He had an unbounded faith in applied Christianity. There was nothing it could not do in the way of recasting and uplifting the despised peoples of the land. We had but to go forward in the name and power of our great Leader to effect the national redemption. But I must not detain you longer. He has gone out from us. His mission is ended here. Those eloquent lips must remain forever sealed on earth. He simply ceases to be seen of us. We follow his path of translation with mingled tears and joy. The future life, whose place is beyond the skies, was a matter of great concern to him. I recall the hour when he returned to his room from a lecture on the immortality of the soul. He was almost overcome by the discussion which was being carried on in the class-room. He wanted the subject taken out of the realm of probability, and brought to the test of certainty and demonstration. “O, chum!” he exclaimed, “I wish I might die now; I can hardly wait for the demonstration!” He did not wait long. The bending heavens caught up his spirit, and he has gone into the holy city through the beautiful gate which opens over all graves.
“Thus saints, that seem to die in earth’s rude strife, only win double life; they have but left our weary ways to live in memory here, in Heaven by love and praise.”
After what has been so eloquently and fittingly said I have very great reluctance to appear before you to speak of Brother Powell. I have on several occasions spoken of him, and it is only because I am unwilling that the office and the office workers should not in some way be recognized that I consent to say a few words to-day.
What I have to say relates not so much to his public life as to our office relations with him. It has been my sad duty to go to the graves or speak at these meetings in reference to the death of all the officers associated with me when I came into this work; Lewis Tappan, George Whipple, S.S. Jocelyn, G.D. Pike—all of these I have followed to the grave. There is this one difference between Brother Powell’s death and that of the others in our memory—all the others had a long, wasting sickness; we remember the darkened room, the pale face, the parched lips, the night vigils. But we have no such thought in regard to Brother Powell’s death. The morning after the holiday of Christmas