There is another time when the plainest wife is a queen of beauty to
her husband. She has done the work of life. She has reared her
children for God and heaven, and though some of them may be a little
wild they will yet come back, for God has promised. She is dying, and
her husband stands by. They think over all the years of their
companionship, the weddings and the burials, the ups and the downs,
the successes and the failures. They talk over the goodness of God and
His faithfulness to children's children. She has no fear about going.
The Lord has sustained her so many years she would not dare to
distrust Him now. The lips of both of them tremble as they say
good-bye and encourage each other about an early meeting in a better
world. The breath is feebler and feebler, and stops. Are you sure of
it? Just hold that mirror at the mouth, and see if there is any vapor
gathering on the surface. Gone! As one of the neighbors takes the old
man by the arm and gently says: "Come, you had better go into the next
room and rest," he says: "Wait a moment; I must take one more look at
that face and at those hands!" Beautiful! Beautiful!
My friends, I hope you do not call that death. That is an autumnal
sunset. That is a crystalline river pouring into a crystal sea. That
is the solo of human life overpowered by hallelujah chorus. That is a
queen's coronation. That is heaven. That is the way my father stood at
eighty-two, seeing my mother depart at seventy-nine. Perhaps so your
father and mother went. I wonder if we shall die as well?