T H E L A D I E S '   R E P O S I T O R Y .

J A N U A R Y,   1 8 4 8 .

      I LOVE the mountains. Their hoary summits piercing the clouds, and crowned with eternal snow, the unbroken silence which ever surrounds them, and the pure atmosphere by which their lofty brows are fanned, invest them with a deep, solemn, religious interest. They stand aloof, as it were, from the earth, of which they form a part; they seem like the altars of the world, whose fires have been quenched--the smoke of whose sacrifices have ceased to ascend for ever. Their heads are lifted skyward in changeless serenity; the storm and the tempest burst and rage far beneath them; they are first encircled by morn's bright rays; and when, at eventide, their dark shadows lie along the plain, their tops are gilded with the splendor of the day-god's parting beams.

      Mountains have long been the theme of the historian's pen and the poet's lyre. Atlas and Ida, Parnassus and Olympus, the haunts of gods, heroes, and muses, have long been familiar words. The Alps and the Appenines, Sovran Blanc and hoary Saint Bernard, have each their story, and are only inferior in interest to those whose names and legends are found in the sacred page.

      Turn we, then, from the wooded heights of Ida and the delightful shades of Parnassus, to linger awhile near those holy mounts which have long been celebrated in sacred story.

      And, first, Ararat rises on our view, memorable as the first mount mentioned in our world's history, the resting-place of the Deluge-ship, which long had sailed on a shoreless sea. Never was land so dear to the mariner, as its rugged peaks to the survivors of a world; and never did the smoke of a more joyful sacrifice ascend, than that which curled in graceful wreaths around its summit, when the family of the saved pressed eagerly round the first altar that rose on the purified earth.

      It is a hallowed mountain. There, doubtless, the dove first folded her weary wing. It was the ark's first resting-place; and there the altar's smoke and the rainbow's hues first met the adoring and admiring gaze of the new world's inhabitants.

      Grand and gloomy Sinai rises in the Arabian desert. Its rugged cliffs seem to pierce the clouds; and its solitary position fits it eminently for awful and solemn revealings. There the mighty One of Israel came down in terrible majesty, and gave a law to his people by the hand of his chosen servant--there he proclaimed his own wondrous name in the hearing of the assembled millions who thronged its base, and shook it to its very foundations by the majesty of his awful presence. Thunders pealed and lightnings played around its clouded summit; darkness enveloped it in a gloomy mantle; angels stood by to witness the solemn act of Jehovah, when he was first made known to man as his wondrous lawgiver, and to hear the ten words of mighty import, which then broke from the lips of the high and lofty One. I would not, as the ancient leader of God's people, ascend its rugged steep--I would not stand in the awful place where Israel's mediator stood; but humbly would I kneel at its base, and let my spirit linger upon the solemn memories which are interwoven with its history.

      Hor, Pisgah, and Carmel have each their story. While gazing on the first, we seem to stand by the first high priest, as he calmly awaits the call of death. With Moses, from Pisgah's top, we survey at once the desert, and look to the fair land beyond Jordan's wave, and feast our eyes on its living beauties. At Carmel's base we hear the frantic petitions of the false god's votaries, and, in the hush of evening, the few, yet solemn words of the true God's prophet, and see the hallowed flame descend to bring at once pallid terror and sacred joy.

      Tabor tells of the descent of the shining ones, and the shadowing forth of the glories of the Christian's land; and we feel, in meditating over the sacred spot, that we could stand in rapt adoration; and did we break the silence, it would be but to exclaim, "It is good for us to be here!"

      Olivet, too, hath many a sacred legend. Oft has the stillness of its seclusion been broken by the accents of the Savior's prayer. What lessons of divine wisdom have been taught under its shadowing palms! The feet of God's well-beloved have hallowed it by their impress. There it was that the risen Savior bade his disciples repair, to take their last look at their Master, and hear his parting words. There, too, he was parted from them, and borne by an angel escort to his Father's throne; and there the eye of faith is directed as the place where he shall in like manner descend.

