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I had an interview with death. The place, a lonely dell, winter-bound, swathed in spotless snow. The time, new-risen morn; the last star paling, as if in fear, retired, but not extinguished. A spirit strengthened me to brave the enemy of life, and gave me courage to upbraid his cruelty. My speech I do remember well, and death's reply. Said I, in heightened tone, as if to keep uncertain courage steadfast and ardent: "Monster, of thee no man speaks well. Thy silent tread makes the house tremble, and in thy cold breath all flowers die. No little child is safe from death's all-withering touch: nor mothers dost thou spare, nor lovers weaving life's story into coloured dream, nor saints in lowly prayer. Why not content thyself with warring and succeeding in the gloomy jungle? Smite the tiger crouching for his prey, or the lion in his fierceness, or fly after the punting wolf, or lodge an arrow in the heart of the proud eagle. Why devastate our homes? Why kill our little ones? Why break our hearts and mock our thirst with the brine of useless tears? O death! I would that thou wert dead." Then death answered me, and filled me with amaze. "Believe me," said the weird defendant, "thy reasoning is false, thy reproach an unintelligent assault." His voice was gentle, and through all his pallor there gleamed the outline of a smile. I saw transfigured death. "I am God's servant. The flock must be brought home. I go to bring the wanderers to the fold. The lambs are God's, not yours; or yours but to watch and tend until He sends for them. Through your own fatherhood read God's heart. Through your own watching for the child's return conceive the thought that glows in love Divine." He paused. Said I: "Could not some brighter messenger be sent? An angel with sunlight in his eyes and music in his voice? Thou dost affright us so, and make us die so oft in dying once. If our mother could but come, or some kindred soul, or old pastor, whose voice we know; any but thou, so cold, so grim." "I understand thee well," said death, "but thou dost not understand thyself. Why does God send this cold snow before the spring? Why icebergs first, then daffodils? My grimness, too, thou dost not comprehend. The living have never seen me. Only the dying can see death. I am but a mask. The angel thou dost pine for is behind. Sometimes angel-mother, sometimes father, sometimes a vanished love, but always, to the good and true, the very image of the Christ. No more revile me. I am a visored friend." The dell was then transformed. The snow gleamed like silver. The day a cloudless blue. And suddenly living images filled the translucent space. And then I asked of death if he could tell whence came they? And he said: "These are mine. A reaper I, as well as shepherd. I put in the sharp sickle; I bound the sheaves; I garnered the precious harvest; and when I come angels sing 'Harvest home.'"

(J. Parker, D. D.)

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KJV: And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment:

WEB: Inasmuch as it is appointed for men to die once, and after this, judgment,