It was late in the afternoon before the delegates gathered their courage to the sticking point.  The talk was about axes, scaffolds, and the gibbet, when suddenly a strong, bold voice sounded. . .

“Gibbet!  They may stretch our necks on all the gibbets in the land; they may turn every rock into the scaffold; every tree into a gallow; every home into a grave; and yet the words on that parchment can never die!  They may pour our blood on a thousand scaffolds, and yet from every drop that dyes the axe a new champion of freedom will spring into birth!  The British King may blot out the stars of God from the sky, but he cannot blot out His words written on that parchment there.  The works of God may perish:  His words never!

“The words of this declaration will live in the world long after our bones are dust.  To the mechanic in his workshop they will speak hope:  to the slave in the mines freedom:  but to the coward kings, these words will speak in tones of warning they cannot choose but hear. . . .

“Sign that parchment!  Sign, if the next moment the gibbet’s rope is about your neck!  Sign, if the next minute this hall rings with the clash of falling axes!  Sign, by all your hopes in life or death, as men, as husbands, as fathers, brothers, sign your names to the parchment, or be accursed forever!  Sign, and not only for yourselves, but for all ages, for that parchment will be the textbook of freedom, the bible of the rights of man forever.

“Nay, do not start and whisper with surprise!  It is truth, your own hearts witness it:  God proclaims it.  Look at this strange band of exiles and outcasts, suddenly transformed into a people; a handful of men, weak in arms, but mighty in God-like faith; nay, look at your recent achievements, your Bunker Hill, your Lexington, and then tell me, if you can, that God has not given America to be free!

“It is not given to our poor human intellect to climb to the skies, and to pierce the Council of the Almighty One.  But methinks I stand among the awful clouds which veil the brightness of Jehovah’s throne.

“Methinks I see the recording Angel come trembling up to that throne and speak his dread message. 

‘Father, the old world is baptized in blood.  Father, look with one glance of Thine eternal eye, and behold evermore that terrible sight, man trodden beneath the oppressor’s feet, nations lost in blood, murder, and superstition, walking hand in hand over the graves of the victims, and not a single voice of hope to man!’

‘Let there be light again!  Tell my people, the poor and oppressed, to go out from the old world, from oppression and blood, and build My altar in the new.’

“Yes, as I sank into the gloomy shadows of the grave, with my last faint whisper I would beg you to sign that parchment for the sake of those millions whose very breath is now hushed in intense expectation as they look up to you for the awful words:  ‘You are free.’”