There is _the prison-house of sin_. It is a dark and suffocating
hole, without friendly light or morning air. And it is haunted by such
affrighting shapes, as though my iniquities had incarnated themselves in
ugly and repulsive forms. None but the Lord can bring me out.
And there is _the prison-house of sorrow_. My griefs sometimes wrap me
about like cold confining walls, which have neither windows nor doors. It
seems as though a fluid sorrow can congeal into a cold, hard temperament,
and hold me in its icy embrace. And none but the Lord can bring me out.
And there is _the prison-house of death_. I must perforce pass through the
gate of death. Shall I find it a castle of gloom, or is there another gate
through which I shall emerge into the fair, sweet paradise of God? My
Master is Lord of the road! And He tells me that death shall not be a
castle of captivity, but only a thoroughfare through which I shall pass
into the realm of eternal day.