251. The Bird Anthem
The Bird Anthem
Son_2:12 : ’93The time of the singing of birds is come.’94
As the artist draws a curtain over the studio that he may better present his picture, so the dark clouds of this stormy morning will help us better to bring out the vernal scene of the text. This morning, coming by the park, I noticed that all the tree-tops were filled with music. It is only the voice of man that halts in the storm. ’93The time of the singing of birds is come.’94
Christ was in full sympathy with the natural world. He pressed a lily in one of his sermons. You hear the echo of a bird’92s voice in one of his paragraphs. After a hot day in Jerusalem he went out to spend the evening at a merchant’92s country seat that he might be surrounded by beautiful natural objects. The book of nature is as certainly inspired as the book of Revelation. For years I have wanted to preach a sermon on the springtime, but it is so difficult to tell just when the spring begins and when the spring closes, and sometimes when I have desired to speak upon this subject I have awakened on Sabbath morning and found the ground covered with the frosts, and then I have adjourned and adjourned the theme. This springtime I have seen Louisiana and Canada’97the one covered with roses, and in the other I was struck with the hailstorm. But the almanac says that two-thirds of the season have already gone. And when shall we celebrate the fact that ’93the time of the singing of birds is come?’94
The wise men of the East brought to the feet of Christ frankincense and cassia, and shall we not throw down at his feet all the bloom and the redolence of orchard and garden? In New Testament times Christ is represented as stooping down and with his finger writing on the ground, and they marveled at it. Christ is still doing that very thing, and in the verdure of the mountain and the valley and the springtime flowers and the sweet shrubs, Christ the Lord is still stooping down and with his finger writing on the ground. When it thunders a mother is apt to say to her child, ’93That is God’92s voice.’94 Why not when there comes some bright, radiant springtime have the mother say to her child, ’93This is God’92s smile?’94 When the odors of the fruit blossoms laden the air would it not be well for us to say to our children, ’93This is God’92s breath.’94
Poor children, barefooted and with no mother with her needle to earn them shoes, have longed for the springtime. Farmers, the cribs empty and the cattle looking up moaningly to the hay lying thin on the poles of the mow, have longed for fresh pastures, and the plowboy’92s song and the rattle of clevises over the sod turned by glistering coulters. Invalids with their forehead pressed against the window-pane have for months been looking out; and seeing the storm shaking down the cold blossoms on the ground, have wrapped around them tighter the shawl as they heard the winds beating a dead march among the hills, and have longed for the sweet serenade of April or May at their hoisted window, and have sat on the porch on a sunny afternoon, or walked among the violets after the dew has gone up from the grass. Gladness on all sides that spring has arrived. Rejoice! ’93The time of the singing of birds is come.’94 Winter, wailing and sobbing in the equinoctial storm, falls dead at the feet of spring, and the tree branches at this moment are telegraphs sending the news ahead, writing on the air, ’93Spring has come! Spring has come!’94
Again and again has the season been defeated. Marching up the mountain-side, ever and anon hurled back and driven down the rocks, but climbing up again, until it will plant its green standards on the topmost cliff, led on by bands of music in the tree-tops, for ’93the time of the singing of birds is come.’94 Now, let the plowmen sharpen their coulters and charge on the tough glebe, and the harrows with iron teeth chew up the clods, and the waters clap their hands with gladness, and the trees put bridal blossoms in their hair, and the ponds with multitudinous life make the bogs quake, for ’93the time of the singing of birds is come.’94
Learn first from this season described in the text, by the bird anthem, the goodness of your God. Do you realize the mercy of the Lord in the dominant color of the springtime? He might have covered the earth with a dull brown, depressing all nations into melancholy, or he might have covered the earth with a crimson, wearying the eye with its strong blaze. But no. He touches the eye with the color most appropriate for a long while’97the color half-way between the blue and the red, the green in which is so kindly and lovingly mingled the mercy, the goodness of our God.
As sea-monsters struck by harpoon swim quickly away at sea, so the winter storm-cloud struck by lances of light swims off the sky. The trees at this moment are pulling on their sleeves of foliage, and the roots their boots of sod. Buds burst like harmless bombshells, scattering aroma on the fields. Joy of fishes in the water, joy of insects in the air, joy of cattle in the fields, joy of wings in the sky, for ’93the time of the singing of birds is come.’94 Gracious and blessed God, all the sunshine thou hast shaken from thy robe, all the verdure is only the track of thy feet, all the music is struck from thy harp.
