Life in Christian preaching is portrayed as a journey or voyage, emphasizing spiritual progress over mere longevity. It highlights the importance of advancing toward God and eternal purposes rather than simply enduring time (Psalm 90:12). Illustrations often use images of travel or navigation to convey this purposeful movement (John 10:10).
Life likened to a day with stages, ending in night where no work for salvation is possible.
Man's life is compared to a day. This day, to some, may be distinguished into twelve hours. The first gives us nativity; secondly, infancy; thirdly, childhood; fourthly, tender age, wherein toys and gauds fill up our scene; fifthly, youth; sixthly, our high noon. God, that could not be heard before for the loud noise of vanity, now looks for audience, for obedience. Seventhly; this is full of cares and crosses; the dugs of the world taste bitter; it is full time that this hour should wean us. The eighth brings us to a sense of mortality; we feel our blood decaying. Ninthly, our bodies go crooked and stooping, to put us in mind that they are going to their original earth. Tenthly, we are even as dying; we do die by degrees; our senses fail us, our eyes are dim like old Isaac's, our ears deaf, our tastes dull, our grinders are done, our stilts unable to support us. Eleventhly, we are a burden to ourselves, to our friends; we long for death if any hope of a better life hath possessed our hearts. The twelfth hour it comes. Which of these hours pass over us without God's mercies, without our voluntary unthankfulness, unless those first hours, wherein our ignorance is incapable of such observance? If none of these hours reclaim us, our day is spent, and the night comes,—that night "wherein no man can work" (John ix. 4) actively to comfort, though passively he works forever in torment. I know that God cuts many a one short of most of these hours, and often shuts up his daylight before he comes to his noon.
— T. Adams
Life is like a book with a final ending: death.
Man is like a book: his birth is the titlepage; his baptism, the epistle dedicatory; his groans and crying, the epistle to the reader; his infancy and childhood, the argument or contents of the whole ensuing treatises; his life and actions are the subject; his sins and errors, the faults escaped; his repentance, the correction. As for the volumes, some are in folio, some in quarto, some in octavo, some much smaller; some are fairer bound, some plainer; some have piety and godliness for their subjects; others (and they too many) are mere romances, pamphlets of wantonness and folly: but in the last page of every one there stands a word, which is Finis; and this is the last word in every book. Such is the life of man: some longer, some shorter; some stronger, some weaker; some fairer, some coarser; some holy, some profane. But death comes in, like finis, at the last, and closes up all; for that is the end of all. Spencer.
Chinese terms classify life stages, showing life’s progression and aging phases.
The Chinese apply to different ages certain terms. The age ten is called the opening degree; twenty, youth expired; thirty, strength and marriage; forty, officially apt; fifty, error-knowing; sixty, cycle-closing; seventy, rare bird of age; eighty, rusty-visaged; ninety, delayed; one hundred, age's extremity. Sir J. Bowring.
A rough stone polished into a diamond illustrates life’s hidden value revealed by refinement.
A rough jewel lay in the sand among many common stones. A boy picked up some of these to use them for playthings, and took them home together with the jewel; but he did not know this. The boy's father, looking on when he was playing, perceived the rough jewel, and said to his son, "Give me that stone." The boy did so, and smiled; for he thought, "What is my father going to do with this stone?" The father took the stone, and polished it skilfully into regular planes and angles; and, behold! a diamond glittered brilliantly. "See!" said the father, "here is the stone you gave me." The boy wondered at the splendor and brilliancy of the stone, and exclaimed, "My father, how could you accomplish this?" The father said, "I knew the hidden virtue and the value of the stone; therefore I freed it from its coating of dross: now it sparkles with its natural radiance." When the boy had increased in years, the father gave him the precious stone as an emblem of the worth and dignity of life.
— Krummacher
Various natural and everyday images symbolize the fleeting and varied nature of life.
A dream; an eagle hasting to the prey; a flower; grass; handbreadth; a pilgrimage; a shadow; a shepherd's tent; sleep; a swift ship; a swift post; a tale told; a thread cut by the weaver; a vapor; water spilt on the ground; a weaver's shuttle: wind. Boues.
Life flows like a river toward death and the unknown beyond, unstoppable and swift.
Life bears us on like a stream of a mighty river. Our boat at first glides down the narrow channel, through the playful murmuring of the little brook and the winding of its grassy borders. The trees shed their blossoms over young heads: the flowers on the brink seem to offer themselves to the young hands. We are happy in hope, and we grasp eagerly at the beauties around us; but the stream hurries on, and still our hands are empty. Our course in youth and manhood is along a wilder and deeper flood, amid objects more striking and magnificent. We are animated at the moving pictures, and enjoyments and industry passing us; we are excited at some short-lived disappointment. The stream bears us on; and our joys and griefs are alike left behind us. We may be shipwrecked; but we cannot be delayed. Whether rough or smooth, the river hastens to its home, till the roar of the ocean is in our ears, and the tossing of the waves is beneath our feet, and the land lessens from our eyes, and the floods are lifted up around us; and we take our leave of earth and its inhabitants, until, of our future voyage, there is no witness save the Infinite and Eternal.
