255. The Floral Gospel

The Floral Gospel

Son_5:10; Son_5:13 : ’93My beloved is [unto me]… as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers.’94

Solomon’92s Song is considered by many as fit only for moonstruck sentimentalists. Written by a voluptuary, a man crazed with a fair maiden; a book unfit for family prayers and for churches. We must admit that the author of it, Solomon, for a long time had several hundred wives more than he was entitled to, but he afterward repented of his sin, and God chose him to write some of the sweetest songs about Jesus Christ that were ever written. Let me say that this modern criticism which we now hear about what is called the immodesty of the Bible comes with very poor grace from an age in which some of the worst French novels have in America come to their fiftieth edition; and when on some of the parlor tables of respectable people there are books abominable.

For every pure-minded man and woman, Solomon’92s description of Jesus Christ has a holy enchantment. Why should we all the time be hovering about a few violets in the Word of God, when there are so many azealas and rhododendrons and fuchsias and amaranths and evening primroses for the close of life’92s day and crocuses for the foot of the snowbank of sorrow and heartsease for the troubled and passion flowers planted at the foot of the cross and morning-glories spreading out under the splendors of the daybreak? On this Easter morn, when the house of God by loving and sympathetic and Christian hands is gloriously decorated, are we not all ready in affection and enthusiasm of soul to cry out in the words of my text as written by Solomon: ’93My beloved is like a bed of spices, as sweet flowers?’94

One Sabbath morning, in one of the cities of the South, there was a knock at my door and a second and a third knock, and a bunch of wild flowers was handed in the door, and the promise was that they should be given to me. ’93No,’94 said the lad, ’93I wish to hand them in myself.’94 And so he persisted, and I was glad he handed me a few wild flowers, and how much they meant for him, and how much they meant for me when I received them; and if I was so pleased by that gift of the poor lad who had gathered the flowers out of the field of Georgia, do you not think the Lord Jesus Christ’97bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh’97is pleased when we offer these garlands?

I propose to tell you why these flowers are symbolic of Jesus Christ. In the first place, I remark, because of their sweetness. No sooner this morning had you opened one of these doors than you breathed it. Those who stand in the corridors this moment inhale the redolence. The air from floor to ceiling is filled with the perfume. Oh, the sweetness of the Easter morning flowers symbolical of Christ!

How sweet the name of Jesus sounds

In a believer’92s ear;

It soothes his sorrow, heals his wounds,

And drives away his fear.

The name of C’e6sar means power. The name of Herod means cruelty. The name of Alexander means conquest. The name of Demosthenes means eloquence. The name of Phidias means sculpture. The name of Benjamin West means painting. The name of Howard means reform. The name of Christ means love. Sweetest name that ever melted from lip or heart. As when you open an old chest which has long been closed, the first thing that strikes you is the perfume of the herbs wrapped amid the clothing; so there are thousands of hearts which, if opened, first of all would present the name of Christ. Oh, he is such a sin-pardoner, such a trouble-healer, such a wound-binder, such a grave-breaker, that the faintest pronunciation of his name wakens all the odors of tropical gardens and all the redolence of Easter day, while you cry out in enthusiasm of love: ’93My beloved is unto me as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers!’94

How shall we describe his sweetness to those of you who have never breathed it? How shall we tell of the beauty of his face to those who have never seen it? How shall we tell the glories of his love to those who have never experienced it? Is it all a feeble sentimentality, this story of my text which compares Christ to the flowers? Oh, no; I could give you the names of men who, though far from sentimental, yet were overcome with the thought of a Saviour’92s sweetness. Jonathan Edwards, a cool logician, charged with many things, but never charged with any sentimentalism, at the name of Jesus sat down and wept in joyful emotion. Paul, a logician, nerves unmoved in the Mediterranean shipwreck, a granitic nature, shaking his fist in the face of the governments of the earth and the forces of darkness, yet is overwhelmed at the story of a Saviour’92s sweetness, thrilled, overpowered, crying out, ’93All in all is Christ; I am persuaded that neither height nor depth nor length nor breadth nor any other creature shall separate me from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus my Lord.’94 John Knox, a most unbending nature, the lightning of his indignation making the queen to shiver and the duchess quake, as far as possible from all sentimentalism, is thrilled at the story of a Saviour’92s love and is willing to die for him.

