As for Me
I stood in that old church in Richmond where long ago Patrick Henry fired a verbal shot that was heard around the world. It was on March 20, 1775, a day when centuries were crowded into hours. The olive branch men of the time were trying to work out a compromise of peaceful coexistence, although the term hadn't come into use, with George III. But Patrick Henry was fed up with finagling, and that Virginian saw no sense in further negotiation. He said, "I don't know what others will do, but as for me give me liberty or give me death."
The dye was cast and the Rubicon was crossed, and all bridges were burned and retreat was impossible. There wasn't any uncertainty about where Patrick Henry stood. He cleared the air and stated the issue. There weren't any third dimensions and middle ground. Such a speech is awfully out of date in this fuzzy day of wooly thinking when experts in double talk, in the art of almost saying something specialize in a straightforward way of dodging the issue. Nobody coached Patrick Henry on how to mix black and white into indefinite gray. His yea was yea and his nay was nay. And while contemporaries were going around their elbows to get to their thumbs, Patrick Henry decided that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points. His speech must have shocked the school of propriety, but he detonated a charge that blasted tyranny from our shores.
I was in Camp Carson in the mountains of east Tennessee with a preachers' conference. Oh what a spot. Every morning I climbed one of them before breakfast. The first time I tried it, something said, You'd better call a halt and settle for halfway. But something else said, Keep climbing. My legs were wobbling. My heart was thumping. And something inside said, Who do you think you are? A teenager? Have you forgotten you were born in 1901? But I made it. And when I reached the summit, I looked out over that breathtaking panorama and I said, "Well, the difference is worth the distance."
Let me say to you preacher, you Christian. Keep climbing. Some folks will only view you with contempt. The critics will say, "Get off your high horse and join the club." Tell them, "I can't do it. I want to scale that utmost height and catch a gleam of glory bright. Anything else is out of the question."
Twenty centuries ago there was a different kind of preacher by the name of Paul. And when he came to the end of the road he did not write his memoirs in a villa on the Riviera. He sat in an old Roman jail waiting to have his head chopped off. The only stocks and bonds he had were stocks for his feet and bonds around his wrists. And he said, "Bring me my old overcoat and the parchments." I guess his arthritis was bothering him in that damp dungeon, but he said, "I've been faithful to the faith, I've been faithful to the fight, and I've been faithful to the finish. And there's laid up for me a crown." It's been a hard pull, Lord, but the difference is worth the distance.
The dye was cast and the Rubicon was crossed, and all bridges were burned and retreat was impossible. There wasn't any uncertainty about where Patrick Henry stood. He cleared the air and stated the issue. There weren't any third dimensions and middle ground. Such a speech is awfully out of date in this fuzzy day of wooly thinking when experts in double talk, in the art of almost saying something specialize in a straightforward way of dodging the issue. Nobody coached Patrick Henry on how to mix black and white into indefinite gray. His yea was yea and his nay was nay. And while contemporaries were going around their elbows to get to their thumbs, Patrick Henry decided that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points. His speech must have shocked the school of propriety, but he detonated a charge that blasted tyranny from our shores.
I was in Camp Carson in the mountains of east Tennessee with a preachers' conference. Oh what a spot. Every morning I climbed one of them before breakfast. The first time I tried it, something said, You'd better call a halt and settle for halfway. But something else said, Keep climbing. My legs were wobbling. My heart was thumping. And something inside said, Who do you think you are? A teenager? Have you forgotten you were born in 1901? But I made it. And when I reached the summit, I looked out over that breathtaking panorama and I said, "Well, the difference is worth the distance."
Let me say to you preacher, you Christian. Keep climbing. Some folks will only view you with contempt. The critics will say, "Get off your high horse and join the club." Tell them, "I can't do it. I want to scale that utmost height and catch a gleam of glory bright. Anything else is out of the question."
Twenty centuries ago there was a different kind of preacher by the name of Paul. And when he came to the end of the road he did not write his memoirs in a villa on the Riviera. He sat in an old Roman jail waiting to have his head chopped off. The only stocks and bonds he had were stocks for his feet and bonds around his wrists. And he said, "Bring me my old overcoat and the parchments." I guess his arthritis was bothering him in that damp dungeon, but he said, "I've been faithful to the faith, I've been faithful to the fight, and I've been faithful to the finish. And there's laid up for me a crown." It's been a hard pull, Lord, but the difference is worth the distance.
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