My Friends: I know how vain it is to gild a grief with words, where life and death are equal kings, all should be brave enough to meet what all the dead have met. The future has been filled with fear, stained and polluted by the heartless past. From the wonderous tree of life the buds and blossoms fall with ripened fruit, and in the common bed of earth, patriarchs and babes sleep side by side.
Why should we fear that which will come to all that is? We cannot say that death is not a good. We do not know whether the grave is the end of this life, or the door of another, or whether the night here is not somewhere else a dawn . . . .
Every cradle asks us “Whence?” and every coffin “Whithe?” The poor barbarian, weeping above his dead, can answer these questions just as well as the robed priest of the most authentic creed. The tearful ignorance of one the one is as consoling as the learned and unmeaning words of the other. No man, standing where the horizon of a life has touched a grave, has many rights to prophesy a future filled with pain and tears.
It may be that death gives all there is of worth to life. If those we press and strain within our arms could never die, perhaps that love would wither from the earth. Maybe this common fate treads from out the paths between our hearts the weeds of selfishness and hate. And I rather live and love where death is king, than have eternal life where love is not. Another life is nought, unless we know and love again the ones who love us here.
They who stand with breaking hearts around this little grave need have no fear. The larger and nobler faith in all that is, and is to be, tells us that death, even at its worst, is only perfect rest. We know that through the common wants of life – the needs and duties of each hour – the grief will lessen day by day, until at last this grave will be to them a place of rest and peace – almost of joy. There is for them this consolation: The dead do not suffer. If they live again, their lives will surely as good as ours. We have no fear. We are all children of the same mother, and the same fate awaits us all.
We, too, have our religion, and it is this: Help for the living – Hope for the dead.
By Robert Ingersoll
Taken from Light from many Lamps by Lillian Eichler Watson.