View source for The Only Bond

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<p>Every life has its secret, that which accounts for its trend, its choices, its toils, its achievements. When we see a mother with her sick child, forgetting herself, losing her rest, bending day and near over the bed where the little life is flickering, we know the secret of her devoted watching. It is love, which is at the heart of it all.<br><br>
There is a story of a ship captain who sails away over the sea on long voyages. He is deeply interested in all his duties, and performs them with utmost faithfulness. He spends long nights on deck, studying the problems of the sea and guiding his ship through the perils. At last he reaches his destination, and in due time sails back again with his cargo from foreign lands, arriving through all the dangers of the long voyage. And then—what then? He goes on shore and hurries to a quiet cottage where a little child is living in a nurse's care, and gives into the child's hands all that he has earned. That child is the secret of all his toil and care, the inspiration of all his voyages. He has not talked of her, nor seemed to be thinking of her—but in reality she has been at the center of his heart all the while. If he had come back and found the cottage empty and only a little grave to lavish his love upon, he would have cared nothing for all the fruits of his success. Love is the secret.<br><br>
It is worth our while to ask what the secret of our own life is. Of course, there are human loves and there are secondary motives—but what is <em>the great central motive? </em>Is there anything stronger than home and loved ones and earthly ambitions, which impel us to toil, to struggle, to sacrifice? Paul tells us the secret of his wonderful life in one little word—"The love of Christ constrains us!"<br><br>
"Under an eastern sky,<br>
  Amid a rabble cry,<br>
  A Man went forth to die–<br>
  For me!<br><br>
"Thorn crowned His blessed head,<br>
  Blood-stained His every tread,<br>
  Cross laden, on He sped–<br>
  For me!"<br><br>
"The love of Christ constrains us." Commentators discuss the question whether this means <em>Christ's </em>love for us—or <em>ours </em>for Him. It must mean <em>both</em>. Christ's love for us comes first. What the sun is to the trees and grasses and flowers in the springtime, the love of Christ is to our love. If he did not love us, we never would love Him. Our love would sleep on and never awake—but for His kiss. When we begin to know that Christ loves us—we begin to love Him. "We love Him—because He first loved us."<br><br>
Christ's love <em>transforms</em>. It repeats itself in our lives. A chaplain on a battlefield came to a man who was wounded, lying on the ground. "Would you like me to read you something from this book—the Bible?" he asked the soldier. "I'm so thirsty," replied the man; "I would rather have a drink of water." Quickly as he could the chaplain brought the water and held it to the parched lips. Then the soldier asked, "Could you put something under my head?" The chaplain took off his own light overcoat, rolled it, and put it gently under the soldier's head for a pillow. "Now," said the soldier, "if I had something over me! I am very cold." There was only one thing the chaplain could do. He took off his own coat and spread it over the soldier. The wounded man looked up into the face and said gratefully, "Thank you." Then after a moment's pause he said: "If there is anything in that book in your hand which makes a man do for another what you have done for me, please read it to me." Men are ready to hear us read the book which tells of the love of Christ for them—only when our lives interpret what the book says.<br><br>
Recently a story appeared in one of the papers, entitled, "How a Man Coined His Heart." It was a poor artist. There had been in his life a sad story of love, true and deep on his part, yet seemingly unrequited, and even false, on the part of the other. The world had not known anything of it—he had kept his secret very close. But there came a call for a piece of work—a calendar—and the artist put his life's whole story into it—the springtime, with its beauty; the summer, with its bloom; the autumn, with its decaying hope; the winter, with its dreary desolation. He coined his heart into his picture and sold it to get bread for his hunger. Christ coined His heart into a great sacrifice of love, and purchased redemption for the world. The cross is the love of Christ, pouring out its gold. So we are to coin our hearts into lives of love and service, into deeds of kindness and helpfulness.<br><br>
Nothing but the love of Christ in us will enable us to do this. A soldier may be without love for the commander or for the cause he serves, and may march and fight merely for the paltry money he receives. But the Christian must love his Master—or his life will count for nothing. There is a legend of an artist who had a marvelous red tint in his pictures. No other had learned the secret, and it died with him. After his death a red wound was discovered near his heart and the secret of the wonderful color in his paintings was revealed. It was his heart's blood that gave his work its inimitable tint. The old legend tells a deep spiritual truth. <em>Only heart's blood will give value to what we do, will put the heavenly color into our work. </em>What we do without love fades out. When it is the love of Christ that constrains us, our simplest, commonest acts have Divine beauty and blessing in them.<br><br>
The love of Christ is the only bond which can bind lives together inseparably and forever. People talk of reunions in the other world. "I cannot bring her back again," said one beside his dead, "but I can go to her." Yet we need to remember that only those who are bound together here by a common love for Christ—shall find each other and know each other and be together in the other world.<br><br>
Only those who have the love of Christ—have between them a bond of union which death cannot sever. The only tie which never shall be broken—is love for Christ. Those whom this sacred bond unites, never shall be separated. If this love is not in us, there is nothing in our lives which will endure; all else will perish.
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