Oh, tell me not that they are dead - that generous host, that airy army of invisible heroes! They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic patriotism? Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured name, every river shall keep some solemn title, every valley and every lake shall cherish its honored register; and, till the mountains are worn out, and the rivers forget to flow, till the clouds are weary of replenishing springs, and the springs forget to gush, and the rills to sing, shall their names be kept fresh with reverent honors which are inscribed upon the book of national remembrance. Henry Ward Beecher
Sunday, March 2, 2025
The Dead Live Beyond
The Dead Live Beyond
His is not dead, but only lieth sleeping
In the sweet refuge of his Master's breast,
And far away from sorrow, toil, and weeping
He is not dead, but only taking rest.
What tho the highest hopes he dearly cherished
All faded gently as the setting sun;
What tho our own fond expectations perished
Ere yet life's noblest labors seemed begun.
What tho he standeth at no earthly altar,
Yet in white raiment, on the golden floor,
Where love is perfect, and no step can falter,
He serveth as a priest for evermore!
O glorious end of life's short day of sadness,
O blessed course so well and nobly run!
O home of true and everlasting gladness,
O crown unfading! and so early won!
Tho tears will fall we bless thee, O our Father,
For the dear one forever with the blest,
And wait the Easter dawn when thou shalt gather
Thine own, long parted, to their endless rest.
"Take my hand and lead me" hymn
The Christian's Death
For centuries the world has admired the calmness and fortitude of Socrates in the presence of death, but if Socrates died like a philosopher, Patrick Henry died like a Christian. In his last illness, all other remedies having failed, his physician, Doctor Cobell, proceeded to administer to him a dose of liquid mercury. Taking the vial in his hand, and looking at it for a moment, the dying man said:
"I suppose doctor, this is your last resort?''
" I am sorry to say, governor, that it is."
"What will be the effect of this medicine?"
"It will give you immediate relief, or--"
The doctor could not finish the sentence.
His patient too up the word: "You mean, doctor, that it will give relief or will prove fatal immediately?"
"You can live only a very short time without it," the doctor answered, "and it may possibly relieve you."
Then the old statesman said:
"Excuse me, doctor, for a few minutes," and drawing over his eyes a silken cap which he usually wore, and still holding the vial in his hand, he prayed in clear words a simple, childlike prayer for his family, for his country, and for his own soul, then in the presence of death. Afterward, in perfect calmness, he swallowed the medicine.
Meanwhile Doctor Cobell, who greatly loved him, went out to the lawn, and in his grief threw himself down upon the earth under one of the trees, and wept bitterly. Soon, when he had sufficiently mastered himself, the doctor returned to his patient, whom he found calmly watching the congealing blood under his finger-nails, and speaking words of love and peace to his family, who were weeping round his chair.
Among other things, he told them that he was thankful for that goodness of God which, having blest him through all his life, was then permitting him to die without any pain. Finally fixing his eyes with much tenderness upon his dear friend, Doctor Cobell, with whom he had formerly held many arguments respecting the Christian religion, he asked the doctor to observe how great a reality and benefit that religion was to a man about to die.
And after Patrick Henry had spoken these few words in praise of something which, having never failed him in his life before, did not then fail him in his very last need of it, he continued to breath very softly for some moments, after which they who were looking upon him saw that his life had departed. -- The Youth's Companion
"Blessed Assurance" hymn recorded from Hymn For Today
Hope Beyond The Grave
Hope Beyond The Grave
This night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you,
For morn is approaching your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew,
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
Kind nature the embryo blossom will save.
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?
Oh! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?
"Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,
That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
"Oh, pity, great Father of Light!" then I cried,
"Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee!
Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:
From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free."
And darkness and doubt are now flying away;
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn:
So breaks on the traveler, faint and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See Truth, Love and Mercy, in triumph descending,
And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom.
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,
And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.
by James Beattie, LL. D.
Nearer, My God, to Thee.
from Pilgrim's Praises
The Buds Opening in Heaven
 |
| Child with flower. |
Heaven is greatly made up of little children, sweet buds that have never blown, or which death has plucked from a mother's bosom to lay on his own cold breast, just when they were expanding, flower-like, from the sheath, and opening their engaging beauties in the budding time and spring of life. 'Of such is the kingdom of heaven.' How sweet these words by the cradle of a dying infant! They fall like balm drops on our bleeding heart, when we watch the ebbing of that young life, as wave after wave breaks feebler, and the sinking breath gets lower and lower, till with a gentle sigh, and a passing quiver of the lip, our child now leaves its body, lying like an angel asleep, and ascends to the beatitudes of heaven and the bosom of God. Indeed it may be, that God does with his heavenly garden, as we do with our gardens. He may chiefly stock it from nurseries, and select for transplanting what is yet in its young and tender age--flowers before they have bloomed, and trees ere they begin to bear. Rev Dr. Guthrie
"'Tis sweet to die! The flowers of earthly love,
(Fair, frail spring blossoms) early droop and die;
Upon our spirits evermore to lie
Fanny Forrester.
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