Days of the Covenant

Days of the Covenant A pageant of faithfulness Copyright Doug Blair, Waterloo ON, 2019

Solemn Spires of Rock

With blood and breath They sealed the Oath, Though parchment bore the gist Of Covenant with Christ their King, Whose court was moor and mist.

The shields of power Had spewed a law:

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That every soul must heed The pulpits of the puppet-priests, By worldly throne decreed.

But hearts enthralled

By Spirit’s touch, And cleansed with Christ’s own blood, Must have the shepherd-hearted prince To preach to them God’s Word.

Now banned from kirks And presbyteries,

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The faithful shepherds fled; To holy haunts on heathered hills, To preach life from the dead.

And whispers thrilled The villages, And sought the lonely farms; As secret calls to worship meant A secret call to arms.

Though empty sat The kirks of stone,

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And empty sat their pews; The glens and rills were filled with psalms ‘Neath grand celestial views.

And times would come Of sacrament, Of searchings-out of sin; And fateful times when king’s dragoons Would scatter to the wind.

And legends grew Of gallant men

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Evading musket-fire; And matrons bold who harboured them, To raise some villain’s ire.

And prophets saved By providence From Bloody Clavers’ men, Would vanish into cave or fog, Or stream, to preach again.

And gallows bore The testament,

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And prison glooms the tale; And children saw the cost of truth In those who walked death’s vale.

But still they sought The sacred heights, Where Grace did much abound; Where bleat of lamb and lilt of bird Were mixed with Gospel sound.

Still constant proved The shepherd-heart;

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And constant proved the flock; And faithful proved the King of Kings, ‘Midst solemn spires of rock.

Presbyterian Starch

The Full Gospel Hall of Scranton had a guest speaker. Their pastor had run across him in some inter-denominational conference last year. The two had gotten to be freiends over the Web thereafter and a family matter had brought Angus to Pennsylvania. So voila.

“Friends and neighbours, perhaps you look queerly at the Scotsman in your midst. No tongue-talker here. Just a strange brogue. Have seen only one miracle so far in this life.

Sing with a gravelly voice…but sing I do about the victories of my precious Captain, His sufferings and inevitable victory over hatred and the grave.

So let’s begin…I am Presbyterian second. Little Brother to Jesus first. Trusting in His shed blood. Seeing ever more clearly my own inadequacy. Trying to get a handle on Who the other Comforter is. Perhaps you Pentecostals got there a little ahead of me. (A good natured chuckle went round the room.)

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I want to bring you, however, to a time of glorious history for the Scots. We are in the second half of the Seventeenth Century and the people of my homeland have had their ups and downs over the issue of religious freedom. Monarchs were pressing for Episcopal hierarchy, and pastors were expected to take the pledge to the Bishop, often a political lacky to the throne.

But men and women of the Covenant saw only Jesus as King of their Church. They had a birthing image in their hearts of the separation of Church and State, and in a good way my friends. There followed a vicious struggle of churches being closed and of beloved spiritual shepherds heading to the wild places, there to be hunted down like animals, preaching under starlight and strange providences.

Remember now, that this was a battle of Protestant against Protestant, and the martyrdom at the gallows of Edinburgh was intense. Battles were fought, yes Christians took up the sword, and the Covenanters won in some of the early exchanges. But then came the Killing Times of the 1680’s.

Mystical prophets hid out in caves and streams and repeatedly evaded the King’s dragoons on horse, almost as if by some clairvoyance. They would utter messages and forecastings about who would die or live in the struggle, and about the inevitable inheritance of glory Above. Their prophecies were confirmed. Brave young warriors approached the execution platform with psalms of confidence in their Lord’s covering of the situation.

Often the final words would be in a “goodbye… hello” format: Goodbye wicked plans of men and power traps. Goodbye sword and scaffold. Goodbye desertions of cowardice and treachery. Goodbye pretentious mis-naming of the King of kings. Goodbye hillside gatherings of harried saints, sheep and songbirds. Goodbye

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prayers that struggle through obscurity…Hello glad fellowship of the redeemed. Hello hearts come openly to hearts in free Communion. Hello happy Day of sunshine, springtime and the voice of the turtle-dove. Hello ravishing Bride in all your pure finery. Hello long awaited Bridegroom Jesus with a smile that heals the centuries.

(Then the snare drums of sinister authority would drown out the condemned one’s dry and crackling voice. Then the floor fell through. ) My friends, in no place clearer than this have I caught the marvelous heart of martyrdom, of dedication to the Master, of the Heavenly hope that transcends all present pain or reproach…”

The message continued another ten minutes along the same line. The Pentecostals in attendance had touched the Throne in an unfamiliar way. They also found that they had cleaved unto this delightful historian-exhorter from Stirling. The world-wide mystical Brotherhood of the Blood-Bought had taken on another dimension. This they knew.

Ootcast Kirk

Aye and ’tis a bonnie glen And for us the Laird’s enclave Dinna fush the soldiers’ menace

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‘Tis this moment that He gave.

And we gaither ‘neath the stars And we tak the wine and bread And we cleave with benediction To each Word arr Saviour said.

This is Church Mind not the dampness And the laing hike to and fro’ For the Pastor of our choosin’ Meets us here, and helps us grow.

Though he lives just like an ootcast With a price upon his head He can still preach Heaven doon t’us

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And we treasure all he said.

Sure ’tis hard times we endure For the One King of our Kirk Jesus, here, atop this hillside And His glorious finished work.

And a lark flits kindly by us And a sheep bleats out content And we learn through sterling sufferin’ What the hunted Psalmist meant.

Hebrews 11: 38 In Memory

of

ALEXANDER

PEDEN

[ A native of

Sorn

] THAT

FAITHFUL MINISTER OF CHRIST,WHO.

FOR HIS

UNFLINCHING ADHERENCE TO THE COVENANTED REFORMATION IN SCOTLAND,WAS

EXPELLED BY TYRANT RULERS FROM HIS

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PARISH

OF NEW

LUCE,IMPRISONED FOR YEARS ON THE

ROCK BY HIS PERSECUTORS,AND HUNTED THE SURROUNDING MOUNTAINS DEATH ON 26TH JANUARY 1686* AGE, AND HERE PEACE,AWAITING SUCH WERE THE IN THE

THE

FOR HIS LIFE ON

AND MOORS, IN THE 60TH

AT LAST , HIS

TILL HIS YEAR OF HIS

DUST REPOSES IN

RESURRECTION OF THE JUST

MEN THESE HILLS WHO TRODE

LOVE AND FEAR OF GOD DEFYING

LONG DARK HOUR, ALIKE THE ERECTED

BASS

STRONG

THROUGH THE

CRAFT AND RAGE OF POWER. IN

1891.

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