Heavenly Rest
A Sermon
(No. 133)
Delivered on Sabbath Morning, May 24, 1857, by the
REV. C.H. SPURGEON
at the Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens.
"There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God."–Hebrews 4:9.
THE Apostle proved, in the former part of this and the latter part of
the preceding chapter, that there was a rest promised in Scripture
called the rest of God. He proved that Israel did not attain that rest
for God sware in his wrath, saying, "They shall not enter into my
rest." He proved that this did not merely refer to the rest of the land
of Canaan; for he says that after they were in Canaan, David himself
speaks again in after ages concerning the rest of God, as a thing which
was yet to come. Again he proves, that "seeing those to whom it was
promised did not enter in, because of unbelief, and it remaineth that
some must enter in, therefore," saith he, "there remaineth a rest to
the people of God."
"My rest," says God: the rest of God! Something more wonderful than any
other kind of rest. In my text it is (in the original) called the
Sabbatism–not the Sabbath, but the rest of the Sabbath–not the
outward ritual of the Sabbath, which was binding upon the Jew, but the
inward spirit of the sabbath, which is the joy and delight of the
Christian. "There remaineth therefore"–because others have not had it,
because some are to have it–"There remaineth therefore a rest to the
people of God."
Now, this rest, I believe, is partly enjoyed on earth. "We that have
believed do enter into rest," for we have ceased from our own works, as
God did from his. But the full fruition and rich enjoyment of it
remains in the future and eternal state of the beatified on the other
side the stream of death. Of that it shall be our delightful work to
talk a little this morning. And oh! if God should help me to raise but
one of his feeble saints on the wings of love to look within the veil,
and see the joys of the future, I shall be well contented to have made
the joy-bells ring in one heart at least, to have set one eye flashing
with joy, and to have made one spirit light with gladness. The rest of
heaven! I shall try first to exhibit it and then to extol it.
I. First, I shall try to EXHIBIT the rest of heaven; and in doing so I
shall exhibit it, first by way of contrast, and then by way of
comparison.
1. To begin then, I shall try to exhibit heaven by way of contrast. The
rest of the righteous in glory is now to be contrasted with certain
other things.
We will contrast it, first, with the best estate of the worldling and
the sinner. The worldling has frequently a good estate. Sometimes his
vats overflow, his barns are crammed, his heart is full of joy and
gladness, there are periods with him when he flourishes like a green
bay tree, when field is added to field, and house to house, when he
pulls down his barns and builds greater, when the river of his joy is
full, and the ocean of his life is at its flood with joy and
blessedness. But sh! beloved, the state of the righteous up there is
not for a moment to be compared with the joy of the sinner;–it is so
infinitely superior, so far surpassing it, that it seems impossible
that I should even try to set it in contrast. The worldling, when his
corn and his wine are increased, has a glad eye and A joyous heart; but
even then he has the direful thought that he may soon leave his wealth.
He remembers that death may cut him down, that he must then leave all
his fair riches behind him, and sleep like the meanest of the land in a
narrow coffin, six feet of earth his only heritage. Not so the
righteous man: he has obtained an inheritance which is "undefiled, and
that fadeth not away." He knows that there is no possibility of his
losing his joys;
"He is securely blessed,
Has done with sin, and care, and woe,
And doth with Jesus rest."
He has no dread of dissolution, no fear of the coffin or the shroud,
and so far the life of heaven is not worthy to be put in comparison
with the life of the sinner. But the worldling, with all his joys,
always has a worm at the root of them. Ye votaries of pleasure! the
blush upon your cheek is frequently but a painted deception. Ah! ye
sons and daughters of gaiety! the light foot of your dance is not in
keeping with the heavy woe of your miserable spirits. Do you not
confess that if by the excitement of company you for awhile forget the
emptiness of your heart, yet silence, and the hour of midnight, and the
waking watches of your bed, bid you sometimes think that there must be
something more blessed than the mere wanderings of gaiety in which you
now are found? You are trying the world some of you; speak then! Do you
not find it empty? Might it not be said of the world, as an old
philosopher said of it when he represented a man with it in his hands
smiting it and listening to its ringing? Touch it, touch it I make it
ring again; it is empty. So it is with the world. You know it is so;
and if you know it not as yet, the day is coming when after you have
plucked the sweets you shall be pricked with the thorn, and when you
shall find that all is unsatisfactory that does not begin and end with
God. Not so the Christian in heaven. For him there are no nights; and
if there be times of solitude and rest, he is ever filled with ecstatic
joy. His river floweth ever full of bliss, without one pebble of sorrow
over which it ripples, he has no aching conscience, no "aching void the
world can never fill." He is supremely blessed, satisfied with favor,
and full with the goodness of the Lord. And ye know, ye worldlings,
that your best estates often bring you great anxiety, lest they should
depart from you. You are not so foolish yet as to conceive that riches
endure for ever. You men of business are frequently led to see that
riches take to themselves wings and fly away. You have accumulated a
fortune; but you find it is harder to retain than it is to get. You are
seeking after a competence; but you find that you grasp at shadows that
flit away–that the everlasting vicissitudes of business and the
constant changes of mankind are causes of prudent alarm to you, for you
fear that you shall lose your gods, and that your gourd shall be eaten
by the worm, and fall down, and your shadow shall be taken away. Not so
the Christian. He lives in a house that can never hasten to decay; he
wears a crown, the glister of which shall never be dim; he has a
garment which shall never wax old; he has bliss that never can depart
from him, nor he from it. He is now firmly set, like a pillar of marble
in the temple of God. The world may rock, the tempest may sway it like
the cradle of a child; but there, above the world, above the perpetual
revolution of the stars, the Christian stands secure and immovable;
trio rest infinitely surpasseth yours. Ah I ye shall go to all the
fabled luxuries of eastern monarchs, and see their dainty couches and
their luscious wines. Behold the riches of their pleasantry! How
charming is the music that lulls them to their sleep! How gently moves
the fan that wafts them to their slumber! But ah!