We should love life but not cling to it, preparing for eternal life beyond.
We ought to love life; we ought to desire to live here so long as God ordains it; but let us not so incase ourselves in time, that we cannot break the crust, and begin to throw out shoots for the other life. Beecher.
Present actions shape and influence the entire future of our lives.
A cannon is but a short tube; but its direction at the moment of its discharge governs the whole flight of the ball. A clay mould is a fragile thing; but the molten metal poured into it may retain the shape so given ages after the mould has crumbled into dust. The plate prepared by a photographer may be exposed to the light only a few seconds; but the impression then caught may be retained for many years. Flowers are frail, and soon drop into the ground; but they leave behind a ripening seed that may perpetuate the species forever. Such is the influence of the present upon the future life.
Philosophy enriches life more deeply than mere physical existence.
It is the bounty of Nature that we live, but of philosophy that we live well; which is, in truth, a greater benefit than life itself. Seneca.
Life is like a river, growing from youthful beauty to mature usefulness then fading.
A River. Pliny compares life to a river. The river, small and clear in its origin, gushes forth from rocks, falls into deep glens, and wantons and meanders through a wild and picture-que country; nourishing only the uncultivated tree or flower by its dew or spray. In this, in its state of infancy and youth, it may be compared to the human mind, in which fancy, and strength of imagination, are predominant: it is more beautiful than useful. When the different rills or torrents join, and descend into the plain, it becomes slow and stately in its motions, and able to bear upon its bosom the stately barge. In this mature state, it is deep, strong, and useful. As it flows on towards the sea, it loses its force and its motion, and at last, as it were, becomes lost and mingled with the mighty abyss of waters. Sir H. Davy.
Each season of life has unique beauty and perspective, culminating in eternal hope.
Seasons of. At a festival party of old and young, the question was asked, Which season of life was the most happy? After being freely discussed by the guests, it was referred for answer to the host; upon whom was the burden of fourscore years. He asked if they had noticed a grove of trees before the dwelling, and said, "When the spring comes, and in the soft air the buds are breaking on the trees, and they are covered with blossoms, I think, 'How beautiful is spring!' And when the summer comes, and covers the trees with its heavy foliage, and singing birds are all among the branches, I think, 'How beautiful is summer!' When autumn loads them with golden fruit, and their leaves bear the gorgeous tint of frost, I think, 'How beautiful is autumn!' And when it is scar winter, and there is neither foliage nor fruit, then I look up, and through the leafless branches, as I could never until now, I see the stars shine through." Dr. Adams.
Living is a solemn responsibility, as weighty as the solemnity of dying.
In a sabbath gathering of Quakers, some years ago, an aged and venerable-looking man arose, and with prophet-like authority said, "Many say it is a solemn thing to die; but bethink you all, and bethink you well, it is a solemn thing to live." That witness was true. S. Coley.
Life's vital principle persists and regenerates despite severe physical damage.
Dip the sea-anemone into water warm enough to raise blisters on the skin, or expose it to the frost of winter, or place it under the exhausted bell of an air-pump, and its powerful vital principle will triumph over all these ordeals; cut off the tentacles, and new ones sprout forth; nay, cut the animal in two, and, like the lennan or hydra, it will produce a reduplication of itself: it may be cruelly maimed by tooth or claw, and yet repair its losses, and survive. Hartwig.
Some lives leave lasting marks, while others vanish without a trace.
The leaves of some trees, when they fall, leave no trace whatever behind: the scar left by their removal heals immediately; and on the smooth naked bark of the bough, in winter, there is no mark to indicate that it was once covered with foliage. There are other trees, however, on which the scars are permanent. The leaf drops off; but it leaves a seal-like impression behind on the stem: and no succeeding growth can obliterate it. Through summer's luxuriance and winter's desolation, the memory of the vanished leaf remains indelibly fixed on the tree, engraved, as if with a pen of iron upon the bough which it once adorned. The tree may increase in size until it forms a grove by itself; but the signet-mark left by the leaf, which fell from it when it was a mere sapling, still cleaves to it in the grandeur of old age. Many of the characteristic marks on the stems of palm-trees and tree-ferns are due to the permanence of these scars, when their leaves are decayed and dropped off. And is not the lesson of analogy here very clear and impressive? How many there are who fade, and drop off the tree of humanity, and leave no trace of their existence behind! while others, when they fade, and drop off the tree of life, leave behind them an impression which time will only make deeper, — an empty space, whose perpetual vacancy reminds the survivors of an irreparable loss. Rev. Hugh Macmillan.
Certain creatures shed old shells to grow, illustrating life's necessary transitions.