At early sunrise nature goes to morning prayers, reading the 148th Psalm: ’93Praise the Lord! Mountains and all hills; fruitful trees and all cedars.’94 Fowl in the yard. Flocks on the hill. Insects drinking dew from cups of hyacinth. Jasmine climbing over the stone wall. Martins coming back to build their nest in the rafters of the barn, or becoming harmless eavesdroppers at our roof. All the natural world accordant and filled with the praises of God. Have you praised him? The winds thank him, humming amid the tree branches. The birds thank him, and for the drop they dip from the brook fill all the sky with roundelay. The honeysuckles praise him, burning incense of fragrance before the throne. The oceans praise him with open diapason of tempest. Is our voice silent? Is this the snapped harp string? Is the human heart the only broken instrument in the orchestration of earth and sky and sea? Are we the only discord in the grand oratorio of the eternities?
Again: the season of bird anthem in the text suggests to me the wisdom of our God. Dr. Paley, the Christian philosopher, wrote a very brilliant chapter about the wonders of a bird’92s wing. Musicians have listened in the woods, and they have written down in their portfolio in musical score the song of the birds’97the libretto of the forests. Oh, the wisdom of God in the structure of a bird’92s wing! Oh, the wisdom of God in the structure of a bird’92s voice! Could all the artists and artisans and philosophers of the earth make one dandelion? In one cup of China-aster enough wine of wisdom for all nations to drink. Where is the architect that could plan the pillar of one pond lily? Break off this morning the branch of a tree, and see in the flowing sap the divine chemistry of the alum, the sugar, the tannin, the potash, the carbonate of lime. Let them try to explain the wonders of an artichoke or radish. Let them look at a vegetable and tell the story how it has lungs, and how it has feet, and how it has an ancestry as old as the ages, and how it will have descendants as long as time, and how that in one square inch it has three hundred thousand cells, each one of which requiring the omnipotence of a God.
Galileo in prison for his advanced notions of nature was asked why he persisted in believing in God, and he pointed down to a broken straw on the floor of his dungeon, and said: ’93Sirs, if I had no other reason to believe the wisdom and the goodness of God, I would argue them from that straw on the floor of this dungeon.’94 Behold the wisdom of God in the construction of the seeds from which all the growths of this springtime come forth’97seeds so wonderfully constructed that they keep their vitality for hundreds and thousands of years. Grains of corn found in the cerements of the Egyptian mummies buried thousands of years ago, planted now come up as luxuriantly and easily as grains of corn that grew last year planted this springtime.
After the fire in London in 1666, the Sisimbrium Iris, seeds of which must have been planted hundreds and hundreds of years before that, grew all over the ruins of the fire. Could the universities of the earth explain the mysteries of one rutabaga seed? Could they girdle the mysteries of one grain of corn? Oh, the shining firmament in one drop of dew! Oh, the untraveled continents of mystery in a crystal of snow! Oh, the gorgeous upholstery in one tuft of mountain moss! Oh, the triumphal arch in one tree branch! Oh, the God in an atom!
Where is the loom in which he wove the curtains of the morning? Where is the vat of beauty out of which he dipped the crimson and the gold and the saffron and the blue and the green and the red? Where are the molds in which he ran out the Alps and the Pyrenees? Where is the harp that gave the warble to the lark and the sweet call to the robin and the carol to the canary and the chirp to the grasshopper?
It is the same God who has all your affairs and mine under his care and guidance. The same God who pairs the birds in this springtime gave us our companions. The same God who shows the chaffinch how to take care of her brood will protect our children. The same God who shows the sparrow in the springtime how to build its nest will give us a habitation. The same God who gathers the down for the pheasant’92s breast will give us apparel. The same God who this day feeds the squirrels in the wood will feed us. The same God who swung a bridge of gossamer for the insect to walk over has marked out all our pathway. Praise his name! None of us so insignificant as to miss his care. O ye who are worried about your health, and worried about your reputation and worried about your children and worried about your property and worried about everything, in these springtime days go out and listen to the chirp of the English sparrow in our fields. Are ye not of more value than many sparrows? Behold the fowls of the air, they gather not into barns, yet your Heavenly Father feedeth them, O ye of little faith.