"I would not change my blest estate
For all the world calls good or great;
And whilst my faith can keep her hold
I envy not the sinner's gold"–
I reckon that the richest, highest, noblest condition of a worldly man
is not worthy to be compared with the joy-that is to be revealed
hereafter in the breasts of those who are sanctified. O ye spendthrift
mortals, that for one merry dance and a giddy life will lose a world of
joys! O fools that catch at bubbles and lose realities! O ten thousand
times mad men, that grasp at shadows and lose the substance! What! sirs
do you think a little round of pleasure, a few years of gaiety and
merriment, just a little time of the tossing about, to and fro, of
worldly business, is a compensation for eternal ages of unfading bliss!
Oh! how foolish will you conceive yourselves to be, when you are in the
next state, when cast away from heaven you will see the saints blessed!
I think I hear your mournful soliloquy, "Oh! how cheaply did I sell my
soul! What a poor price did I get for all I have now lost! I have lost
the palace and the crown, and the joy and bliss for ever, and am shut
up in hell! And for what did I lose it? I lost it for the lascivious
wanton kiss. I lost it for the merry drunken song; I lost it for just a
few short years of pleasures, which, after all, were only painted
pleasures!" Oh! I think I see you in your lost estates, cursing
yourselves, rending your hair, that you should have sold heaven for
counters and have changed away eternal life for pitiful farthings,
which were spent quickly and which burned your hand in the spending of
them! Oh! that ye were wise, that ye would weigh those things, and
reckon that a life of the greatest happiness here is nothing compared
with the glorious hereafter: "There remaineth a rest to the people of
God."
Now let me put it in more pleasing contrast. I shall contrast the rest
of the believer above with the miserable estate of the believer
sometimes here below. Christians have their sorrows. Suns have their
spots skies have their clouds, and Christians have their sorrows too.
But oh! how different will the state of the righteous be up there, from
the state of the believer here! Here the Christian has to suffer
anxiety. He is anxious to serve his Master, to do his best in his day
and generation His constant cry is–"Help me to serve thee, O my God,"
and he looks out, day after day, with a strong desire for opportunities
of doing good. Ah! if he be an active Christian, he will have much
labor, much toil, in endeavoring to serve his Master; and there will be
times when he will say, "My soul is in haste to be gone; I am not
wearied of the labor, I am wearied in it. To toil thus in the sun,
though for a good Master, is not the thing that just now I desire." Ah!
Christian, the day shall soon be over, and thou shalt no longer have to
toil; the sun is nearing the horizon; it shall rise again with a
brighter day than thou hast ever seen before. There, up in heaven,
Luther has no more to face a thundering Vatican; Paul has no more to
run from city to city, and continent to continent, there Baxter has no
more to toil in his pulpit, to preach with a broken heart to hard
hearted sinners, there no longer has Knox to "cry aloud and spare not"
against the immoralities of the false church; there no more shall be
the strained lung, and the tired throat, and the aching eye; no more
shall the sunday school teacher feel that his sabbath is a day of
joyful weariness; no more shall the tract distributor meet with
rebuffs. No, there, those who have served their country and their God,
those who have toiled for man's welfare, with all their might, shall
enter into everlasting rest. Sheathed is the sword, the banner is
furled, the fight is over, the victory won; and they rest from their
labors.
