The body sleeps in its lonely bed of earth, beneath the coverlet of grass.
Sleep makes each night a Sabbath for the day.
Sleep shuts fast the door of the soul, and bids all intruders tarry for a while, that the life within may enter its summer garden of ease. The toil-worn believer quietly sleeps, as does the weary child when it slumbers on its mother's breast. Their quiet repose shall never be broken until God shall rouse them to give them their full reward. Guarded by angel watchers, curtained by eternal mysteries, they sleep on, the heritors of glory, till the fulness of time shall bring the fulness of redemption. They were laid in their last resting place, weary and worn, but such they shall not rise.