National Baptist world., 1894-09-07

C1OnS. and one night, after the cotton
picking, went up as white as if they
had never been black. Those died of
overtoil in the Lowell carpet factories,
and these in Manchester mills; those
helped build the pyramids, and these
broke away from work on the day
Christ was bounded out of Jerusalem.
No more towers to build; Heaven is
done. No more garments to weave;
the robes are finished. No more har
vests to raise; the garner are full. Oh,
sons and daughters of toll. arise We and
depart, for that is your rest.
Scovill McCallum, a boy of my Sun
day school, while dying said to his
mother: Don't cry, but sing-sing
There is rest for the weary
There is rest for the weary.
Then, putting his wasted hands over
his heart. said: There is rest for me"
But there are some of you who want
to hear about the land where they
never have any heartbreaks and no
graves are dug. Where are your father
and mother? The most of you are or
phans. l look around, and where | see
one man who has parents living ] see
ten who are orphans. Where are your
children? Where | see one family cir
Gle that is unbroken l see three or four
that have been desolated. One lamb gone
out of it's fold; one flower plucked from
that garland; one golden link broke
from that chain; here bright light
put out, and there another. and yonder
another. With such griefs, how are
you to rest? Will there ever be
power that can attune that silent
voice, or kindle the luster of that
closed eye, or put spring and dance
into that little foot? When we bank
up the dust over the dead, is the sod
never to be broken? Is the cemetery
to hear no sound but the tire of the
hearse wheel, or the tap of the bell at
the gate as the long professions come
in with their awful burdens of grief?
Is the bottom of the grave gravel, and
the top dust? No! no! no! The tomb
is only a place where we wrap our
robes about us for a pleasant nap on
our way home. The swellings of Jor-
dan will wash off the dust of the way.
From the top of the grave we catch
glimpse of the towers glinted with the
sun that never sets.
Oh We whose locks are wet with the
dews of the night of grief; We whose
hearts are heavy. because those we'll
known footsteps sound no more at the
doorway, yonder is your rest! There
is David triumphant; but once he be-
moaned Absalom. There is Abraham
enthroned but once he wept for Sarah.
There is Paul exultant; but he once sat
with his feet in the stocks. There is
Payson radiant with immortal health;
but on earth he was always sick. No
toll, no tears, no part;~gs, no strife, no
agonizing cough, tonight. No storm
to ruffle the crystal sea. No alarm to
strike from the cathedral towers. No
dirge throbbing from seraphic harps.
No tremor in the everlasting song; but
rest-perfect rest-unending rest.
Into that rest how many of our loved
ones have gone! The little children
have gathered up into the bosom of
Christ. One of them went out of the
arms of a widowed mother. following
its father, who died few weeks be-
fore. In this last moment it seemed to
ste UuG tCu 1dClCI, IOI IL Sdlll.
looking upward with frightened coun-
tenance: Papa, take me upr'
Others put down the work of midlife,
feeling they could hardly be spared
from the office, or store, or shop, for
day, but are to be spared from it for
ever. Your mother went. Having
lived a life of Christian consistency
here, ever busy with kindness for her
children, her heart full of that meek
and quiet spirit that is in the sight of
God of great price, suddenly her coun
tenance was transfgured, and the gate
was opened, and she took her place
amid that great cloud of witnesses that
hover about the throne!
Glorious consolation! They are not
dead. You can only make me believe
they are dead. They have only moved
on. With more love than that with
which they regarded US on earth, they
watch us from their high place, and
their voices cheer us in our struggle
for the sky. Hail, spirits blessed, now
that We have passed the floods and won
the crown With weary feet we press
up the shining way, until in everlast-
ing reunion we shall meet again. Oh!
won't it be grand when, our conflicts
done and our partings over, we shall
clasp hands, and cry out: This is
Heaven"