Here, too, the Christian is always sailing onward, he is always in
motion he feels that he has not yet attained. Like Paul he can say
"Forgetting the things that are behind, I press forward to that which
is before." But there his weary head shall be crowned with unfading
light. There the ship that has been speeding onward shall furl its
sails in the port of eternal bliss. There he who, like an arrow, has
sped his way shall be fixed for ever in the target. There we who like
fleeting clouds were driven by every wind, shall gently distil in one
perennial shower of everlasting joy. There is no progress, no motion
there; they are at rest, they have attained the summit of the mountain,
they have ascended to their God and our God. Higher they cannot go;
they have reached the Ultima Thule, there are no fortunate islands
beyond; this is life's utmost end of happiness; and they furl their
sails, rest from their labors, and enjoy themselves for aye. There is a
difference between the progress of earth and the perfect fixity of the
rest of hearer.
Here, too, the believer is often the subject of doubt and fear. "Am I
his or am I not?" is often the cry. He trembleth lest he should be
deceived, at times he almost despairs, and is inclined not to put his
name down as one of the children of God. Dark insinuations are
whispered into his ears, he thinks that God's mercy is clean gone for
ever, and that he will not be mindful of him any more. Again, his sins
some times upbraid him, and he thinks God will not have mercy on him.
He has a poor fainting heart; he is like Ready-to-halt, he has to go
all his way on crutches; he has a poor feeble mind, always tumbling
down over a straw, and fearing one day he shall be drowned in a
cart-rut. Though the lions are chained he is as much afraid of them as
if they were loose. Hill Difficulty often afrights him; going down into
the valley of humiliation is often troublesome work to him; but there,
there are no hills to climb, no dragons to fight, no foes to conquer,
no dangers to dread. Ready-to-halt, when he dies, will bury his
crutches, and Feeblemind will leave his feebleness behind him; Fearing
will never fear again; poor Doubting-heart will learn confidently to
believe. Oh, joy above all joys! The day is coming when I shall "know
as I am known," when I shall not want to ask whether I am his or not,
for in his arms encircled, there shall be no room for doubt. Oh!
Christian, you think there are slips between your lips and that cup of
joy, but when you grasp the handle of that cup with your hand, and are
drinking draughts of ineffable delight, then you will have no doubt or
fear.
"There you shall see his face,
And never, never sin
There from the rivers of his grace,
Drink endless pleasures in."
Here, too, on earth, the Christian has to suffer; here he has the
aching head and the pained body; his limbs may be bruised or broken,
disease may rack him with torture; he may be an afflicted one from his
birth, he may have lost an eye or an ear or he may have lost many of
his powers; or if not, being of a weakly constitution he may have to
spend the most of his days and nights upon the bed of weariness. Or if
his body be sound, yet what suffering he has in his mind! Conflicts
between depravity and gross temptations from the evil one, assaults of
hell, perpetual attacks of divers kinds, from the world, the flesh, and
the devil. But there, no aching head no weary heart; there no palsied
arm, no brow ploughed with the furrows of old age; there the lost limb
shall be recovered, and old age shall find itself endowed with
perpetual youth, there the infirmities of the flesh shall be left
behind, given to the worm and devoured by corruption. There they shall
flit, as on the wings of angels, from pole to pole, and from place to
place, without weariness or anguish; there they shall never need to lie
upon the bed of rest, or the bed of suffering, for day without night,
with joy unflagging, they shall circle God's throne rejoicing, and ever
praise him who hath said, "The inhabitants there shall never be sick."
There, too, they shall be free from persecution. Here Sicilian Vespers,
and St. Bartholomew, and Smithfield, are well-known words; but there
shall be none to taunt them with a cruel word, or touch them with a
cruel hand. There emperors and kings are not known, and those who had
power to torture them cease to be. They are in the society of saints;
they shall be free from all the idle converse of the wicked, and from
their cruel jeers set free for ever. Set free from persecution! Ye army
of martyrs, ye were slain, ye were torn asunder, ye were cast to wild
beasts, ye wandered about in sheep skins and goats' skins, destitute,
afflicted, and tormented. I see you now, a mighty host. The habiliments
you wear are torn with thorns; your faces are scarred with sufferings;
I see you at your stakes, and on your crosses; I hear your words of
submission on your racks, I see you in your prisons, I behold you in
your pillories–but
"Now ye are arrayed in white,
Brighter than the noonday-sun
Fairest of the sons of light,
Nearest the eternal throne."
These are they, who "for their Master died, who love the cross and
crown;" they waded through seas of blood, in order to obtain the
inheritance; and there they are, with the blood-red crown of martyrdom
about their heads, that ruby brightness, far excelling every other.
Yes, there is no persecution there. "There remaineth a rest for the
people of God."
