The Henson Journals

[227]

Ash Wednesday, February 25th, 1925.

Self–discipline does not become easier as advancing years strips us of hope, and in some sense of value. In earlier life character is still unshaped, habits are as yet unformed, and the type of the career is still undisclosed. But when the shadows of old age are visibly creeping over a man – and in one's 62nd year, this is certainly the case with him – what can he hope to gain from the self–discipline of Lent? He is made for good or for ill, and he must 'lie on his own bed' which his own hands have fashioned. If, indeed, there be any good elements in his character, these he may perhaps hope to strengthen: and if in his life there be any ill–ordered factors, these he may perhaps hope to discover & bring under rule. And absurdly, the assaults of evil on thought & life are continued up to the end.

The grey haired saint may fail at last,

The surest guide a wanderer prove.

Death only binds us fast,

To the bright shore of Love.

With such mingled sentiments moving in my mind I went to the Chapel, and celebrated the Holy Communion at 8 o'clock. We mustered nine communicants, including Clayton and me.

The morning was very cold but bright, and the Chapel was seen to advantage. Is there anything religiously dubious about aesthetic satisfaction in worship?

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