of the years lies the immortal shore. Some hour the mists will lift for us, the clouds will roll away, and the clear summits of the far-off land shall stand clothed with God's own benediction. Blessed is he whom Thou hast chosen and taken unto Thee, for he shall dwell in Thy courts. Arthur S. Witcomb, of the United States Marine Band, rendered as a cornet solo "Lead, Kindly Light." The Chaplain, Rev. James Shera Montgomery, D.D., pronounced the benediction: The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all evermore. Amen. |