close over Creation, permitting but occasional rays to struggle beneath its fringes.
Little, indeed, my dull eyes can see of heavenly teachings in earthly things; but there is one resemblance to a high and holy mystery that I have delighted to trace in one of the lowliest forms of sentient being.
There is a City hidden in heaven, but destined, by and by to come down to earth; it rises street above street, and wall above wall, and battlement above battlement; its streets are of gold transparent as glass, its gates are of pearl, and its foundations and walls of crystal are garnished with precious stones. It is peopled by happy spirits in resurrection bodies, by star-crowned men who have washed their robes and made them white in the Blood of the Lamb,—by none else. Nay, the City is composed of these, it is made of living stones, built up one by one in slow and gradual progress, each with an individual consciousness, an individual life.
But (here is the mystery) the City is an individual being, it is a Bride, a Wife. It is the Church of the living God, the Bride of Christ, the Lamb's Wife. One life runs through the whole body, the life of Christ, communicated in resurrection power and perpetuity to her. He bought her,—a pearl of great price,—with all that He had; He nourishes and cherishes her, and He will soon raise her to share his throne.
Is it fanciful to discern a faint shadow of these glories in a poor Polype. If it is, bear with the fancy, for it is not lost time to turn our thoughts heavenward