Solomon, surrounded by all palatial splendor, has ships going forth from Ezion-gaber on a voyage of three years to bring back the wonders of the world, his gardens afloat with myrrh and frankincense, and a-rustle with the leaves of trees brought from foreign lands, the remains of his stupendous gardens found today by the traveler’97Solomon, seated in his palace thinking of Christ, the altogether lovely and the altogether fair, as the perfume of aromatic woods floats in the palace window and the aroma of the royal gardens comes to his senses, cries out: ’93My beloved is unto me as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers!’94 Oh, rich and rare and exquisite and everlasting perfume! Put it in every poor man’92s window, plant it on every grave, put its leaves under every dying pillow, twist it in every garland, wave it in every home, and when I am about to die, and this hand is white and cold and stiff upon the pillow, put in that hand some Easter flower, some rose of Sharon, some lily of the valley, something typical of him whom my soul loveth.

It is now many years since I found the Lord, and I feel impelled to tell how sweet he has been to my soul. Since that time I have thrust him many a time hard in his sore side, but he has been patient with me by day and by night. It is the grief of my life that I have so badly treated him, but he has never let me go. It has been the same story all the way through’97faithfulness on his part, unworthiness on mine. I have not had such Christian experience as some to whom Christ has been the conqueror on the white horse, or the bridegroom coming forth with lanterns and torches, or the sun of righteousness setting everything ablaze with light. With me it has been a more quiet, a more undemonstrative experience; something very quiet, but very sweet. To what shall I compare it? I have it now. ’93My beloved is unto me as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers.’94

Again, I remark that the flowers make me think of Christ because of their brightness. Why, if a rainbow this morning had fallen and struck the galleries and struck the platform, the scene could not have been more radiant. Oh, how bright and how beautiful the flowers, and how much they make me think of Christ and his religion, that brightens everything it touches!’97brightens our life, brightens our character, brightens society, brightens the church, brightens everything. You go with gloomy countenance, pretending you are better than I am because of your lugubriousness’97you cannot cheat me, you old hypocrite; I know you. Pretty case you are for a man who professes to be more than conqueror. It is not religion that makes you gloomy; it is the lack of it. There is just as much religion in a wedding as in a burial; just as much religion in a smile as in a tear. Those gloomy Christians we sometimes see are the people to whom I like to lend money, for I never see them again!

The religion of Jesus Christ brightens our life. David was not any better when he said: ’93Out of the depths of hell have I cried unto thee, O Lord,’94 than when he said: ’93My mouth was filled with laughter and my tongue with singing.’94 Take that sprig of cypress out of your coat lapel and put in some of the flowers of Easter morning. ’93Her ways are ways of pleasantness and all her paths are peace.’94 I have found it so. Hundreds of you have found it so. Well may they plant a palm at each end of the platform, this one seeming to cry, ’93Hosanna!’94 that one seeming to cry, ’93Hosanna!’94

The hill of Zion yields

A thousand sacred sweets,

Before we reach the heavenly fields

Or walk the golden streets.

Yes, I go further and remark that these flowers make me think of Christ, because they are restorative. Did you ever carry a bouquet into a sick-room? Did you ever put a bundle of flowers in a pale hand and then see how the cheek flushed and how the eye flashed? Any doctor will tell you there is a time when a bundle of flowers may decide the case. Just in the crisis of the disease, and the patient is doleful and depressed, a bunch of flowers comes in and the patient is hopeful and convalescent. The flowers are so very restorative, and they make me think of Christ. I have been in a sick-room after a consultation of physicians had been held, and they said there was no hope; and this grace of God, symbolized by the flowers’97this grace of Jesus Christ’97lifted the soul as by a divine restorative. The hand of Christ is the softest pillow, the pardon of Christ is the strongest stimulus, the comfort of Christ is the mightiest anodyne, the salvation of Christ is the grandest restorative. There is not a fever, there is not a neuralgia, there is not a consumption, there is not a marasmus but the grace of God will help.

I have seen and you have seen men made triumphant over disease by the power of this grace, this wonderful restorative. Nero bedaubed the Christians of his day with pitch and tar, set them on fire to light up his grounds by night; but louder than the crackling of the flames and louder than the cursing of the mob arose the song of praise and triumph from the martyrs. John Bradford went out in the presence of the instrument of torture which was to put him to death and they stood by, expecting he would retract and surrender his religion; but when he saw the instrument of torture which was to put him to death he cried out; ’93I am a Christian now if I have never been before.’94 And so the lion of Judah’92s tribe has again and again torn to pieces the wild beasts of the Colosseum.

