Hence we must all go through the
mill. Hence death, death to the lower self, is the nearest gate and
the quickest road to life.
Yet this is only half the truth. Christ's life outwardly was one of
the most troubled lives that was ever lived: tempest and tumult,
tumult and tempest, the waves breaking over it all the time till the
worn body was laid in the grave. But the inner life was a sea of
glass. The great calm was always there. At any moment you might have
gone to Him and found Rest. Even when the blood-hounds were dogging
Him in the streets of Jerusalem, He turned to His disciples and
offered them, as a last legacy, "My peace." Nothing ever for a moment
broke the serenity of Christ's life on earth. Misfortune could not
reach Him; He had no fortune. Food, raiment, money--fountain-heads of
half the world's weariness--He simply did not care for; they played no
part in His life; He "took no thought" for them. It was impossible to
affect Him by lowering His reputation. He had already made Himself of
no reputation.
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