It
was our Master's self-immolation, his life-giving love, healing both mind
and body, that raised the deadened conscience, paralyzed by inactive faith,
to a quickened sense of mortal's necessities,--and God's power and purpose
to supply them. It was, in the words of the Psalmist, He "who forgiveth all
thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases."
Rome's fallen fanes and silent Aventine is glory's tomb; her pomp and power
lie low in dust. Our land, more favored, had its Pilgrim Fathers. On shores
of solitude, at Plymouth Rock, they planted a nation's heart,--the rights
of conscience, imperishable glory. No dream of avarice or ambition broke
their exalted purpose, theirs was the wish to reign in hope's reality--the
realm of Love.
Christian Scientists, you have planted your standard on the rock of Christ,
the true, the spiritual idea,--the chief corner-stone in the house of our
God. And our Master said: "The stone which the builders rejected, the same
is become the head of the corner." If you are less appreciated to-day than
your forefathers, wait--for if you are as devout as they, and more
scientific, as progress certainly demands, your plant is immortal. Let us
rejoice that chill vicissitudes have not withheld the timely shelter of
this house, which descended like day-spring from on high.
Divine presence, breathe Thou Thy blessing on every heart in this house.
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