Oh ye whose locks are wet with the dews of the night of grief; ye whose hearts are heavy because those well-known footsteps sound no more at the doorway, yonder is your rest! There is David triumphant; but once he bemoaned Absalom.
There is Abraham enthroned; but once he wept for Sarah. There is Paul, he is exultant, but he once sat with his feet in the stocks. There is Payson radiant with immortal health; but on earth he was always sick.
No toil: no tears: no partings: no strife: no agonizing cough: no night. No storm to ruffle the crystal sea. No alarm to strike from the cathedral towers. No dirge throbbing from seraphic hearts. No tremor in the everlasting song; but rest—perfect rest—unending rest.— TALMAGE.
