Rest, but few can comprehend the word. At morn I speak it, but at
midnight most, and then 'tis music! Oh, the thought of _rest_--of
perfect freedom, from distress and pain--of health, of vigor in each
nerve and limb. The thought inspires, consoles, and makes me pray for
fear I shall lose the blessing. Grant me, O God, a patient heart; and
may my will be so conformed to thine, that I may wait thy own good
pleasure, whatsoever it be.
There are moments when Calvary overshadows Mount Sinai; when the
blessed words, "It is finished," swell long and loud above the roar of
thunder and the sound of trumpets; when the Cross conceals the Tables
of stone bearing the holy law of the Almighty, and then I can boldly
reply to the upbraidings of Conscience, "There is now no condemnation
to them which are in Christ Jesus."
Sing, my heart, for the day cometh wherein the night shall be no more
at all remembered; the clouds shall melt like vapor, and the voice of
mourning and lamentation shall be heard no more forever. Awake and
sing!
"YE DID IT NOT TO ME."
'Twas night--a dark and stormy night:
The wintry winds were high;
Within the fire was blazing bright
And as I trimmed the cheerful light
I heard a pleading cry.
"Come in," in hasty tones I said,
The door flew open wide--
The tempest roared--I shrieked with dread,
For, lo, a Spectre from the dead
Was standing by my side!
One icy hand was on mine own,
I would have turned and fled:
But ah! my limbs were chilled to stone,
As in a low, sepulchral tone
The sheeted Spectre said:
"It was a night like this I died,
Scorned by my fellow men;
To me a shelter was denied
But when they slumber by my side,
We shall, be equals then.
"I starved--and thou wast clothed and fed,
And had enough to spare;
Thou mightst have come with gentle tread,
And stood beside my dying bed,
And found a blessing there.
"But now my curse: nor mine alone--
The moment yet will be
When thou wilt stand before the Throne,
And hear it said in thunder tone:
'Thou didst it not to Me.'"
The light grew dim throughout the room,
Soon darkness reigned supreme,
But that pale Spectre from the tomb
Still eyed me through the dusky gloom,--
Thank God, 'twas but a dream!