They said that when the funeral of Philip Strong’s body was held in Milton, rugged, unfeeling men were seen to cry like children in the streets.  A great procession, largely made up of the poor and sinful, followed him to his wintry grave.  They lingered long about the spot.  Finally, every one withdrew except Sarah, who refused to be led away by her friends, and William and the Brother Man.  They stood looking down into the grave.

“He was very young to die so soon,” at last Sarah said, with a calmness that was more terrible than bursts of grief.

“So was Christ,” replied Brother Man, simply.

“But, oh, Philip, Philip, my beloved, they killed him!” she cried; and at last, for she had not wept yet, great tears rolled down into the grave, and uncontrollable anguish seized her.  Brother Man did not attempt to console or interrupt.  He knew she was in the arms of God.  After a long time he said:  “Yes, they crucified him.  But he is with his Lord now.  Let us be glad for him.  Let us leave him with the Eternal Peace.”

. . . . . . . .

When the snow had melted from the hillside and the first arbutus was beginning to bud and even blossom, one day some men came out to the grave and put up a plain stone at the head.  After the men had done this work they went away.  One of them lingered.  He was the wealthy mill-owner.  He stood with his hat in his hand and his head bent down, his eyes resting on the words carved into the stone.  They were these: 

Philip strong. 
Pastor of Calvary church.

“In the cross of Christ I glory,
    Towering o’er the wrecks of time;
All the light of sacred story
    Gathers round——­”

Mr. Winter looked at the incomplete line and then, as he turned away and walked slowly back down into Milton he said, “Yes, it is better so.  We must finish the rest for him.”

Ah, Philip Strong!  The sacrifice was not in vain!  The Resurrection is not far from the Crucifixion.

. . . . . . . .

Near to its close rolls up the century;
    And still the Church of Christ upon the earth
    Which marks the Christmas of His lowly birth,
Contains the selfish Scribe and Pharisee. 
    O Christ of God, exchanging gain for loss,
    Would men still nail thee to the self-same cross?

It is the Christendom of Time, and still
    Wealth and the love of it hold potent sway;
    The heart of man is stubborn to obey,
The Church has yet to do the Master’s will. 
    O Christ of God, we bow our souls to thee;
    Hasten the dawning of Thy Church to be way!

The end.

[Transcriber’s note:  typographic errors in the original are noted within square brackets.]