So
also is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption, it is
raised in incorruption. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory.
It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a natural
body, it is raised a spiritual body."

And thus too we can understand the words which I read from this little
volume, the daily companion of our friend for many years, containing a
passage of Scripture for every day in the year, and marked everywhere
with her notes of special anniversaries and memorable incidents. Was it
merely an accidental coincidence that, on the morning of the thirteenth
of August, on which she exchanged earth for heaven, the passage for the
day was, "I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are
the dead which die in the Lord, from henceforth, yea, saith the Spirit,
that they may rest from their labors, and their works do follow them."

There are two thoughts in this verse which seem to me to be fraught
with comfort and hope to us as we gather round this grave. There is the
thought of rest. "They rest from their labors." Bethink you of the long
life marked by the discipline of sorrow, and by those unwearied labors
for others. Bethink you of the racking agony of the last two days; and
how blessed, how soothing the contrast introduced by the words--"She
rests from her labors." Still is the busy hand; at rest the active
brain; completed the discipline; the pain ended forever.

The other thought is that her work is not done, so far as its results
are concerned. "Their works do follow them." Think you that because she
will no longer meet you in her weekly Bible-readings, because her pen
will no more indite the thoughts which have made so many patient under
life's burdens, and helped so many to make of their burdens steps on
which to mount heavenward--think you her work is ended? Nay. Go into
yonder field, and pluck a single head of wheat, and plant the grains,
and you know that out of each grain which falls into the ground and
dies, there shall spring up an hundred-fold. Shall you recognise so much
multiplying power in a corn of wheat, and not discern the infinitely
greater power of multiplication enfolded in a holy life and in a holy
thought? No. Through the long years in which her mortal remains shall be
quietly resting beneath this sod, the work of her tongue and pen shall
be reproducing itself in new forms of power, of faith, and of patience.

And yet we seem to want some