CHRIST’S outward meanness, that disguise His real greatness, was in itself glorious, because of the design of it. Yet that meanness did not wholly becloud it; many beams of glory shone through it. His birth was mean on earth below; but it was celebrated with hallelujahs by the heavenly host in the air above. He had a poor lodging, but a star lighted visitants to it from distant countries. Never prince had such visitants so conducted. He had not the magnificent equipage that other kings have; but He was attended with multitudes of patients, seeking and obtaining healing of soul and body. That was more true greatness than if He had been attended with crowds of princes. He made the dumb that attended Him sing His praises, and the lame to leap for joy; the deaf to hear His wonders, and the blind to see His glory. He had no guard of soldiers, nor magnificent retinue of servants; but, as the centurion, that had both acknowledged, health and sickness, life and death took orders from Him. Even the winds and storms which no earthly power can control, obeyed Him; and death and the grave durst not refuse to deliver up their prey when He demanded it. He did not walk upon tapestry; but when he walked on the sea the waters supported Him. All parts of the creation, excepting sinful men, honoured Him as their Creator. He kept no treasure, but when He had occasion for money, the sea sent it to Him in the mouth of a fish. He had no barns nor corn-fields, but, when He inclined to make a feast a few small loaves covered a sufficient table for many thousands. None of all the monarchs of the world ever gave such entertainment. By these and many such things, the Redeemer’s glory shines through His meanness, in the several parts of His life; nor was it wholly clouded at His death. He had not, indeed the fantastic equipage of sorrow that other great persons have on such occasions; but the frame of nature solemnised the death of its Author—heaven and earth were mourners. The sun was clad in black; and if the inhabitants of the earth were unmoved, the earth itself trembled under the awful load. There were few to pay the Jewish compliment of rending their garments; but the rocks were not so insensible, they rent their bowels. He had not a grave of His own; but, other men’s graves opened to Him. Death and the grave might be proud of such a tenant in their territories; but He came not there as a subject, but as an invader,—a conqueror. It was then that death, the king of terrors, lost his sting; and, on the third day the Prince of life triumphed over him, spoiling death and the grave.
—Maclaurin.