The Monitor-register., 1896-08-28

thirsty again. Hay myself at Jesus feet,
ard 1 want him to do Just what he
thinks best to do with me" In those
days "Rest For the Weary was a new
hymn, and he had learned it, and in a
perfect ecstasy of soul in his last hour he
cried out:
SIN the Christians home in glory
There remains a land of rest.
There my Saviour's gone before me
To fulfill my souls request.
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for you.
"Sing, oh, sing, ye heirs of glory,
Shout your triumphs as you go,
lions gates are open for you.
You shall find an entrance through.
There is rest for the weary.
"There is rest for you, papa; there is
rest for you, mamma" And then put
ting his hands wei his heart, he said,
Eyes, there is rest for me-" And then
he asked them to read 1.-THE Lord is my
Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh
me to lie down in green pastures and
leadeth me beside still waters" and he
cried out: so death, where is thy
sting? 0 grave, where is thy victory"
Only 10 years old! And then he said,
NOW 1 wish you would just turn this
bed SO l can look once more on the foil
age and see the sun set" And they
turned the bed. And he said, ST do so
wish that Jesus would hurry and come
and take me-" They said to him,
why, are you not willing to await the
Lords timer" "Yes,'' he said, 81 am,
but I would rather Jesus would come
and hurry and take me. And SO, with
a peace Understandable, he passed away.
The Gain of Death.
Oh, there is nothing sad about a
chlld's death a v the grief in the par
ent's heart! You see the little ones go
right out from a world of sin and suffer-
ing to a world of joy. How many sor-
rows they escape, how many tempta-
tons, how many troubles! Children
dead are safe. Those that live are in
peril. We know not what dark path
they may take. The day may come in
which they will break your heart, but
children dead are safe-safe forever.
Weeping parents, do not mourn too Bit
terly over your child that has gone.
There are two kinds of prayers made at
a child's sick bed. One prayer the Lord
likes; the other prayer he does not like.
When a soul kneels down at a child's
sick bed and says: 80 Lord, spare this
little one. He is very near to my heart.
L don't want to part with him, but thy
will be done"-that is the kind of
prayer the Lord loves. There is another
kind Of nrava1. xuhiab T ba-o Loo,J !,
make III substance when they say: 80
Lord, this isn't right. 1t is hard to take
this child. You have no right to take
this child. Spare this child. Ican't give
him up, and I won't give him up" The
Lord answers that kind of a PRAYER
sometimes. The child lives on and lives
on and travels off in paths of wicked
ness to perish. At the end of every
prayer for a child's life say, "Thy will,
D Lord, be done"
The brightest lights that can be kin
died Christ has kindled. Let us, old and
young, rejoice that heaven is gathering
up SO much that is attractive. In that
far land we are not strangers. There
are those there who speak our name day
by day, and they wonder why SO long
We tarry. If 1 could count up the names
of all those who have gone. out from
these families into the kingdom of
heaven, it would take me all day to
mention their m A great multi
tude before the throne. You loved them
once, you love them now, and ever and
anon you think you hear their voices
calling you upward. All, yes, they have
gone out from all these families, and
you want no book to tell you of the dy-
ing experience of Christian children.
You have heard it. 1t has been whis-
pered in your ear, o father, o mother,
o brother, 0 sister. Toward that good
land all Christians are bearing. This
swapping of heartstrings, this flight of
years, this tread of the heart reminds us
that we are passing away. Under spring
blossoms and through summer harvests
and across autumnal leaves and through
the wintry s~nowbanks we are passing
on. Oh, rejoice at it. children of God,
rejoice at it! How we shall gather them
up, the loved and the lostl Before we
mount our throne, before we drink of
the fountain, before we strike the harp
of our eternal celebration, we will cry
out, ''Where are our loved and lost?"
And then how we shall gather them up!
Oh, how we shall gather them up!
In this dark world of Sin and pain
We only meet to part again,
But when we reach the heavenly shore
We there shall meet to part no more.
The hope that we shall see that day
Should chase our present griefs away.
When these short years of pain are past,
Well meet before the throne at last.