By: Jack Wyman

The procession moved slowly down the main street of the small farming community.

The crowd stood in respectful silence as it passed.

In the lead, riding upon a gray horse, sat the gaunt man dressed in black, his legs so long they nearly touched the ground. His weathered face bore a somber expression.

Thousands had come to attend the dedication.

Four months earlier, the fields of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania had been drenched in blood. It had been the costliest battle of the costliest war in American history. The human carnage was staggering. Over three violent days in July, more than 46,000 men had been killed, wounded, captured, or gone missing. Americans in conflict with Americans.

Robert E. Lee’s army had lost the battle, retreated from Gettysburg, and was never again to gain the upper hand. The Civil War’s turning point had come at a tragic price.

Attorney David Willis bought 17 acres he would turn into a cemetery for those who had fallen at Gettysburg. Two weeks before its official dedication, Willis had written President Abraham Lincoln, inviting him to share “a few appropriate remarks” at the ceremony.

At the time, eloquent and flourishing oratory was the order of the day. It’s how people were entertained. The dedication planning committee invited the renowned orator Edward Everett to deliver the Gettysburg address. Everett, a Harvard-educated Unitarian pastor, politician, and statesman from Boston, who had traveled and spoken throughout Europe, was well-prepared for the platform on Thursday, November 19, 1863.

He spoke for a little over two hours. In 13,000 words, Everett passionately outlined the history and meaning of the battle. The applause was robust.

When he was introduced, President Lincoln rose slowly to his feet. He removed his spectacles from the pocket of his long black coat and placed them carefully on his nose. Though a bit high-pitched and reedy, Lincoln’s voice was always clear and it carried remarkably well. His delivery was never ponderous. It was slow and deliberate, as if he was more interested in being understood than in simply being heard.

The president met Mr. Willis’ expectation—his remarks were few, 272 words, and appropriate. They were uttered in just two minutes. Most cameras were not even set up, as long as that took back then. The crowd of more than 15,000 was just settling in to listen when it was all over.

A war that was supposed to be ended in a few weeks was in its third year. Thousands who had died in just a single battle were to be buried here. Most of those who perished, from both North and South, were young men who dreamed of girls back home, or missed wives and children, parents and siblings, and had hoped, somehow, to make it home alive.

Was this indescribable national tragedy, unforeseen in its death and destruction, worth this sacrifice? On this day, and in this place, one man set the American Civil War in its larger moral context. He spoke not for his time alone, he spoke for all time, and for every generation of Americans that has answered the call of its country to defend freedom.

Lincoln, who had worked on his brief remarks for two weeks, knew he’d be addressing an uncertain and war-weary people.

He began by reminding his listeners of the high stakes. He spoke of the American founders and their vision of a nation “conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” This war would now test whether that vision and that nation—or any nation—"can long endure.”

This was the reason for this terrible conflict. It was the war’s consummate end, its ultimate trial by fire. Its final meaning. Only time and resolve would tell.

In casting this vision at the outset of his speech, Lincoln sought to remind the two sides of their shared origin, and that North and South were not regions to be separated, but Americans to be united—first, last, and always.

Lincoln at Gettysburg spoke not of victory or conquest; he was not intent on retribution or revenge. He never mentioned slavery or disputed states’ rights. He neither excoriated the South nor lauded the North.

He never boasted, not once. Instead, he again endeavored to draw the union together with a re-dedication to the strong chords of national purpose.

Lincoln reminded not only his fellow citizens, but all of us, of what it means to serve one’s nation, and to sacrifice for its great cause. He said “the brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated” this ground far more than any mere ceremony ever could.

Lincoln called the preservation of our nation and its ideals our “unfinished work;” our “great task.” He commended the “last full measure of devotion” exemplified by those who had died for their country on the fields at Gettysburg.

His was a transcendent appeal of simple and profound eloquence to what he’d once described as “the better angels of our nature.” We hear little of this from our leaders today. But we need it as much now as we did then.

In humility, Lincoln said “the world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.” Edward Everett later wrote Lincoln and told him he’d come closer to the true heart of the matter in two minutes than Everett had in two hours.

On the night in which he was betrayed, Jesus said you and I can demonstrate no greater love than to lay down our lives for others. He did that for us.

We must remember and give thanks for the brave men and women who have served, and those who have died, that this nation might live.

Let us never forget what they have done, and what many are doing today to keep us free.

Let us resolve to be the citizens God and our nation have called us to be.

This is our unfinished work.

To order Jack Wyman’s book, “Everything Else: Stories of Life, Faith and Our World”, go to amazon.com, Christian Book Distributors or barnesandnoble.com. It is also available on Kindle and eBooks.

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