adle, suffer the pains of childhood, the hurts which
the feelings of youth get, the pangs of love, the shock of loneliness
coming from the departure of those we cling to, the vicissitudes of
fortune, the stings of penury, the journeys into the lands of strangers,
the flight of summer friends, the alienation of children, and the
fevers and the wounds which human nature crosses on its way to the kind
haven of a good old age. Jesus stands near. When death comes, his voice
will sound, just at the brink: "It is I; be not afraid." "When I look at
the tombs of the great," said Joseph Addison, on
HIS VISIT TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY,
"every motion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the
beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief
of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see
the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving
for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see Kings lying by those
who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the
holy men that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I
reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions,
factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the
tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I
consider that great judgment day when we shall all of us be
contemporaries, and make our appearance together."
THE AGED MAN
who has "walked with God" is always ready for the Master's call. His
loins are girded about and his lights burning. He "lies down with the
Kings of the earth," and that leveling process which is thus intimated
and begun in death he feels is the order of a higher plane of life to
come, when all the abuses and incongruities of human government will be
swept away, and the light of omniscient wisdom will shine on all alike.
There will he meet the little child who strayed from the fold into the
snows of death early in the married life, and there will he sit beside
that fond old heart who heard his first piteous wail in this cold world,
and nestled him to her bosom all warm with a mother's love.
IT IS THE ONE POSSIBLE CHANCE
of happiness, and only death stands in the way. Nature carries the soul
gently over the river, where those who have gone before stand waiting in
glad expectation. Shall we doubt either the goodness of God or the
perfection of nature? Shall we hesitate to weave the s
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