Passing on the train over the vast prairies of South Dakota, I noticed one beautiful effect. The rough posts of the ragged fence we were passing at the moment were gilded by the rays of the setting sun. It seemed as if those rough, ragged posts were fit material wherewith to make the heavenly gates, each of which we are told is one pearl. It seems to be God's intention that this earth, even where it is least picturesque, should give us hints and tokens of heavenly glory.
It seems in the highest degree probable that all the bodily senses that we possess now will be wonderfully intensified and enlarged when this "natural body" passes off, and the "spiritual body" is taken on. I think we have a beautiful hint of this glorious probability in the invention of the telescope and the microscope. By these two inventions we are introduced to new worlds of which we never before had dreamed. By the telescope we are let into the glory of the immense; by the microscope we are let into the marvels of the minute. We never had really seen either the heavens or the earth before. Now, since by an invention of man our sight has been so marvellously quickened, it is surely easy to believe that it will be quickened in a far greater degree when all the powers of this natural body are renewed and immortalized. So then, while the eye of the spiritual body may sweep the far fields of glory, it may also discover worlds of beauty in dew drop, and leaf and flower.
As the moon shines pure and clear in a muddy pool, so Christ shone here in this muddy, filthy world, without the serene lustre of His purity being ever dimmed or soiled. And so we may shine in our poor human way now, but perfectly later on.
It was my privilege lately in crossing the Atlantic, to witness one of those glorious sunsets, which once seen can never be forgotten. Of course the sun sets every evening upon the sea, as upon the land; but several different circumstances must be happily combined to produce the effect I witnessed. It was a Sabbath evening,—a fitting time for such a scene. The day had been calm and bright, the glassy surface of the sea being broken only by the gentlest of ripples. And now the sun had just gone down. The clouds, from the western horizon almost to the zenith, were piled up like very hills of glory, flashing with crimson and amber and purple and gold. The glowing colors of the clouds were Deflected on the sea, with a new and wonderful effect. The gentle ripples of the sea broke up and blended these colors in a manner all its own. What seemed solid in the sky became changeful on the sea. The crimson and amber and purple and gold broke and mingled and glanced and gleamed on the molten sea, until we had before our eyes that very "sea of glass mingled with fire" which John saw in Apocalyptic vision. Oh, surely, God has flashed these beauties on the earth and sky and sea to keep us in mind of the surpassing glories of the beautiful better land.
In the spiritual world, as in the natural, God has made greater lights and lesser lights. Some have more light and some have less. The main thing is, to use well such light as we have. A traveller is making his way home. He is very glad to have daylight, that he may see his way clearly. But when he cannot have daylight, he is thankful for moonlight: and if he has not moonlight he will fain use starlight; and if he has not starlight he will be glad to have even a lamp or taper. The traveller wants to get home, and if so be that he gets home even by a taper light, it is well. 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.
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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.
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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: