The Pleasures of the Redeemed. HEN we say that the state of the other world is unknown, the only meaning of it is, that it is a state of such happiness, so far beyond anything that we ever yet experienced, that we cannot form any notion or idea of it. We know that there is such a happiness; we know, in some measure, wherein such happiness consists; viz., in seeing God and the blessed Jesus, who loved us, and gave himself for us; in praising our Creator and Redeemer; in conversing with saints and angels. But how great, how ravishing and transporting a pleasure this is, we cannot tell, because we never yet felt it. Now, methinks, this should not make the thoughts of death uneasy to us, should not make us unwilling to go to heaven, that the happiness of heaven is too great for us to know or to conceive in this world. For men are naturally fond of unknown and untried pleasures; which is so far from being a disparagement to them, that it raises our expectations of them, that they are unknown. In the things of this world, enjoyment usually lessens our esteem and value for them, and we always value that most which we have never tried; and methinks the happiness of the other world should not be the only thing we despise before we try it. It is some encouragement to us that the happiness of heaven is too big to be known in this world; for did we perfectly know it now, it could not be very great. Sherlock on Death. 1 The Heavenly Choir. "They rest not day and night.?? HEY rest not day and night, Each hour the anthem swells; With ever new delight, The tongue untiring dwells:- Our humble voices hear. Still endless ages roll, And Time himself stands still; Still from the vaulted pole The listening ear shall fill :— Holy, holy, holy Lord, Thou Father, Spirit, Word, Our humble voices hear. Of worlds which deck the sky, Of stars, which sing God's grace:O holy God, give ear, While each revolving sphere, Conspires the soul to raise. Through yon cathedral high, The blended echoes fly O'er hill, and plain, and flood:O, holy, holy, holy Lord, Is still the ceaseless word Through all that bright abode. But best of all it comes From infant voices sweet; From those whose happy homes Are at their Saviour's feet. And thus they look and sing, Admitting, as their voices ring, The wonders of His grace. They rest not day and night, Nor would they lose one strain; For all things there unite To banish tears and pain To catch the echo wild, So bold, so soft, so mild, To catch the heavenly strain. |