Orleans County monitor. [volume] (Barton, Vt.) 1872-1953, 1898-03-14

that I stand before so many immortal
spirits. The probability is that your
body will at last find sepulcher in
some Of the cemeteries that surround
your town or city. There is no doubt
but that your obsequies will be decent
and respectful, and you will be able to
pillow your head under the maple or
the Norway spruce or the cypress Or the
blossoming fir. But this spirit about
which Stephen prayed-what direction
will that take? What guide will escort
it? What gate will open to receive it?
What cloud will be cleft for its path
way? After it has got beyond the light
of our sun will there be torches lighted
for it the rest of the way? Will the
soul have to travel through long deserts
before it reaches the good land? II we
should lose our pathway, will there be
a castle at whose gate we may ask the
way to the city? Oh, this mysterious
spirit within us! It has two wings, but
it is in a cage now. 1t is locked fast to
keep it, but let the door of this cage
open the least and that soul is Off.
Eagles wing could not catch it. The
lightnings are not swift enough to take
up with it. When the soul leaves the
body, it takes 90 worlds at bound.
And have no anxiety about it? Have
you no anxiety about it?
Stephens Prayer.
do not care what you do with my
body when my soul is gone, Or whether
you believe in cremation Or inhuma-
ton. I shall sleep just as we'll in a
wrapping Of sackcloth as in satin lined
with eagles down. But my soul-before
this day passes will find out where it
will land. Thank God for the intima
ton Of my text, that when we die Jesus
takes US. That answers all questions for
me- What though there were massive
bars between here and the city of light,
Jesus could remove them. What though
there were great Saharas Of darkness,
Jesus could illume them. What
though I get weary on the way, Christ
could lift me on his omnipotent shout
der. What though there were chasms to
cross, his hand could transport me.
Then let Stephens prayer be my dying
litany, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit. "
It may be in that hour we will be too
feeble to say long prayer 1t may be
in that hour we will not be able to say
L
titions. Perhaps we may be too feeble
even to say the infant prayer our moth
ers taught us, which John Quincy Adj
ans, 70 years of age, said every night
when he put his head upon his pillow:
Now lay me down to sleep.
pray the Lord my soul to keep.
We may be too feeble to employ Ell
ther of these familiar forms, but this
prayer of Stephen is SO short, is SO con-
else, is SO earnest, is so comprehensive,
we surely will be able to say that
tLord Jesus, receive my spirit Oh,
if that prayer is answered, how sweet
it will be to die! This world is clever
enough to us. Perhaps it has treated us
a great deal better than we deserve to
be treated, but if on the dying pillow
there should break the light of that bet
ter world we shall have no more regret
about leaving small, dark, damp
house for one large, beautiful and capa
cious. That dying minister in Philadel-
phia, some years ago. beautifully de-
picted it when in the last moment he
threw up his hands and cried out, IT
move into the light
A Working Christian.
Pass on now, and I will show you one
more picture and that is Stephen
asleep. With a pathos and simplicity
peculiar to the Scriptures the text says
of Stephen, 'He fell asleep sob"
you say, 'twhat place that was to sleep!
A hard rock under him, stones falling
down upon him, the blood streaming,
the mob bowling. What a place it was
to sleep!" And yet my text takes that
symbol of slumber to describe his de-
parture, SO sweet was it, SO contented
was it, SO peaceful was it. Stephen had
lived very laborious life. His chief
work had been to care for the poor.
How many loaves Of bread he distribut-
ed, how many bare feet he had sandal
ed, how many cots of sickness and dis
tress he blessed with ministries of kind
ness and love, do not know, but from
the way he lived, and the way he
preached, and the way he died I know
he was laborious Christian. But that
is all over now. He has pressed the cup
to the last fainting lip. He has taken
the last insult from his enemies. The
last stone to whose crushing weight he
is susceptible has been hurled. Stephen
is dead. The disciples come. They take
him up They wash away the blood
from the wounds. They straighten out
the bruised limbs. They brush back the
tangled hair from the brow, and then
they pass around to look upon the calm
countenance of him who had lived for
the poor and died for the truth. Stephen
asleep!
I have seen the sea driven with the
hurricane until the tangled foam caught
in the rigging, and wave rising above
wave seemed as if about to storm the
heavens, and then have seen the tempest
drop, and the waves crouch, and every
thing become smooth and FURNISHED