Such is life.  Yesterday a wedding, and to-day a funeral.  Do you hear that terrific wail, those shrieks and bitter cries of anguish?  Young Sheikh Milham has died.  The Druze and Christian women are gathered in the house, and wailing together in the most piteous manner.  It is dreadful to think what sufferings the poor women must endure.  They do everything possible to excite one another.  They not only call out, “Milham, my pride, my bridegroom, star of my life, you have set, my flower, you have faded,” but they remind each other of all the deaths that have occurred in their various families for years, and thus open old wounds of sorrow which time had healed.  Yet they have regular funeral songs, and we will listen while they sing in a mournful strain: 

    Milham Beg my warrior,
    Your spear is burnished gold;
    Your costly robes and trappings,
    Will in the street be sold. 
    “Where is the Beg who bore me?”
    I hear the armor crying—­
    Where is the lord who wore me? 
    I hear the garments sighing.

Now Im Hassein from Ainab bursts out in a loud song, addressing the dead body, around which they are all seated on the ground: 

    Rise up my lord, gird on your sword,
    Of heavy Baalbec steel;
    Why leave it hanging on the nail? 
    Let foes its temper feel! 
    Would that the Pasha’s son had died,
    Not our Barmakeh’s son and pride!

Then Lemis answers in another song in which they all join: 

    Ten thousands are thronging together,
    The Beg has a feast to-day;
    We thought he had gone on a visit,
    But alas, he has gone to stay.

Then they all scream, and tear their hair and beat their breasts.  Alas, they have no light beyond the grave.  Who could expect them to do otherwise?  The Apostle Paul urges the Christians “not to sorrow even as others which have no hope!” This is sorrow without hope.  The grave is all dark to them.  How we should thank our Saviour for having cast light on the darkness of the tomb, and given us great consolation in our sorrows!  Here comes a procession of women from Kefr Metta.  Hear them chanting: 

    I saw the mourners thronging round,
    I saw the beds thrown on the ground;
    The marble columns leaning,
    The wooden beams careening,
    My lord and Sheikh with flowing tears,
    I asked what was its meaning? 
    He sadly beckoned me aside,
    And said, To-day my son has died!

Then an old woman, a widow, who has been reminded of the death of her husband, calls out to him: 

    Oh, Sheikh, have you gone to the land? 
    Then give my salams to my boy,
    He has gone on a long, long journey,
    And took neither clothing nor toy. 
    Ah, what will he wear on the feast days,
    When the people their festal enjoy?

Now one of the women addresses the corpse: