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The succession of generations among the children of men has been, from Homer downwards, likened to that of the leaves among the trees of the forest. The foliage of one summer, withering gradually away, and strewing the earth with its wrecks, has its place supplied by the exuberance of the following spring. But there is one point in which the analogy does not hold, — there is one difference between the race of leaves and the race of men: between the leaves of successive summers an interval of desolation intervenes, and "the bare and wintry woods" emphatically mark the passage from one season to another. But there is no such pause in the succession of the generations of men. Insensibly they melt and shade into one another: an old man dies, and a child is born; daily and hourly there is a death and a birth; and imperceptibly, by slow degrees, the actors in life's busy scene are changed. Hence the full force of this thought — "One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh" — is not ordinarily felt. The first view of this verse that occurs to us is its striking significance and force as a commentary on the history of which it so abruptly and emphatically announces the close. The previous narrative presents to us a busy scene — an animated picture; and here, as if by one single stroke, all is reduced to a blank. It is as if having gazed on ocean when it bears on its broad bosom a gallant and well-manned fleet — bending gracefully to its rising winds, and triumphantly stemming its swelling waves — you looked out again, and at the very next glance beheld the wide waste of waters reposing in dark and horrid peace over the deep-buried wrecks of the recent storm. "And all that generation": How startling a force is there in this awful brevity, this compression and abridgment — the names and histories of millions brought within the compass of so brief a statement of a single fact concerning them — that they all died! Surely it seems as if the Lord intended by this bill of mortality for a whole race, which His own Spirit has framed, to stamp as with a character of utter mockery and insignificance the most momentous distinctions and interests of time; these all being engulfed and swallowed up in the general doom of death, which ushers in the one distinction of eternity.

I. Let us ponder the announcement AS IT RESPECTS THE INDIVIDUAL — "Joseph died." His trials, with their many aggravations — his triumphs, with all their glories — were alike brief and evanescent; and his eventful career ended, as the obscurest and most commonplace lifetime must end — for "Joseph died." Joseph is at home, the idol of a fond parent. Ah I dote not, thou venerable sire, on thy fair and dutiful child. Remember how soon it may be said of him, and how certainly it must be said of him, that "Joseph died." Joseph is in trouble — betrayed, persecuted, distressed, a prisoner, a slave. But let him not be disquieted above measure. It is but a little while, and it shall be said of him that "Joseph died." Joseph is exalted — he is high in wealth, in honour, and in power. But why should all his glory and his joy elate him? It will be nothing to him soon — when it comes to be said of him that "Joseph died." Ah! there is but one of Joseph's many distinctions, whether of character or of fortune, that does not shrivel beside this stern announcement. The simplicity of his trust in God, the steadfastness of his adherence to truth and holiness, the favour of Heaven, his charity out of a pure heart and a good conscience and faith unfeigned — these will stand the shock of collision with this record of his decease.

II. "AND ALL HIS BRETHREN." They too all died, and the vicissitudes of their family history came to an end in the silent tomb. "Joseph died, and all his brethren." Ah! how intimately should this reflection have knit them together in unity of interest, of affection, and of aim! The tie of a common origin is scarcely stronger or closer than the tie of a common doom. The friend, the beloved brother who has gone, has acquired, by his death, new value in your esteem — a new and sacred claim to your regard. Now for the first time you discover how dear he should have been, how dear he was, to your hearts — dearer far than you had ever thought. How fondly do you dwell on all his attractions and excellencies! Hew frivolous are all former causes of misunderstanding, all excuses for indifference, now seen to be I And whither are they gone? And what are their views now, and what their feelings, on the matters which formed the subject of their familiar inter-course here? Are they united in the region of blessedness above? Or is there a fearful separation, and are there some of their number on the other side of the great gulf?

III. "AND ALL THAT GENERATION." The tide of mortality rolls on in a wider stream. It sweeps into the one vast ocean of eternity all the members of a family — all the families of a race. The distinctions alike of individuals and of households are lost. Every landmark is laid low. Some are gone in tender years of childhood, unconscious of life's sins and sufferings — some in grey-headed age, weighed down by many troubles. Some have perished by the hand of violence — some by natural decay. And another generation now fills the stage — a generation that, in all its vast circle of families, can produce not one individual to link it with the buried race on whose ashes it is treading. On a smaller scale, you have experienced something of what we now describe. In the sad season of bereavement, how have you felt your pain embittered by the contrast between death reigning in your heart and home, and bustling life going on all around! In the prospect, too, of your own departure, does not this thought form an element of the dreariness of death, that when you are gone, and laid in the silent tomb, others will arise that knew not you? — your removal will scarce occasion even a momentary interruption in the onward course and incessant hurry of affairs, and your loss will be but as that of a drop of water from the tide that rolls on in its career as mighty and as majestical as ever. But here, it is a whole generation, with all its families, that is engulfed in one unmeasured tomb! And lo! the earth is still all astir with the same activities, all gay with the same pomps and pageantries, all engrossed with the same vanities and follies, and, alas! the same sins also, that have been beguiling and disappointing the successive races of its inhabitants since the world began! And there is another common lot — another general history — another universal characteristic: "After death, the judgment." Joseph rises again, "and all his brethren, and all that generation." And they all stand before the judgment-seat. There is union then. The small and the great are there; the servant and his master — all are brought together. But for what? What a solemn contrast have we here! Death unites after separation: the judgment unites in order to separation. Death, closing the drama of time, lets the ample curtain fall upon its whole scenery and all its actors. The judgment, opening the drama of eternity, discloses scenery and actors once more entire.

(R. S. Candlish, D. D.)

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KJV: And Joseph died, and all his brethren, and all that generation.

WEB: Joseph died, as did all his brothers, and all that generation.