THUS it has pleased our Heavenly Father to "take away from us the desire of our eyes, with a stroke." The first impression of such a loss is that of _amazement_--overwhelming and bewildering the soul, and with strange horror, destroying for a time, the power to feel. "Deep calleth unto deep--all thy waves, and billows have gone over me." Such is the abyss of grief! At such a time, our part is "to be still"--sitting, like the Marys, "over against the sepulchre." When the disciples of John lost their earthly Master, "they came and took the body, and buried it, and went and told Jesus." This ought to be the first act of every mourner, _to tell it unto Jesus_. With him we shall find both sympathy and support. And more than this: He resolves the death of our friends into his own gracious sovereignty, when he calls it, "the coming of the Son of Man." Death loses its terror when it becomes his act of grace. "The death of his saints is precious in his sight," and is always ordered with a supreme regard to their blessedness, and his glory. So that the feeblest of his dying children may confidently say, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him." "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me." There is a feeling about the death of our friends, which is made up in part of unbelief, and in part of that tender regard which is produced by their dependence on us through life. Those endearing relations which make us their protectors, and supports, send their deep sympathies even into the grave. Who of us that is a husband, or a parent, that does not feel the horror of the separation aggravated by the spectacle of our helpless kindred struggling alone in mortal strife with "the king of terrors"? We, to whom they have always looked for succour, are then as helpless as they, in their extremest need. We cannot even share their agony. It is this which gives a nameless anguish to such a moment.[8] [8] One of the most affecting scenes ever witnessed, was the death of a little child, who, in the last moments, called on her mother _to die with her_. This was the voice of nature. To this call the heart would, but cannot respond. "Here our father and mother must forsake us." But it is because we forget that "when father and mother," and all they most depended on in life, "forsake them, then the Lord doth take them up." The Christian is never so little alone as on the verge of heaven. The Lord of life is there. Underneath are the everlasting arms; and through all the terrors of the grave; and above all the tumult of that last hour, the Shepherd's voice is heard, saying--"IT IS I--BE NOT AFRAID." While some pass over Jordan on the wing, and some struggle through the waves, yet all safely pass. Not one of them shall perish, but each appear in Zion before God.