Oct 11
25
(John MacDuff, “Hospice of the Pilgrim” 1891)
“Oh, where can rest be found?”
This is the cry of weary, care worn humanity.
This is the cry embracing every nation and every
climate, from the yearnings of heathendom to the
longings and aspirations of the present hour.
From the tumultuous sea of the world’s unrest,
this cry has gone up like a dirge of baffled souls,
“Oh, where can rest be found?”
“Come unto me,” is the address of many
siren voices, titillating tones of questionable
or forbidden pleasure, leading only to . . .
unrest,
disquiet,
heart weariness,
life failure;
tinted soap bubbles with a momentary
iridescence, then collapsing.
The existence of many is a pursuit after spurious
and counterfeit rest, misnamed happiness; an
aimless, vapid life of pleasure; engrossed with
objects which bring with them no sense of
satisfaction; a dull, weary round on the world’s
monotonous treadmill.
Some strive to find rest through the gateway
of ethical systems and philosophic tenets.
Others, through the gateway of human merit.
Others through . . .
ceremonial observances,
fasts and vigils,
penances and pilgrimages,
rites and ceremonies,
creeds and dogmas.
These, and such as these, are
alike spurious and unavailing.
“Oh, where can rest be found?”
“Come to Me, all of you who are weary
and carry heavy burdens, and I will give
you rest.” Matthew 11:28