The voice of freedom. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1839-1848, 1847-08-19
For the Voice of Freedom.
The Recording Angels Visit to
the Sanctuary.

"But what of Angels know we Ask that Book,
iii which the eyes Of angels love to look,
Desiring through its opening seals to trace
The heights and depths of that transcendat grace,
Which from the Fathers bosom sent the Son,
Himself the ransom for a world undone"
Montgomery
It was the morning of the holy Sabbath.
The angel hosts and glorifed saints tuned
anew their golden harps, and casting their
glittering crowns at his feet sung in loftier
strains, " Worthy is the Lamb that was slain"
and as the eXulting strains in sottenins ca
dencc rcyerberated among its everlasting hills
other companies upon their shining heights
repeated the echo, until the hea, emily arches
rang with the cnrapturing melody, while the
glorious scraphim claspod their wings in SYM
phonyand yelled tEeir faces before the majes-
ty of the Most High.
The Recording Angel, folding lis record
beneath his airy pinions, ard leaving The
realms Of bliss, pursued his accustomed way
through the trachlcss fields Of ether, to the
earth, now and then rausing in his course, as
if lost in wonder and admiration at the gran
deur and magnicencc Of the great Creators
" handi-worli."
Spring had looked upon the earth the
storms Of winter passed away at her coming,
and his frosls melted in the brightness of her
smiles. The meadows put on their sottest
groen--tho flowers peeped from beneath the
hadges--tle unlettered Iills Icaped joyously
along their pcbbly bed5-and the feathercd
songstcr5 poured forth their sweetest strains
TO welcome her approach, A lovely village
lay embosomed among the hills, aud the low
cring cloud had passed away while the mists
Of the morning were wreathing their snowy
crests around the mountains brow, and the
soft and balmy air seemed to whisper peace.
The bell Of its neat little church was gently
tolling the hour Of sacred worship, and groups
of villagers in their Sunday garb, were cross
ing the green, or entering the sanctuary
There was the white-haircd man leaning upon
the staff of age,-thc little prattling urchin
tripping lightly by his side,-the village belle,
walking daintily along in her untarnshed
musln,-the sober matron, and strong man
Of sinewy frame-all were going to pay honl-
age to the Sabbath by its observance in the
sanctuary.
The Angel smiled as he entered with the
villagers, at this delightful picture Of rural
life. The pastor was already in the and
with look Of peculiar carnestness surveyed
the entering congregation lie was evident
ly in the prime Of life, but care had strongly
marked his overhanging eyebrows, and time
was early scattering his frosts among his au-
burn locks. His countcnance was of that pc
cular cast in which anxiety, hope, and resig-
nation at times predominant. He heedednot
reproach when made the subject of VILLAGE
wit, but he grieved when wounded in the
house OF ill,judging " friends" A censori-
Gus spirit pervaded the church, and as the
consequence, piety, "gentle, meek, easy to
be cntreated," fed from its baleful presence
Party spirit, too had sown the seed of dis
cord, where all was harmony and peace. The
Jealous Deacon X. had become an ardent
partlsan,and as the pastor wisely chose not to
vote at all, his slip was vacated, because he
could not hear man preach who did not vote
as he judged, on the side of right His chill,