No Name Like His
There is no name like His for us. It is more imperial than Caesar’s, more musical than Beethoven’s, more conquering than Charlemagne’s, more eloquent than Cicero’s. It throbs with all life. It weeps with all pathos. It groans with all pain. It stoops with all condescension.
It breathes with all perfume. Who like Jesus to set a broken bone, to pity a homeless orphan, to nurse a sick man, to take a prodigal back without any scolding, to illumine a cemetery all ploughed with graves, to make a queen unto God out of the lost woman of the street, to catch the tears of human sorrow in a lachrymatory that never shall be broken?
Who has such an eye to see our need, such a lip to kiss away our sorrow, such a hand to snatch us out of the fire, such a foot to trample our enemies, such a heart to embrace all our necessities?—TALMAGE.