I recall a striking example which this whole country had of the restorative power of this religion of which the flowers are symbolic. Restorative in long pain and disease. Fifty years of invalidism. During a tour, in 1883, I had visited some seventeen States of the Union, and I saw many thrilling scenes, many beautiful scenes; but nothing more impressed me than the obsequies at Atlanta, when Governor Stephens was carried out to his last resting-place. A man who could say over and over again: ’93My two prayers, gentlemen, are the Lord’92s Prayer and the publican’92s.’94 Educating one hundred and twenty-four young men who otherwise would not have attained their education. A black man wringing his hands at the funeral and saying to my wife: ’93Ah, few will miss him as I miss him, for I expected to have an education. He told me I should have an education. He told me I could come every morning and blacken the boots of his guests and he would pay me, and pay me largely, and I could lodge around the Governor’92s mansion, and I could come in and get my meals. He assured me I should have an education. Now I will not get it. I have lost a great deal today,’94 said the poor black man.

The last time I saw Governor Stephens, by accident and unintentionally, of course, I surprised him in his devotions. I saw him talking with God, and I dared not speak. Oh the restorative power of this religion to him! Every day, he said, he had a time devoted to communion with God, and he said: ’93That is the way I keep up under this fifty years of pain.’94 I do not wonder that Georgia sobbed at those stupendous obsequies in which I had the privilege to commingle. I do not wonder that good men all the world over mourn his loss. Oh, there is a restorative power in the Christian religion! That is what holds me up. That is what holds you up. There are those here who a long while have been in physical suffering. God knows the story. God has helped you. God has blessed you. You know that these flowers, when they symbolize Christ as a restorative power, speak the truth.

And so, as a restorative power for all backsliders. What do I mean? I mean that man who used to pray, but does not pray now. I mean that man who used to frequent the house of God, but who seldom comes to the place of prayer. I mean that man who used to sit at the communion, but who seldom takes the Lord’92s cup. Sliding back. It is a very expressive word’97backslider. Sliding back from your father’92s example, your mother’92s love. Sliding back from God, sliding back into darkness, sliding back toward an unblessed grave, sliding back toward a precipice where the first ten million miles downward is only a part of the plunge. In the country you were professors. You have made shipwreck in town. Did the club blast you? Did fashionable life destroy you? Did the kind of wife you married make you worldly? I do not know what it was, but you feel that you have no more religion than if you had dwelt in Central Africa and had never heard of God and the Judgment Day. Oh, murdered hours! Oh, massacred privileges! Oh, dead opportunities! Come back this day, come back and cry in that man’92s ears; arouse him from his horrible somnambulism, walking as he does fast asleep within an inch of his overthrow. Oh, this restorative power, you want it. ’93Restore unto me the joys of thy salvation.’94 Is that your prayer? It is mine. For great sins, great pardon. For deep wounds, omnipotent surgery. For blind eyes, a divine oculist. For deaf ears, a heavenly aurist. For the dead in sin, the upheaval of a great resurrection.

But once more I have come to say that these flowers especially speak of the Lord of the resurrection. Resurrection! The women came to the Saviour’92s tomb, and they dropped spices all around the tomb; and those spices were the seed that began to grow, and from them came all the flowers of the Easter morn. The two angels robed in white took hold of the stone at the Saviour’92s tomb, and they hurled it with such violence down the hill that it crushed in the door of the world’92s sepulchre, and the stark and the dead must come forth. I care not how labyrinthine the mausoleum, or how costly the sarcophagus, or however beautifully parterred the family grounds, we want them all broken up by the Lord of the resurrection. They must come out. Father and mother’97they must come out. Husband and wife’97they must come out. Brother and sister’97they must come out. Our darling children’97they must come out. The eyes that we close with such trembling fingers must open again in the radiance of that morn. The arms we folded in dust must join ours in an embrace of reunion. The voice that was hushed in our dwelling must be returned. The form must come up without its frailties and without its imperfections and without its fatigues. It must come up. Oh, how long some of you seem to be waiting’97waiting for the resurrection, waiting’97and for these broken hearts today I make a soft, cool bandage out of Easter flowers.

Autor: T. De Witt Talmage