meditative than active: a
faint fragrance exhales from it, but it does not forget itself to
grapple with wrong, or descend upon the arena of human woes and
oppressions, full of the heat of battle, or, with a careless heroism,
spend itself to the last for the kingdom of God. I do not deny the
reality and the sweetness of this type of goodness; but it is not the
only type, and much less the type produced by the contagion of Christ
upon a strong nature and an eager vitality. I have said that the
abundant physical gift of life may carry with it a certain temptation to
an unsympathizing self-sufficiency. It is difficult not to be proud of
an untiring energy, and faculties that are always abreast of the demands
made upon them, and an immunity from pain and languor which is like a
double portion of strength. But what if all these things are only a
larger gift to lay upon the altar of humanity? What if strength be used
only to follow with swifter stride in the self-denying footsteps of
Christ? What if the sense of joyous energy only fortifies the soul
against disappointment, and makes light of hindrances, and enables
patience to have her perfect work? We envy the strong because we think
they can do more than we, and enjoy more than we--in a word, because
they live more than we. Let us envy them, if at all, because they have
more than we to give to God and men, and answer with a fuller and more
eager impulse to the breath of inspiration, and can throw a less
infinitesimal weight into the scale of the Divine purpose.

Such lives, believe me, are eminently happy. They have their full
measure of sensibility, and therefore their full share of trouble too.
What sorrows come to all, do not spare them; and it is the quickly
throbbing heart that is the tenderest. They cannot take life with dull
acquiescence, being neither keenly glad nor greatly sorry: to them, its
brightness is like opening Paradise; its gloom, a very valley of the
Shadow of Death. And as they emerge out of the narrowness of their
personal lot, to go down into the ringing battle of the world, they
encounter blows and bruises which more selfish lives are able to avoid;
they lay bare their hearts to sorrows not their own, and are stricken
with the disappointments of mankind. Was it not a part of the secret of
Christ that his affections were so wide, his sympathies so keen, his
identification with humanity so complete, that sin not his own cast a
shadow upon him almost l