when speaking of the most awful matters. Their words are as quiet
and simple and modest as if they were written of things which might
be seen every day. When they tell of our Lord's crucifixion, for
instance, how easy, natural, harmless, right, as far as we can see,
it would have been to have poured out their own feelings about the
most pitiable and shameful crime ever committed upon earth; to have
spoken out all their own pity, terror, grief, indignation; and to
have stirred up ours thereby. And yet all they say is,--'And they
crucified him.' They feel that is enough. The deed is too dark to
talk about. Let it tell its own story to all human hearts.

So with this account of the Lord's transfiguration. 'And he took
Peter, and James, and John, his brother, up into a high mountain,
apart, and was transfigured before them; and his face did shine as
the sun; and his raiment was white as the light; . . . and while he
yet spake a bright cloud overshadowed them; and, behold, a voice out
of the cloud, which said: This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well
pleased. Hear ye him.'

How soberly, simply, modestly, they tell this strange story. How
differently they might have told it. A man might write whole poems,
whole books of philosophy, about that transfiguration, and yet never
reach the full depth of its beauty and of its meaning. But the
evangelists do not even try to do that. As with the crucifixion, as
with all the most wonderful passages of our Lord's life, they simply
say what happened, and let the story bring its own message home to
our hearts.

What may we suppose is the reason of this great stillness and
soberness of the gospels? I believe that it may be explained thus.