light, or the moon, or the
stars be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain; in the day
when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall
bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those
that look out of the windows be darkened; and the doors shall be shut in
the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low; and he shall rise up
at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of music shall be
brought low; also when they shall be afraid of that which is high, and
fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish, and the
grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire shall fail; because man goeth
to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets; or ever the
silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be
broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern. Then shall
the dust return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return unto
God who gave it.

Master: One by one they pass away--the brothers of our adoption, the
companions of our choice. A brother whose hand we have clasped in the
bonds of fraternal fellowship now lies before us in the rigid embrace of
death. All that remains of one near and dear to us is passing from our
sight, and we know that we shall meet him on earth no more.

We, who knew him so well in our brotherhood, feel that in his departure
from among the living, something has gone out of our own lives that can
never be again. Thus, as human ties are broken, the world becomes less
and less, and the hope to be reunited with friends who are gone, grows
more and more. Here is immediate compensation, which, while it cannot
assuage our grief, may teach resignation to the inevitable doom of all
things mortal.

While we stand around the open grave, in the presence of a body once,
and so lately, warm with life and animate with thought, now lingering
for a brief moment at the dark portal of the tomb--like a beam of holy
light the belief must come, this cannot be all there is of day. Stricken
human nature cries out: There must be a dawn beyond this darkness and a
never setting sun, while this short life is but a morning star.

The cycles of Time roll with the procession of seasons. Spring is bloom;
summer is growth; autumn is fruition; winter is the shroud, and beneath
its cold, yet kindly fold, live the germs of a new life. Spring comes
again; growth matures, and fruit is eternal. This is the religion an