He came to supply all our lack, from the root outward: for what is it we need but more life? What does the infant need but more life? What does the old man need, whose limbs are weak and whose pulse is low, but more of the life which seems ebbing from him? Weary with feebleness, he calls upon death, but in reality it is life he wants. It is but the encroaching death in him that desires death. He longs for rest, but death cannot rest; it takes strength as well as weariness to rest. Low-sunk life imagines itself weary of life, but it is death, not life, it is weary of. Why does the poor, out-worn suicide seek death? Is it not in reality to escape from death—from the death of homelessness and hunger and cold; the death of failure and disappointment; the death of madness, the death of crime and fear of discovery? He seeks the darkness because it seems a refuge from the death which possesses him. What he calls his life is but a dream full of horrible phantasms.
“More life!” is the unconscious prayer of all creation, groaning and travailing for the redemption of its lord. All things are possible with God, but all things are not easy. It is not easy for him to create—that is, after the grand fashion which alone will satisfy his glorious heart and will, the fashion in which he is now creating us.