The lobster and the crab, after having once attained their perfect form, would have been obliged ever after to endure a narrow garb, had not Providence endowed them with the faculty of casting their shell from time to time, and thus providing themselves with a new and more convenient tegument. A few days of fasting and sickness precede the operation, during which the carapace becomes loosened from the skin to which it adhered, and immediately begins to secrete a new one, —soft and membranous at first, but soon becoming harder and harder, and finally completely calcareous. In this way, the animal, before long, finds itself free from its old envelope, and has only to make its escape. This last operation is announced by symptoms of inquietude. The creature rubs its legs one against the other, and then, throwing itself upon its back, begins to shake itself, and puffs itself out so as to tear the membrane which connects the carapace with the abdomen, and to raise the carapace itself. After sundry intervals of rest and agitation, the animal extricates its eyes, its head, and its antennae. The operation of freeing its extremities appears to be the most difficult, and would be impossible, did not the covering of the parts split longitudinally. The abdomen is the last division of the body which clears itself of the old envelope. It may be easily supposed, that, after such a violent struggle for freedom, the lobster is not a little exhausted. Feeling his weakness, and aware of the very insufficient protection afforded him by his soft covering, which requires a day or two to convert itself into a firm shell, he retires from all society until he feels himself able to meet his old friends again on terms of equality; for he well knows how inclined they are to bite and devour a defenceless comrade.
Life's journey varies greatly, from ease to hardship and suffering.
We talk of human life as a journey; but how variously is that journey performed! There are those who come forth girt and shod and mantled to walk on velvet lawns and smooth terraces, where every gale is arrested and every beam is tempered. There are others who walk on the alpine paths of life, against driving misery, and through stormy sorrows, over sharp afflictions; walk with bare feet and naked breast, jaded, mangled, and chilled. Sydney Smith.
Life is full of constant troubles and fleeting joys, like a restless dream.
Consider the state of this present life, — a true dream, which hath only the disturbances, but never the rest, of sleep; a childish sport; a toil of burthens one and ever-relapsing actions, where, for some one rose, we meet with a thousand shorns; for one ounce of honey, a ton of gall; for apparent good, real evil. The happiest here may number their years, but not their cares: the paths here to the highest honors are all ice, and often bordered only by precipices. Its felicities are floating islands, which always retire when we but offer to touch them: they are the feast of Heliogabalus, where are many invitations, many ceremonies, many compliments, many services; and, at the end of all this, we find a table and banquet of wax, which melts at the fire, whence we return more hungry than we came. It is the enchanted egg of Oromares, in which that impostor boasted that he had enclosed all the happiness of the world; but, broken, there was found nothing but wind.
— N. Caussin
Many avoid deep life experiences, but God's work calls us to profound spiritual depth.
The voyage of life should be right across the ocean, whose waters never shrink, and where the keel never rubs the bottom. But men are afraid to venture, and hang upon the coast, and explore lagoons, or swing at anchor in wind-sheltered bays. Some men put their keel into riches, some into sensuous pleasure, some into friendship; and all these are shallow for any thing that draws as deep as the human soul does. God's work in each age, indicated by the great movements of his providence, is the only thing deep enough for the heart. We ought to begin life as at the source of a river, growing deeper every league to the sea: whereas, in fact, thousands are like men who enter the mouths of rivers, and sail upwards, finding less and less water every day; and in old age they lie shrunk and gaping upon the dry gravel. Beecher.
Many people live lives as useless as soldiers gathering shells instead of fulfilling their purpose.
The Emperor
Caligula provided a mighty navy; and every one expected that the whole country of Greece would be invaded. So it might have been; but the emperor employed his soldiers to gather a quantity of cockle-shells and pebble-stones instead. Just such a voyage does almost every man make in this world, were the particulars truly cast up. Spencer.
Life is like a clock wound once, ticking until death brings silence and rest.
Our brains are seventy-year clocks. The angel of life winds them up at once for all, then closes the eases, and gives the key into the hand of the angel of resurrection. "Tie-tae, tie-tae!" go the wheels of thought: our will cannot stop them: madness only makes them go faster. Death alone can break into the ease, and, seizing the ever-swinging pendulum which we call the heart, silence at last the clicking of the terrible escapement we have carried so long beneath our aching foreheads. If we could only get at them as we lie on our pillows, and count the dead-beats of thought after thought, and image after image, jarring through the over-tired organ! Will nobody block those wheels, uncouple their pinion, cut the string which holds those weights? What a passion comes over us sometimes for silence and rest, that this dreadful mechanism, unwinding the endless tapestry of time, embroidered with spectral figures of life and death, might have but one brief holiday! O. W. Holmes.
Life is a journey where many fall away until only a few remain at old age.
Ten thousand human beings set forth together on their journey. After ten years, one-third, at least, have disappeared. At the middle point of the common measures of life, but half are still upon the road. Faster and faster, as the ranks grow thinner, they that remain till now become weary, and lie down, and rise no more. At three-score and ten, a band of some four hundred yet struggle on. At ninety, these have been reduced to a handful of thirty trembling patriarchs. Year after year, they fall in diminishing numbers. One lingers, perhaps, a lonely marvel, till the century is over. We look again, and the work of death is finished.
— Bp. Burgess
