The Portland daily press., 1892-09-10


tened to their hands, and other horses
to their feet, and thus they were
pulled apart; they had their tongues
pulled out by red-hot pincers; they were
sewed up in the skins of animals, and
then thrown to the dogs; they were
daubed with conbustibles and set on
fire! If all the martyrs stakes that have
been kindled could be set at proper dis
tances, they would make the midnight
all the world over bright as MONDAY!
And now they sit yonder in the mar
tyrs' gallery. For them the fires of per-
secution have gone out. The swords are
sheathed and the mob hushed. Now
they watch us with an all-observing
sympathy. They know all the PAIN all
the hardship, all the anguish, all the
injustice, all the privation. They can
not keep still They cry: Courage!
The fire will not consume. The floods
cannot drown. The lions cannot devour!
Courage! down there in the arena"
What, are they all looking? This
night we answer back the salutation
they give, and cry, "Hail! sons and
daughters of the fire!''
look again, and l see another gallery,
that of eminent Christians What strikes
me strangely is the mixing in COM
partnership of those who on earth could
not agree. There is Albert Barnes,
and around him the Presbytery who
tried him for heterodoxy! Yonder is
Lyman Beecher, and the church court
that denounced him! Stranger than all
SC To1,v 20 Tarr RIM
JUS. Who would have thought that
they would sit so lovingly together?
There is George Whitefeld and the
ministers who would not let him come
into their pulpits because they thought
him fanatic. There are the street
singers, Toplady, Montgomery, Charles
Wesley, Isaac Watts and Mrs. Sig
Quincy. If Heaven had had no music
before they went up, they would have
started the singing. And there, the
band of missionaries; David Abeel,
talking of China redeemed; and John
Scudder, of India, saved; and David
Brainerd, of the aborigines, evan
gelized; and Mrs Adoniram Judson,
whose prayers for Burmah took Heaven
by violence! All these Christians are
looking into the arena. Our struggle is
nothing to theirs. Do we, in Christ's
cause, suffer from the cold? They
walked Greenland's icy mountains Do
we suffer from the heat? They swell
tered in the tropics. Do we get IA
tigued? They tainted, with none to
care for them but cannibals. Are we
prosecuted? They we're mathematical.
And as they look from their gallery and
see us falter in the presence Of the
lions, I seem to hear Isaac Watts adj
dressing us in his old hymn, only little
changed:
Must YOU be carried to the skies
On ffowery beds of ease,
While others fought to win the prize
Or sailed through bloody seas?
Toplady shouts in his old hymn:
Your harps, We trembling saints,
Down from the willows take;
Loud to the praise of love divine,
Bid every string awake.
While Charles Wesley, the Methodist,
breaks forth in his favorite words, a lit
tie varied:
charge to keep you have,
God to glorify;
A neVer-dying soul to save,
And fit it for the skyl
I look again, and l see the gallery Of
our departed. Many of those in the
other galleries we have heard of; but
these we knew. Oh! how familiar their
faces! They sat at our tables, and we
walked to the house of God in company.
Have they forgotten us? Those fathers
and mothers started us on the road OF
life. Are they careless as to what be-
comes of us? And those children; do
they look on with stolid indifference as
to whether we win or lose this battle
for eternity? Nay; 1 see that child run
ming it's hand over your brow and
saying, Gather, do not fret;' Mother
do not worry" They remember the day
they left us. They remember the agony
of the last farewell. Though years in
heaven, they know our fates. They
remember our sorrows They speak
our names. They watch this fight for
heaven. Nay; 1 see them rise up and
lean over, and wave before us their
recognition and encouragement. That
gallery is not full. They are keeping
places for us. After we have slain the
lion they expect the King to call us,
saying, "Come up higher!' Between
the hot struggles in the arena | wipe
the sweat from my brow and stand on
tiptoe, reaching up my right hand to
clasp theirs in rapturous Misunderstanding,
while their voices come ringing down
from the gallery, crying, "Be thou faith
full unto death, and you shall have
CROWN"
But here pause, overwhelmed with
the majesty and the joy of the scene.
Gallery of the King! Gallery of angels.
Gallery of prophets and apostles! Gal
lery Of martyrs. Gallery of saints.
Gallery of friends and kindred. o,
majestic circles of light and love.
Throngs! Throngs! Throngs! How
shall we stand the gaze of the universe?
Myriads of eyes beaming on us.
Myriads of hearts beating in
sympathy for US. How shall we
ever dare to sin again? How
shall we ever become discouraged
again? How shall we ever feel lonely
again? With God for us, and angels for
us, and prophets and apostles for us,
and the great souls of the ages for us,
and our glorified kindred for us-shall
we give up the fight and die? No! Son
of God, who didst die TO save US. No!
ye angels, whose wings are spread forth
to shelter us. No! We prophets and apos-
ties, whose warnings startle u.s. No! ye
loved ones, whose arms are outstretched
to receive us. No! we will never sur
render.
Sure must fight if would reign -@
Be faithful to my LORD; r7a
And bear the cross, endure the pain,
sod