And so, I believe that there are millions of
heathens who are led home by tapers. Many of ourselves, we hope, God
will light home by dim lights. The way seems dark enough, and in the
darkness we may stumble and fall; but if we use well the light we have,
we shall find our way.
* * * * *
Here is a drop of dew. It is suspended from a leaf. It glints, and
gleams, and glows, in the clear morning light. As you look into it, if
you are in a contemplative mood, the drop of dew expands into a world;
and what a world of beauty! It seems a very paradise, where the redeemer
of the Lord might walk; where angels might soar and sing.
* * * * *
Some time ago an organist died in the assured hope that he would be the
leader of a heavenly choir. It does not seem far fetched to believe that
his ambition is gratified. At this very hour he may be a director of
those harpers that are harping upon their harps.
Here is a sketch which we may term "Imprisoned." It was suggested to me
by a lark flying into the room, and dashing itself against the windows
in its efforts to escape:
Oh! birdie from the blue,
This is no home for you!
In spacious fields of air,
Beneath a boundless sky,
Without a fear or care,
You sang, and soared so high;
I wonder much what brought you here
To this dark room's contracted sphere.
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