For as we grow in up, the number of our days rather diminishes than increases. Yet silly men rejoice at the oft-recurring birthdays, both of themselves and their children. This world is so alluring, that no one is willing to finish a life of sorrow. For the true, the blessed life is this, when we shall rise again, and reign with Christ. For the ungodly too shall rise again but to go into the fire.
Life then is thereagain, but that which is blessed.
That day knows no rising, it knows no setting. This day, or these days, and this life, this true life, have we in promise. It is then the reward of a certain work.