On the lonely rock the meek,
strong soul spent its forces; joy, friendly faces, laughter of sweet
children, healthy and kindly companions--there were none of these. The
sea moaned round with many voices, and the sky bent over the lonely
disciple; the melancholy of the sea, the melancholy of the changeless
sky, the monotony of silence, must all have weighed on his heart. In
the daytime there were only sights whereat strong men might swoon
away--pain, pain, pain all round, and every complication of horror;
but the Child of Sorrow bore all. Then came the sentence of death. For
ten weary years the hero had to wait in loneliness while the Destroyer
slowly enfolded him in its arms. We pity the monster who dies a swift
death after his life of wickedness has been forfeited; we are vexed if
a criminal endures one minute of suffering; but the noble one on that
sad isle watched his doom coming for ten years, and never flinched
from his task during that harrowing time. It makes the heart grow
chill, despite the pride we feel in our lost brother. The religion of
Sorrow has indeed conquered; and Father Damien has set the seal to its
triumph.
But around us there are others who have composedly accepted sorrow as
their portion.
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