But while Mary's love was impulsive and generous, it was obedient. "She rested on the Sabbath day, according to the commandment." Here is a test of true love. We want to do something very much; we think the motive is good; but there comes a providential obstacle in the way. We cannot do it just now. We cannot do it just in the way we want. And too often our love is not pure enough for this test. We murmur and complain, and commit a thousand disobediences, and show how much self-love had to do with our undertakings. It was not so with this holy woman. She waited all the Sabbath day. It was God's command. The seventh day was kept by the Jews with a ceremonial strictness that forbade all work; and she would keep the commandment to the letter. So not a step would she take on the Sabbath, not even to the Saviour's grave. I am sure that Sabbath was a long one to her. Never was time's foot so heavy. Never did the hours go so slow. Never were the sacred services so tedious. A thousand times she goes to the window to see if the shadows were getting long, and each time it seems to her that the sun is standing still. O loving heart! loving in what she did not do, as well as in what she did. She will not take liberties with her conscience. { 363} She will not be officious or intrusive. She will not please herself on pretence of doing something for God. And so, though her heart is at the sepulchre all day, though she yearns to go thither, not a foot will she stir, not a hand will she lift, till she knows that the fitting time is come. Her love was that _orderly charity_ of which the Holy Scripture speaks. [Footnote 109]
But the longest day has an end, and the end of that Sabbath at last arrived. The sun sinks beneath the horizon. The evening sacrifice is over. Darkness falls upon the temple aisles, and the last worshipper departs. By degrees the streets of Jerusalem become silent and deserted. It is night, a glorious night; for the full paschal moon pours down its floods of light upon the holy city. And now the good woman, laden with her ointments and spices, sets out for the sepulchre. Alone, or only with a feeble woman like herself, she goes out late at night, and whither? To a garden outside the city, where a band of soldiers keep watch over a grave, closed with a great stone, and sealed with the seal of state. Is she not afraid? Docs she not run a thousand risks? Even supposing she reaches the place in safety, will she be permitted to approach the grave? Who will roll the stone from the door? Who will dare to break the seal? O holy boldness of love! which, when a duty is to be done, asks no questions, and knows no difficulties. O love! stronger than death, despising torments and casting out fear! Here is the wisdom of the saints. Here is the secret of all the great things that have been done for God. There is a higher wisdom and a higher prudence than the wisdom and the prudence of this world. There is a trust in God which is ever regarded as daring and enthusiastic, but which God justifies, and men themselves are forced at last to applaud.