We have lived long enough to experience the hollowness of earth

Host: The cemetery lay quiet beneath a bruised twilight sky, where the air smelled faintly of rain and old stone. The grass shimmered with the residue of a passing storm, and the distant sound of thunder rolled low, like a reminder that the world never truly stops grieving. Between the graves, two figures moved slowly — not mourners, exactly, but seekers of silence.

Jack walked with his hands in his coat pockets, eyes down, tracing his steps along the damp path. He looked tired, but not from the day — from the years. Jeeny followed beside him, her umbrella closed, though raindrops still clung to her hair. The silence between them was the kind that comes when words have already been worn thin by life.

Jeeny: softly, her voice cutting through the hush like a prayer half-remembered “Charles Spurgeon once said — ‘We have lived long enough to experience the hollowness of earth and the rottenness of all carnal promises.’”

Jack: stopping, his voice low and even “Spurgeon didn’t pull punches. When he spoke of rot, he meant more than sin. He meant disappointment.”

Jeeny: nodding gently “The decay of illusions.”

Host: The wind moved through the oaks, stirring the wet leaves, their sound a soft applause for truth spoken plainly.

Jack: after a pause “Funny thing about life — it teaches you to distrust everything it once told you mattered. Wealth, desire, power… it all shines until it stinks.”

Jeeny: quietly “Because it’s never the thing we wanted. Just the promise of it.”

Jack: smirking faintly “And promises rot faster than flesh.”

Host: The light from the setting sun broke weakly through the clouds, staining the tombstones in hues of gold and rust. The world looked tired but honest — stripped of glamour, left only with essence.

Jeeny: after a long silence “You think that’s what Spurgeon meant — that the older you get, the more the world loses its perfume?”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. The fragrance fades and what’s left is the truth. Every earthly promise is sweet until it’s swallowed. Then it leaves you thirsty.”

Jeeny: thoughtful “And yet, people keep drinking.”

Jack: smiling softly “Because thirst is human. The problem’s not desire — it’s where we point it.”

Host: A crow called from somewhere above, its voice coarse, ancient — an echo of warning. Jeeny’s eyes followed its flight until it vanished into the fog gathering beyond the graves.

Jeeny: softly “Spurgeon was a man of faith. He wasn’t condemning life — just reminding us that it’s not the destination. That what we see as fulfillment is just the rehearsal of something deeper.”

Jack: looking out over the stones “Maybe. Or maybe he was just tired of pretending the world could fill what eternity was meant to.”

Jeeny: with quiet conviction “That’s what faith really is, isn’t it? The moment when you finally admit that nothing on earth can save you — and yet, you hope anyway.”

Host: The rain began again, light but deliberate, pattering against the umbrella Jeeny finally opened. Jack didn’t move; he let the drops hit his face, each one cold, grounding, alive.

Jack: after a pause “It’s strange. You spend half your life chasing what glitters and the other half trying to let it go.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And maybe wisdom is just the art of surrender — of realizing that every carnal promise was only ever a shadow of something divine.”

Jack: looking at her, his expression softening “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the art of seeing beauty in what breaks.”

Host: The light deepened, the sky now a palette of bruised purples and lingering gold. The rain picked up, steady and cleansing. Between the drops, the world seemed to breathe again.

Jeeny: quietly “The hollowness of earth… maybe that’s mercy in disguise. If the world satisfied us fully, we’d never look beyond it.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. The void is the invitation.”

Jeeny: softly “To what?”

Jack: gazing at the horizon “To remember what’s eternal. To stop digging in the dirt for diamonds that were never buried here.”

Host: The camera panned outward, showing them as small, dark figures in the vast gray field — two pilgrims among monuments, walking through time’s inevitable ruin yet carrying light within their dialogue.

Jeeny: after a moment “It’s strange, though. Spurgeon saw decay as revelation. The rot was proof that we were looking in the wrong places.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So maybe the world’s betrayal is God’s kindness.”

Jeeny: softly “Because it teaches us where not to worship.”

Host: The church bell rang in the distance, slow and hollow, a sound too large for the silence that followed. The rain eased again, leaving only the scent of wet earth and something like forgiveness.

Jack: whispering “He was right, you know. I’ve lived long enough to see it — the hollowness, the rot. But there’s still something pure left under it all. Something untouched.”

Jeeny: gently “Your faith?”

Jack: after a long pause, smiling “No. Hope. Faith I wrestle with. Hope… it keeps coming back no matter how many times I bury it.”

Host: The sun vanished completely now, the sky surrendering to the dark. But the stained-glass windows of a small chapel nearby began to glow from within — soft amber light flickering through the rain, a symbol of faith burning quiet and persistent in a weary world.

Because Charles Spurgeon was right —
we live long enough to see the emptiness of earth’s promises,
to feel the rot beneath the gloss of desire.

Every ambition fades. Every possession rusts.
Every carnal victory withers under time’s honest hand.

But that is not despair — it is awakening.

The hollowness of the world is not a curse;
it is a calling — a whisper that there must be more.
For only when the earth fails to satisfy
do our eyes lift toward heaven.

And as Jack and Jeeny walked back through the rain,
their footsteps soft against the soaked earth,
they did not mourn what had rotted —
they gave thanks for what still grew:

the unseen faith,
the enduring hope,
and the quiet understanding
that maybe emptiness itself
was the first true miracle.