      And yet, though it be sweet to wander among the vines of Carmel, or linger amid the palms of Olivet, there remains another mount, whose memories are dearer and sweeter than all we have named beside. Three solemn scenes have been enacted upon its heights--three altars have there been reared, and three victims offered. It is the sacrificial mount; and though we stand afar, we will gaze on its wondrous scenes in tearful admiration.

      A gray-haired patriarch, bending under the weight of years, and a blooming son, the child of his old age--the object of his tenderest affection, are toiling up its steep. The face of the sire is anxious and care-worn. Ever and anon his eye is cast heavenward imploringly, and a fervent though hasty prayer escapes his lips. The fire to kindle the sacred flame, and the knife to immolate the victim, are in his hand, while the son, with firmer step, bears on his shoulder the wood to consume the appointed sacrifice. A few loose stones, hastily heaped together, form the altar; [11] but neither lamb nor kid for the offering is yet seen. The wood is laid in order, and lo! the sorrowing sire binds the yielding son, and lays him, an unresisting victim, on the sacred pile. The knife gleams in the air; another moment, and it will be dimmed by the blood of that young and trusting heart; but that moment is the moment of safety. An angel's voice bids the hand of the father stay; and the son, as if alive from the dead, is pressed to his yearning heart. Another and less noble victim is provided; and soon the smoke of sacrifice ascends from the mountain where Abraham's altar stood.

      But, lo! in after years, a gorgeous temple rises upon the self-same mount. Gold and gems are lavished profusely upon it; for it is the place of worship for a mighty people. A train of white-robed priests are there; and they are about to celebrate a solemn religious rite. And again the altar meets our view. There stand the worshiping assembly, and near the altar the victim and the priest. The fatal blow is given; the victim bleeds; the smoke of sacrifice ascends the sky; and the mount where Abraham worshiped has become a nation's altar.

      Time sweeps on, and the glory of the first temple departs; the hand of the barbarian is laid upon it; its glory and beauty are marred; the stately edifice is given to the devouring flame; and all its ancient grandeur is prostrate in the dust. Again the mountain presents itself to our view. A confused multitude are near its base. They press hurriedly along, and the air is rent with their shouts. Is it some high festival which causes Jerusalem thus to pour forth its living tide?--to thus bring forth slave and senator, and cause the turbaned priest and the mail-clad soldier to meet in the same motley throng? No; the shouts are not those of mirth and glad rejoicing; but words of malediction and bitter hate burst from the lips of that infuriated throng. And the object of popular fury, where is he? Behold him, not a malefactor, bold and hardened in crime--his hands stained with the blood of his fellows, but a meek, uncomplaining Man of sorrows, who, bending under the weight of the Roman cross, seeks the place of his closing scene. Like wave urged on by wave, the crowd presses onward, until the fatal spot is reached. The meek Victim is rudely nailed to the prostrate wood; and soon the cross arises, the altar of the world. We saw the son of Abraham ascend this mountain, bearing on his shoulder the wood for his own sacrifice, and have just seen the Son of God fainting under the burden of his own cross. We saw the former bound upon the altar; but we now see the latter nailed to the accursed tree, groaning, agonizing, dying. We saw Isaac released, and an inferior victim substituted; but now we see the sacrifice that God has provided freely offered up for us all; and this mountain is thus rendered dear to all--the centre around which faith, and hope, and memory delight to linger. Sacred mount! known as Moriah, the temple's site, and Calvary's Hill, thou art rich in holy associations--the altar of Abraham, the altar of Israel, and the altar of the world.

[The Ladies' Repository 8 (January 1848): 11-12.]

      William Baxter's "The Mount of Sacrifice" was first published in The Ladies' Repository, and Gatherings of the West: A Monthly Periodical Devoted to Literature and Religion, Vol. 8, No. 1, January 1848, pp. 11-12. This volume, edited by B. F. Tefft, was published in Cincinnati by L. Swormstedt and J. H. Power and in New York by G. Lane and L. Scott for the Methodist Episcopal Church.

      Pagination in the electronic version has been represented by placing the page number in brackets following the last complete word on the printed page.

      Addenda and corrigenda are earnestly solicited.

Ernie Stefanik
Derry, PA

Created 11 April 2000.
Updated 28 June 2003.