1.07.25. Book 7: 25. Except

25. EXCEPT THIS book has been written in the green depths of a recess among the mountains which Ragland saw from the Plains. And as I end it I look up and see the final chapter framed in forest and grey rocks. For below flashes a mountain river, clear as crystal. The colours of the rocks under water here run from red-brown, through all yellows to orange, almost flame colour at times, and there are cool washes of jade-green and grey. It is as if some giant brush dipped in pools of melted jewels had dealt out the colours in great smooth, sweeping strokes; the very gravel sparkles like crushed chrysolite, and the river flows over this loveliness as if it knew the glories that lie in it; and the heart in one wonders, "Can there be even in paradise anything more lovely than clear water upon lighted coloured rocks?" But as the river turns for a leap round and over the curved shoulder of a boulder, slashed with rose-red now, as a beam from the sunset strikes it, a little, angry, determined hurry of foam meets it, spreads across it, thrusts forth a series of frothy tongues, makes as if to forbid it to proceed. And the curious thing is that the little tongues seem to be making headway, or is it that the dance of the water bewilders eye and thought? Granted that, are they not at least holding their own? Surely that little forbidding, fretted line has not by one inch given way. So possibly think the water-beetles caught una­wares in its flurry. But they imagine a vain thing.

We know better. The changeless front is changing. Every drop of that ruffle of water is being carried down even as it lifts itself up. A score of such eddies foam and fuss in this one little reach of calm water alone. The river takes no heed. And soon the great day for the river· will come. A night of the rumbling of thunder among the mountains, a whisper of mist in the morning, more thunder; the rains. Then­ in the twinkling of an eye-the floods. Domination, irresistible majesty, that will be what whoso stands here on that day will see. Rocks will be spun down, their crash will reverberate through the ravine, great trees will be tossed about as if they were rivers’ toys. Where will this impotent ripple be then? For awhile indeed it will be. As the tre­mendous force from above strikes the obstructing shoulder with greater vehemence, there will spring up plumes of white water, curled feathers of foam; higher and higher they will rise, as more and more grandly the floods sweep down, till they lift themselves for the last time, curl over and disappear. Then, then will be seen only the flow of the river, and that sound which is like nothing else on earth, the glorious noise of waters in the fullness of their might, will fill the whole ravine.

To-day we stand on the edge of a river the fullness of whose might we have never yet seen. Futile forces play upon it, make to withstand it; poor little puerile tongues of froth, they think they are barring the river’s way. But the Lord shall laugh at them. As spume before the flying winds they shall be on the day when the river rises in spate.

Ragland did not live to see the splendour of that day. We may not live to see it. But some one will. Let us never lose heart. That day is nearer than when we first believed. And in the time between this and then, be it long or short, by the love of the Lover of souls, by the love of all fellow-lovers, let us live, by the power of that love, the life that is all poured forth.

What if we waste our lives? . . . Down those steep mountain-sides scores of waterfalls race in joyful eager streams. From our valley half­way up the heights we can see them spring from their secret places among the crags a thousand feet above; we can watch them in their headlong flight to our river here. And as we watched them the other day after the first rain had overflowed their pools, a child’s voice beside me said, quoting from one of our children’s songs, "What do they know of measured love, or meagre?

Let Him take all." Shall the waterfalls do more for their river than we are willing to do for our Lord? The joy of life, the strength of youth, the gathered fruit of study, the powers of the whole being and all its riches of love-are these too much to pour forth upon Him, at the feet of our Lord, our Redeemer?

It is the old word in a new form, and with that we end. But all through life I see a Cross, Where sons of God yield up their breath:

There is no gain except by loss, There is no life except by death, And no full vision but by Faith, Nor glory but by bearing shame, Nor Justice but by taking blame; And that Eternal Passion saith, "Be emptied of glory and right and name."

"Verily, verily, I say unto you, ‘Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.’ "