The united opinion. [volume] (Bradford, Vt.) 1881-1970, 1898-07-01

hear me talk about rest
Look at that company of enthroned
ones. 1t cannot be that those bright
ones ever toiled? Yes, yes These packed
the Chinese tea boxes and through mis-
sionary instruction escaped into glork.
These sweltered on southern plantations
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 harvests to raise the
gamers arN full. Oh, sons ana daugh-
ters Of toll, arise ye and depart, for that
is your rect.
Scovil McCallum, 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 hand oxnr his
heart he 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 moth
er? The most of you are orphans. I look
around, and where l see one man who
has parents living see ten who are or
phans. Where are your children?
Where l see one family circle that is
unbroken l see three or four that have
been desolated-one lamb gone out of
this fold, one flower plucked from that
garland, one golden link broken 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 a power that can at
tune 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 CEN.
etery 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 pleasant nap on our'way
home. The swellings Of Jordan will
only wash off the dust of the way.
From the top of the grave we catch a
glimpse of the towers glinted with the
sun that never sets.
Glorious Consolation.
Oh, ye whose locks are wet with the
dews of the night of grief; ye whose
hearts are heavy, because those well
known footsteps sound no more at the
doorway, yonder is your rest There is
David triumphant, but once he bemoan-
ed Absalom. There is Abraham en-
throned, 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 partings, no strife, no
agonizing cough, no night. 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 loved ones
have gonel Some put down the work of
midlife, feeling they could hardly be
spared from the store or shop for day,
but are to be spared from it forever.
Some went in old age. One came totter-
ing on his staff and used to sit at the
foot of the pulpit, his wrinkled face
radiant with the light that falls from
the throne of God. Another having liv-
ed life of Christian consistency here,
ever busy with kindnesses for her chill
dren, her heart full of that meek and
quiet spirit that is in the sight of God
of great price, suddenly her countenance
was TRANSPORTED, 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 cannot make me believe they
are dead. They have only moved ON.
With more love than that with which
they greeted 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 ye have passed
the flood and won the crown. With
weary feet we press up the shining
way until in everlasting reunion we
shall meet again. Oh, won't it be grand
when, our conflicts done and our part
ings over, we shall clasp hands and cry
out, "This is heaven?'
By the thrones of your departed kim
bred, by their gentle hearts and the ten
derness and love with which they now
call you from the skies, beg you start
ON the highroad to heaven. In the ever
lasting rest may we all meet.
One of the old writers wished he
could have seen three things: Rome in
its prosperity; Paul preaching; Christ
in the body. l have three wishes: First,
to see Christ in glory, surrounded by
his redeemed; second, to see Christ in
glory, surrounded by his redeemed;
third, to see Christ in glory, surrounded
by his redeemed.
When on my new iedged wings 1 rise
To tread those shores beyond the Skies
I'll run through every golden street
| And ask each blissful soul meet,
Where is the God whose praise We sing2
! oh lead me stranger IN vour Eingf