1. We now draw near to the end of Sarah's life. Our narrative does not tell us how she was affected by the episode of the offering of Isaac. But Jewish tradition, guessing in its accustomed way from the close juxtaposition of the episode and of Sarah's death, always asserted that the shock of the event was what killed her. Abraham, it declares, returning from his journey, found Sarah dead in Kiriath-arba, where Hebron afterwards stood. This is mere fiction, but there is one passing touch in the Scripture narrative which gives colour to it: “and Isaac was comforted after his mother's death” (Gen_24:67), suggests that the love of this mother and son was lifelong, and deepened with the years. Isaac mourned her with a bitter mourning, and well he might. Taking her all in all, we see in her, in these latter days, a loving mother and a loyal wife.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.
2. She was lovingly laid to rest in the cave of the field of Machpelah, before Mamre, in the land of Canaan; and Abraham does not withhold his tribute to her sterling worth, her steadfastness, her devotion, her high conception of wifely duty. The shrine which marks the tomb of Sarah at Machpelah is still reverently pointed out by the Muhammadans, who possess it. It is one of the few sites in the Holy Land which may be considered quite authentic. And certainly, if authentic, it is holy ground; for here lies the mother and the wife, her husband and her son beside her, the first woman who stands out in history distinctly portrayed, beautiful in person, but more beautiful still in the strength of her motherly love, a woman far from perfect, and yet a typical woman, appealing to our sympathy in her hunger of heart, and in the joy of her satisfaction, and furnishing a sober warning to all her daughters in the violence of her jealousy and the persistence of her hatred. She is no conventional character, but through her veins courses that genial tide which commends her to the kinship and love of mankind.
A ruddy drop of human blood
The surging sea outweighs;
The world uncertain comes and goes,
The lover rooted stays.
Thy note received the evening before my birthday made me very happy. Among the many kind greetings which reach me on this anniversary, thine has been most welcome, for a word of praise from thee [Oliver Wendell Holmes] is prized more highly than all, though I do not undervalue any one's love or friendship. I have often since I met thee in Boston thought of thy remark that we four singers seem to be isolated-set apart as it were-in lonely companionship, garlanded as if for sacrifice, the world about us waiting to see who first shall falter in his song, who first shall pass out of the sunshine into the great shadow! There is something pathetic in it all. I feel like clasping closer the hands of my companions. I realize more and more that fame and notoriety can avail little in our situation; that love is the one essential thing, always welcome, outliving time and change, and going with us into the unguessed possibilities of death.1 [Note: J. G. Whittier, in Life and Letters by S. T. Pickard, ii. 654.]
Fichte (in his Blessed Life) seems to discountenance attachment to the individual and the visible. The clinging which to cut away would be cutting the heart to the quick, he would call an indication of a mind not set on the Invisible. And yet how is this? Then they who feel least, and attach themselves least, are the religious of the earth. The gentlest and tenderest, who have forgotten self in the being of another, are consoled with the pleasing assurance, that they “have neither part nor lot” in the blessed life. And He, whose tears flowed so freely over the grave of friendship, and over His country's doomed metropolis, who loved John with so peculiar and selective an attachment-what are we to say of Him? Oh! it cannot be. It cannot be that God has given us beings here to love, and that to love them intensely is idolatry. I can understand self-annihilation for another dearer than self; but I cannot understand the annihilation of those dear affections, nor the sacrifice of a bleeding heart at the shrine of Him whose name is Love.1 [Note: Life and Letters of F. W. Robertson, 214.]
“A waverer, Lord, am I,” saith one-
“Here, there, I run.”
“My messenger be thou, to tell
Of Heaven to hell.”
“How little love, O Lord, I feel-
My heart is steel.”
“But I the Magnet am,” saith He,
“And steel's for Me.”
“Ah, Lord, I lean with love on man
Whene'er I can.”
“Who clings to man, My proxy, he
Clings so to Me.”2 [Note: W. Meynell, Verses and Reverses, 46.]
