“Why, this, my love,” I answered; “this living air, and wind, and sea, and light, and land all about us; this consenting, consorting harmony of Nature, that mirrors a like peace in our souls. The perfection of such visions, the gathering of them all in one was, is, I should say, in the face of Christ Jesus. You will say that face was troubled sometimes. Yes, but with a trouble that broke not the music, but deepened the harmony. When he wept at the grave of Lazarus, you do not think it was for Lazarus himself, or for his own loss of him, that he wept? That could not be, seeing he had the power to call him back when he would. The grief was for the poor troubled hearts left behind, to whom it was so dreadful because they had not faith enough in his Father, the God of life and love, who was looking after it all, full of tenderness and grace, with whom Lazarus was present and blessed. It was the aching, loving heart of humanity for which he wept, that needed God so awfully, and could not yet trust in him. Their brother was only hidden in the skirts of their Father’s garment, but they could not believe that: they said he was dead--lost--away--all gone, as the children say. And it was so sad to think of a whole world full of the grief of death, that he could not bear it without the human tears to help his heart, as they help ours. It was for our dark sorrows that he wept. But the peace could be no less plain on the face that saw God. Did you ever think of that wonderful saying: ‘Again a little while, and ye shall see me, because I go to the Father’? The heart of man would have joined the ‘because I go to the Father’ with the former result--the not seeing of him. The heart of man is not able, without more and more light, to understand that all vision is in the light of the Father. Because Jesus went to the Father, therefore the disciples saw him tenfold more. His body no longer in their eyes, his very being, his very self was in their hearts--not in their affections only--in their spirits, their heavenly consciousness.” As I said this, a certain hymn, for which I had and have an especial affection, came into my mind, and, without prologue or introduction, I repeated it: “If I Him but have, If he be but mine, If my heart, hence to the grave, Ne’er forgets his love divine-- Know I nought of sadness, Feel I nought but worship, love, and gladness. If I Him but have, Glad with all I part; Follow on my pilgrim staff My Lord only, with true heart; Leave them, nothing saying, On broad, bright, and crowded highways straying. If I Him but have, Glad I fall asleep; Aye the flood that his heart gave Strength within my heart shall keep, And with soft compelling Make it tender, through and through it swelling.