Lord Jesus, I am weary in Thy work, but not of it. If I have not yet finished my course, let me go and speak for Thee once more in the field, seal Thy truth, and come home to die.
Rest, weary heart,
From all Thy silent griefs and secret pain,
Thy profitless regrets, and longings vain;
Wisdom and love have ordered all the past,
All shall be blessedness and joy at last;
Cast off the cares that have so long oppressed;
Rest, sweetly rest!
And He, at last.
After the weary strife—
After the restless fever we call life—
After the dreariness, the aching pain,
The wayward struggles which have proved in vain,
After our toils are past
Will give us rest at last.
RESURRECTION.
Our Lord has written the promise of the resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf in spring-time.
As from the short and dreamless slumber you open your eyes on the great sight—as with mingled joy and awe you find yourself caught up to meet Him in the air, your whole nature springing up into sudden grandeur and a strange unearthliness, I cannot tell what like He then shall be, nor can I tell what like you then shall be, for, seeing Him as He is, you shall not be so like your present self as you shall be like Him.
