Ecclesiastes 8:8 – No man has power to retain the spirit, or power over the day of death. There is no discharge from war, nor will wickedness deliver those who are given to it.
Christopher Hitchens is dead. A man who made his reputation lately by denying the existence of God (he described himself not so much as an atheist but as an “anti-theist”) died last night of pneumonia as a complication of his esophageal cancer. Let us hope that with his last breaths he repented of his sin and put his faith in the incarnate Son of God who loved him and gave himself for him.
It is good to think of death more than we normally do. Proverbs warns often against sin with the thought of death looming in the near future. Indeed, Solomon declared in Ecclesiastes 7:1-5, “A good name is better than precious ointment, and the day of death than the day of birth. It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting, for this is the end of all mankind, and the living will lay it to heart. Sorrow is better than laughter, for by sadness of face the heart is made glad. The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.”
Go here to read a good reflection on the possibility of salvation for Christopher Hitchens.
Perhaps it is fitting to end with two poems by John Donne.
“For Whom the Bell Tolls”
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
Death Be Not Proud
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
