74 A BOOK OF MORTALS 



As one wanders into the spring woods where the first 

 primrose braves bitter wind to give its message of renewal 

 even to the dry bones of the autumn leaves through which 

 it struggles to the light — as one passes through the green 

 spring fields where the new-dropped lambs, ere they find 

 first foot-hold on our sin-stained earth, lie as still as if Birth 

 were Death, their dim dazed eyes upon the sailing, white, 

 fleecy clouds overhead — white yet no whiter than the lambs 

 themselves ; when one sees all this, it seems to some of us 

 as if a great coarse blood-reddened human hand were 

 stretched between heaven and earth clutching at both, in- 

 tercepting God's equal sunlight, and claiming the innocence 

 of others for its own. 



Truly under the altars which we have set up for sacrifice 

 in this world as under the altar of the Great Sacrifice in 

 Heaven lie many slain for the Word's sake. But these 

 are silent. They have no voice to cry " How long ! How 

 long ! " 



Perhaps they would not if they could. There is a 

 profound acquiescence in the beasts that perish which 

 shames man's multitudinous complaints. 



We have, however, gained more from the Lamb of the 

 Passover, typical sacrifice of blood as it is, than peace of 

 conscience ; for the feast on the victim's body which 

 followed has — albeit eaten with bitter herbs — brought 

 infinite sweetness with it. It has been the bond of 

 brotherhood, the sacrament of unity. The loneliness of 

 life has been changed by it into comradeship and from it 

 has come the whole social structure of our race. 



Worthy then are the beasts which have been slain to 

 some share of man's gratitude. 