Again, the season of the text suggests the wisdom of right building of the home nest. I have noticed that birds build always with reference to safety. Safety against the elements, safety against intruders. But the trouble with us is that we are not so wise, and some of us build too high, and some of us build too low. God says in Obadiah, ’93Though thou exalt thyself as the eagle, and though thou set thy nest among the stars, thence will I bring thee down, saith the Lord.’94 The eagle constructs its nest at an inaccessible height with rough materials and large sticks by strong claws gathered from great distances. The eider-duck takes its own feathers to help make up the nest. The magpie surrounds its nest with briars to keep off invaders. The blackbird covers its nest with loam. I have hour after hour studied the structure of a bird’92s nest’97a structure having more than mathematical accuracy and more than human ingenuity. Sometimes built in trees, sometimes built in rocks, sometimes built at the eaves of dwellings, but always in reference to safety; safety for themselves and safety for their young, safety from the elements and safety from intruders. Wiser than some of us, for we are apt to build too high, or build too low. He who tries to find his satisfactions in the pleasures of this world, the applause of this world, the emoluments of this world, will come to disturbance and will come to destruction. There are weasels, there are foxes, there are hawks of temptation ever hunting for prey, and the only safe place in which to build a nest is the tree of the cross, and the only safe rock on which to build a nest is the Rock of Ages.
I saw a man gather around him all the luxuries of life. His house was fine, his family were affectionate, his property was great, his horses were of the highest mettle, and his cattle of purest blood pastured in the meadows. His emoluments increased, his investments gathered great treasures into his lap. There was hardly room in front of his house for the gay turn-outs that rolled up to the dwelling. His library and his art gallery were a miracle of opulence, and I heard him say: ’93Now I have all I need; my soul, eat, drink, and be merry.’94 But the tide turned. His property went, his cattle went, his horses went, his estate went, and I saw him coming down in poverty and utterly penniless, down the hill. What was the matter? He built his nest too high, and God shook him out of it.
I saw a man finding his chief delight in sensualities. He drank the cup of iniquity to the dregs. He defied God and the retributions of the Judgment Day. But after a while sorrow came and sickness came and exposure came and death came down to the ditch of sin in which he was hiding himself, and the drunken orgie and bestial carousal ended in darkness infinite. What was the matter? He built his nest too low and God dragged him out of it. Napoleon Bonaparte built his nest too high. Drunken and licentious Tom Paine, the pride of modern infidels, built his nest too low. They only are safe who build their home in God.
This season of the text, the season of the bird anthem suggests to me the superlative glories of heaven. If this world, blasted with sin and swept with storms, is still so beautiful, what must be the attraction of the sinless world toward which we travel? This springtime I had an opportunity of seeing almost all the phases of the spring as I went southward, from the opening buds of the northern orchards down to the blush of the gardens reaching across many States. But, my friends, the magnificence of nature, after all, is only the corpse of a dead Paradise, it is only the charred hulk of a giant vessel which six thousand years ago foundered, and has ever since been beating on the rocks. It is only the ruins of a temple in which lambs of innocence were to be offered, but on whose altars swine and vultures of sin have been sacrificed. Now, I say, if this world, notwithstanding all the curse of thousands of years, is so beautiful, what must be that land toward which we go? that land from which all sorrow and sighing and sin and curse is banished, and even sun and moon as too common because the Lamb is the light thereof.
I would not want to take the responsibility of saying that in addition to the spiritual excellence of heaven there shall not be also a physical and a material beauty. The Rose of Sharon, once trampled down by the horse-hoofs of crucifying soldiers, there blooming in heaven. The humble lily transplanted from the valleys of earth to the heights of Lebanon. The hawthorn, white and scarlet, reminding the beholder of his innocence and the blood which made him so. The passion flower blooming in this cold world a day, there in the more temperate zone blooming through the long years of God’92s lifetime. A river flowing over beds of precious stones and riches, not such as go down with wrecked argosies, but such as he alone could strew who hath sown the mountains with diamond and the sea with pearl. Birds with wing never torn of sportsman or tempest, dipping the surface as you wander to its source and catch the crystal stream where it drips fresh from the everlasting rock. Such luxuriance shall kiss the pleased vision and fill the air with winged aroma, and the saints of God wandering among them may look up through the branches of the tree of life and listen and find that ’93the time of the singing of birds is come.’94
How it adds to our joy when we have friends with us while we are listening to some sweet sound or gazing upon some beautiful object, and how our rapture will be enkindled as with our hand in Christ’92s we shall walk up and down amid the things which eye hath not seen nor ear heard. The tameness of earth exchanged for the yellow of jasper and the blue of sapphire and the green of emerald and the fire of jacinth.
