Do you consider Abraham Lincoln is an apostle of peace give reason to support your answer
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Death comes too soon for Lincoln to summon his better angels.
By the spring of 1865, as Abraham Lincoln looked forward to his second term as president, exhaustion got the better of him. Just weeks past his 56th birthday, he carried himself like a man who was old and decrepit and had lost so much weight that his dry, sallow skin hung on his cheekbones and dark circles shadowed his eyes. “Poor Mr. Lincoln is looking so brokenhearted, so completely worn out, I fear he will not get through the next four years,” his wife, Mary, told an aide. Lincoln himself acknowledged he wasn’t well. “I am a tired man,” he told one visitor. “Sometimes I think I am the tiredest man on earth.”
The war had battered Lincoln, and he had battered himself. Since gaining national prominence in the late 1850s, he had stumbled several times and had to pick himself up, typically wiser for the experience but bruised nonetheless. His House Divided speech of 1858 taught him the perils of saying too much, after Southerners interpreted his words as those of a closet abolitionist and responded accordingly. His studied silence between his 1860 election and his 1861 inauguration showed the dangers of saying too little, by leaving Southern moderates nothing with which to answer the radical secessionists. His repeated failure to find a fighting general, until he hit upon Ulysses Grant in 1864, prolonged the war excessively. Even his successes exacted a moral and psychic toll. The Emancipation Proclamation required him to throw out most of what he had said and thought about the power of the federal government to restrain slavery in the states. The appalling costs of the Union’s battlefield victories drove him to blame Providence, which mysteriously let the carnage continue. ”But what kind of peace? A victor’s peace, with the South punished for its sins? Or a peace of reconciliation, which summoned the better angels he had cited in his first inaugural address? This was not only a question of policy, but also a question of character. Who, finally, was Abraham Lincoln? He had proven himself to be a man of war. Was he also a man of peace? He had wielded the sword of righteousness; could he extend the hand of mercy? The nation, and the world, wanted to know—but no more than Lincoln himself did.
By the spring of 1865, as Abraham Lincoln looked forward to his second term as president, exhaustion got the better of him. Just weeks past his 56th birthday, he carried himself like a man who was old and decrepit and had lost so much weight that his dry, sallow skin hung on his cheekbones and dark circles shadowed his eyes. “Poor Mr. Lincoln is looking so brokenhearted, so completely worn out, I fear he will not get through the next four years,” his wife, Mary, told an aide. Lincoln himself acknowledged he wasn’t well. “I am a tired man,” he told one visitor. “Sometimes I think I am the tiredest man on earth.”
The war had battered Lincoln, and he had battered himself. Since gaining national prominence in the late 1850s, he had stumbled several times and had to pick himself up, typically wiser for the experience but bruised nonetheless. His House Divided speech of 1858 taught him the perils of saying too much, after Southerners interpreted his words as those of a closet abolitionist and responded accordingly. His studied silence between his 1860 election and his 1861 inauguration showed the dangers of saying too little, by leaving Southern moderates nothing with which to answer the radical secessionists. His repeated failure to find a fighting general, until he hit upon Ulysses Grant in 1864, prolonged the war excessively. Even his successes exacted a moral and psychic toll. The Emancipation Proclamation required him to throw out most of what he had said and thought about the power of the federal government to restrain slavery in the states. The appalling costs of the Union’s battlefield victories drove him to blame Providence, which mysteriously let the carnage continue. ”But what kind of peace? A victor’s peace, with the South punished for its sins? Or a peace of reconciliation, which summoned the better angels he had cited in his first inaugural address? This was not only a question of policy, but also a question of character. Who, finally, was Abraham Lincoln? He had proven himself to be a man of war. Was he also a man of peace? He had wielded the sword of righteousness; could he extend the hand of mercy? The nation, and the world, wanted to know—but no more than Lincoln himself did.
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yes he is know ac apostal of peace
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