The Russellville Democrat., 1889-07-18

palace. David and the little child fol
 whom he once lasted and wept; Mary an'
 Lazarus after the heartbreak of Bethany
 Timothy and grandmother Lois: Isabella
 Graham and her sailor son. Alfred ant George Goodman, the mystery of the SC,
 at last made manifest; Luther and Mag
 dalene, the daughter he bemoaned; Johi Howard and the prisoners whom he gos
 pelized, and mulhtudes without numbel who, once SO weary and so sad, parted or earth, but glnriously met in Heaven Among all the rooms of that house ther' is no one that more enraptures my son than that reception room. Tn m Fathers house are many rooms.n
 Another room in our Fathers house ii the throne room. We belong to the roya family. The blood of King Jesus flows in our veins, sowe have right to enter the throne room. It is no easy thing or earth to get through even the outside door Of a kings residence. During the Franco German war, one eYentide in thu summer of 1870, stood studying the ex' quisite scalpturing Of the gate of the Tuilleries, Paris. Lost in admiration oi the wonderful art of that gate I kneS no. that I was exciting suspicion. Low ering my eyes so tue q owds of people found myself being closely inspected by governmental officials, who from my complexion judged me to be German, and that for some belligerent purpose might be examining the gates of the palace. My explanations in very poor French did not satisfy them ant they fol- lowed me long distances until reached my hotel, and were not satisfied until from my landlord they found that was only an inoffensive American.
 The gates of earthly palaces are care fully guarded, and if so how much more severely the throne room. A dazzling place Is it for mirrors and all costly art No one who ever saw the throne room oi the first and only Napoleon will ever for get the letter N embroidered in purple and gold upon the upholstery of chair and window, the letter \ gilded on the wall, the letter N chased on the chal- ices, the letter N flaming from the ceil- ing. What conhagration ot brilliance the throne room of Charles Immanuel of Sardinia, of Ferdinand of Spain, of Eliz- abeth of England. of Boniface of Italy. But the throne room Of our Fathers house hath 0 glory eclipsing all the throne rooms that ever saw scepter wave or crown glitter or foreign Ambassador bow, for our Fathers throne is a throne of grace, a throne of mercy, throne of ho- liness, throne of justice, a throne of universal dominion. We need not stand shivering and cower- ing before it, for our Father says we may yet one day come up and sit on it beside Him. 'sTo him that overeometh will grant to sit with me in my throne.n
 You see, we are princes and princesses. Perhaps now we move about incognito, as Peter the Great in the garb Of a ship carpenter at Amsterdam, or as Queen Tirzah in the dress Of peasant woman seeking the prophet for her child's cure; but it will be found out after awhile who we are when we get into the throne room. Ayel we need not wait until then. We may by prayer and song and spiritual up- lifting this moment enter the throne room. 0, King live foregerl We touch the forgiving scepter and prostrate our selves at Thy feetl The crowns of the royal families Of this world are tossed about from generation to generation, and from family to family. There are children four years old in Ber- lin who have seen the crown on three EINUsIDIE. l1uN W NItLtNEA klf F0TtHttS bA this world rise or fall they are destined to meet in one place. And l look and see them coming from north md south and east and west-the Spanish crown, the Italian crown, the English crown, the Turkish crown, the Russian crown, the Persian crown--aye, all the crowns from under the great archiyolt of Heaven; and while 1 watch and wonder they are all flung in rain of diamonds around the pierced feet.
 . Jesus shall reign where'er the sun
 Does his successive journeys run,
 His kingdom stretch from shore to shore
 Till sun shall rise and set no more.
 Oh, that throne room ot Christi "In my Fathers house are many rooms"
 Another room in our Fathers house is the music room. St. John and other Bible writers talk so much about the music of Heaven that there must be music there, perhaps not such as on earth was thrummed from trembling string or evoked by touch of ivory key, but if not that, then something better. There are so many Christian harpists and Christia composers and Christian organists and Christian choristers and Christian hymn ologists that have gone up from earth, there must be for them some place of especial delectation. Shall we have music in this world of discords and no music in the land of complete harmony? I can not give you the notes of the first bar of the new song that is sung in Heaven; can not imagine either the solo or the doxology. ButHeaven means music, and can mean nothing else. Occasionally that music has escaped the gate. Dr. Fuller, dying at Beaufort, s. C., said: "Do you not hearf'' Hear whats" ex- claimed the bystanders. ''The music! Lift me upl Open the windoww In that music room of our Fathers house. you will some day meet the old Christian masters, Mozart and Handel and Men- delsshon and Beethoven, and Doddridge, whose sacred poetry was as re- markable as his sacred prose, and James Montgomery and William Cowper, at last got Fid of his spiritual melancholy, and Bishop Heber, who sang of "Greenland's icy mountains and India's coral strand;" and Dr. Rallies, who wrote of High in wonder realms of light" and Isaac Watts, who went to visit Sir Thomas Abney and wife for a week, but proved himself so agreeable a guest that they made him stay thirty-six years; and side by side. Angus tus Top lady, who has got oyer his dislike for Methodists, and Charles Wesley, freed from his dislike for Calvanists; and George W. Bsthune, as sweet a song maker as he was great as a preacher and the author of "The Village Hymns;" and many who wrote in verse or song, in church or by eventide cradle, and many who were passionately fond of music, but oOuld make none themselves. The poorest singer there more than any earthly prima donna, and the poorest players there more than any Gottsohalk. Oh, that musie-room. the headquarters of cadence and rhythm, symphony and chant, psalm and anti phonl May we be there some day when Haydn sits at the keys of one of his own oratorios, and David the psalmist fingers the harp, and Miriam of the Red Sea banks elaps the cymbals, and Gabriel puts his lips to the trumpet, and the four and-twenty soldiers chant, and Lind and