Once more, this scene of the text, this season of the bird anthem suggests to me the importance of learning how to sing. In a little while there will be no pause in the melody of the woods, for ’93the time of the singing birds is come.’94 Whether it be a warble or a chant or a carol or a chirp or a croak, God will be praised by it as the songsters of the forest clutching a leaf as though the notes were on it, send forth their joy, answered by a score of applauding echoes. Shall not we, more intelligent appreciators, sing? I tell you, my friends, it is as much our duty to sing as it is to pray. Let parents educate their children in this art, this holy science. Let Sabbath-schools resound with it. Let the churches of Jesus Christ be faithful in this department of worship, and let the Word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom teaching and admonishing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with grace in your heart unto the Lord. Why, my brethren, we have so much to sing about, how can we be silent?
I have noticed that sailors going out of port have a sadness in their song, I have noticed that sailors mid-Atlantic have a weariness in their song, but I have noticed that when sailors are coming into port they have an ecstasy in their song. So many of us coming nearer and nearer to the haven of everlasting rest, shall we not be jubilant in our music?
Oh, the importance of this exercise! If this part of the service in church be dull, everything runs down to the same temperature. Dull songs and dull sermons are twin brothers. In this part of the services, do not act as though you were mumbling a mass. Take the minstrelsy of the woods, and sing out. All the young whose pulses bound with health’97let the house of God be filled with your praise. All these business men’97let them drown their cares and the chink of dollars in a song of praise. Ye aged ones, so near the song of Moses and the Lamb’97better be getting ready for the music.
’93Oh,’94 says some one, ’93there is no music in my ear, there is no music in my voice, and therefore I am silent.’94 Did you ever hear a quail after putting head under wing say: ’93I can’92t sing because I am not a lark, and I am not a nightingale; at the best I can only whistle?’94 Ah, my friend, the world may laugh at you, but God will not laugh at you, and the most tremulous tone of the humblest Christian will be more musical as it reaches heaven, than the most artistic display of elaborated opera.
Come now, each one for himself, and each one for all, one heart and one voice, let our songs on the Sabbath day be like an acclamation of victory. Our songs on earth are only Saturday night rehearsals for the songs of the Sabbath morning which shall dawn on the hills and the crystals of heaven. And, mark you, if the song here is so sweet what will be the anthem of heaven, when all the redeemed break forth into music? In this world it is sometimes very difficult to sing; the voice is muffled with the cold, or the heart is depressed with some fresh sorrow, and it is hard to sing; but when we are all free, what an anthem!
Who are these singing ones before the throne? Well, there are many little children. They came up from homes of earth, from the Sabbath-schools of earth. They came up, some from the banks of the Ganges, where they were offered in sacrifice. Now, let them sing, ten thousand times ten thousand children before the throne of God, let them sing. And there are some very aged. They struggled all through a long life, but they have got through the wilderness and got to the Promised Land. Why not let them sing now before the throne. And there is another group of those who had great heartbreak. They had privations and sorrows and misfortunes and agonies untold; but they have fought their last battle, they have wept their last tear, they have conquered their last enemy, they have broken their last shackle. Now let the martyrs sing. Oh, what a doxology. Every hand on a harp. Every foot on a throne. Every voice taking the key of rapture. Songs soft as slumbers, but loud as storm. Chorus of elders. Chorus of saints. Chorus of martyrs. Chorus of cherubim. Chorus of seraphim. Chorus of morning stars. Unto him who hath loved us and washed us from our sins in his own blood, and made us kings and priests unto God’97unto him be glory in the church throughout all ages, world without end. Amen and amen.
Autor: T. De Witt Talmage