“Life is a burden; bear it;
Life is a duty; dare it;
Life is a thorn crown; wear it.
Though it break your heart in twain,
Though the burden crush you down;
Close your lips and hide your pain;
First the cross, and then the crown.”
“Every rose of life, and every thorn,
Is consecrated by remembrance sweet–
Because once long ago Love did not scorn
To tread the wilderness with bleeding feet.”
Thomas had missed seeing Jesus in the upper room when he showed his wounded hands to the disciples, and he declared that unless he saw the hands for himself and the print of the nails in them he would not believe. In a sense Thomas was right. If the print of the nails had not been in the hands of him who stood in the midst of the disciples that night, it would not have been the Christ. There is a strange legend which says that once there came to the cell of a saintly monk one who knocked and desired admittance. His manner was lordly. His dress was rich. His hands were jeweled. “Who art thou?” asked the saint. “I am Jesus,” was the answer. There was some thing in the voice and manner of the visitor which made the godly one suspect that he was not the Holy One he claimed to be. He looked at him closely for a moment, and then asked, “Where is the print of the nails?” Instantly the stranger turned away. It was the Evil One, not the Master. Nothing is Christ or of Christ which does not bear the mark of the nails.
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