Christ is the Master of the grave. Just outside of the gate of the city of Nain, Death and Christ measured lances; and when the young man rose, Death dropped. Now we are sure of our resurrection. Oh, what a scene it was when that young man came back! The mother never expected to hear him speak again.
She never thought that he would kiss her again. How the tears started, and how her heart throbbed as she said, “Oh, my son, my son, my son!” And that scene is going to be repeated. It is going to be repeated ten thousand times. These broken family circles have got to come together. These extinguished household lights have got to be rekindled.
There will be a stir in the family lot in the cemetery, and there will be a rush into life at the command, “Young man, I say unto thee, arise!” As the child shakes off the dust of the tomb, and comes forth fresh and fair, and beautiful, and you throw your arms around it and press it to your heart, angel to angel will repeat the story of the resurrection at Nain, “He delivered him to his mother.”
O ye troubled souls! O ye who have lived to see every prospect blasted, peeled, scattered, consumed! wait a little. The seed-time of tears will become the wheat harvest. In a clime cut of no wintry blast, under a sky palled by no hurtling tempest, and amidst redeemed ones that weep not, that part not, that die not, friend will come to friend, and kindred will join kindred, and the long procession that marches the avenues of gold will lift up their palms as again and again it is announced that the same one who came to the relief of the stricken widow of Nain, to the relief of the weeping sisters of Bethany, has come to the relief of many a maternal heart, and repeated the wonders of resurrection. —TALMAGE.