Alas! in this mortal state the child of God is also subject to sin;
even he faileth in his duty, and wandereth from his God; even he doth
not walk in all the law of his God blameless, though he desireth to do
it. Sin now troubleth him constantly; but there sin is dead, there they
have no temptation to sin, from without or from within, but they are
perfectly free to serve their Master. Here the child of God has
sometimes to weep repentingly of his backslidings; but there they never
shed tears of penitence, for they have never cause to do so.
And last of all, here, the child of God has to wet the cold ashes of
his relatives with tears; here he has to bid adieu to all that is
lovely and fair of mortal race; here it is he hears, "earth to earth,
and dust to dust, and ashes to ashes," while the solemn music of the
dust upon the coffin lid beats doleful time to those words. Here is the
mother buried, the child snatched away, the husband rent from the bosom
of a loving wife, the brother parted from the sister. The plate upon
the coffin, the last coat of arms of earth, earth's last emblems are
here ever before our eyes. But there never once shall be heard the toll
of the funeral bell, no hearse with plumes has ever darkened the
streets of gold, no emblems of sorrow have ever intruded into the homes
of the immortal, they are strangers to the meaning of death; they
cannot die–they live for ever, having no power to decay, and no
possibility of corruption. Oh! rest of the righteous, how blest art
thou, where families shall again be bound up in one bundle, where
parted friends shall again meet to part no more, and where the whole
church of Christ united in one mighty circle, shall together praise God
and the Lamb throughout eternal ages.
Brethren, I have tried thus to set the rest of the righteous in the way
of contrast; I feel I have failed. Poor are the words I can utter to
tell you of immortal things Even holy Baxter himself, when he wrote of
the "Saints' Rest," paused and said; "But these are only tinklings
compared with the full thunders of heaven." I cannot tell you, dear
friends, nor can mortal tell, what God hath prepared for them that love
him.
2. And now I shall try very briefly to exhibit this contrast in the way
of comparison. The Christian hath some rest here, but nothing compared
with the rest which is to come.
There is the rest of the church. When the believer joins the church of
God, and becomes united with them, he may expect to rest. The good old
writer of the "Pilgrim's Progress," says, that when the weary pilgrims
were once admitted to the house Beautiful, they were shown to sleep in
a chamber called peace," or "rest." The church-member at the Lord's
table has a sweet enjoyment of rest in fellowship with the saints; but
ah! up there the rest of church fellowship far surpasses anything that
is known here; for there are no divisions there, no angry words at the
church meetings, no harsh thoughts of one another, no bickerings about
doctrine, no fightings about practice. There Baptist, and Presbyterian,
and Independent, and Wesleyan, and Episcopalian, serving the same Lord,
and having been washed in the same blood, sing the same song, and are
all joined in one. There pastors and deacons never look coolly on each
other; no haughty prelates here, no lofty-minded ministers there, but
all meek and lowly, all knit together in brotherhood; they have a rest
which surpasseth all the rest of the church on earth.
There is, again, a rest of faith which a Christian enjoys; a sweet
rest. Many of us have known it. We have known what it is, when the
billows of trouble have run high, to hide ourselves in the breast of
Christ, and feel secure. We have cast our anchor deep into the rocks of
God's promise, we have gone to sleep in our chamber and have not feared
the tempest, we have looked at tribulation, and have smiled at, we have
looked at death himself, and have laughed him to scorn, we have had
much trust by Christian faith that, dauntless and fearless, nothing
could move us. Yes, in the midst of calumny, reproach, slander and
contempt, we have said, "I shall not be moved, for God is on my side."
But the rest up there is better still more unruffled, more sweet, more
perfectly calm, more enduring, and more lasting than even the rest of
faith.
And, again, the Christian sometimes has the blessed rest of communion.
There are happy moments when he puts his head on the Saviour's
breast–when, like John, he feels that he is close to the Saviour's
heart, and there he sleeps. "God giveth his beloved sleep;" not the
sleep of unconsciousness, but the sleep of joy. Happy, happy, happy are
the dreams we have had on the couch of communion; blessed have been the
times, when, like the spouse in Solomon's song, we could say of Christ,
"His left hand was under my head, and with his right hand did he
embrace me."
"But sweeter still the fountain head,
Though sweet may be the stream;"
When we shall have plunged into a very bath of joy, we shall have found
the delights even of communion on earth to have been but the dipping of
the finger in the cup, but the dipping of the bread in the dish,
whereas heaven itself shall be the participation of the whole of the
joy, and not the mere antepast of it. Here we sometimes enter into the
portico of happiness, there we shall go into the presence chamber of
the King, here we look over the hedge and see the flowers in heaven's
garden, there we shall walk between the beds of bliss, and pluck fresh
flowers at each step; here we just look and see the sunlight of heaven
in the distance, like the lamps of the thousand-gated cities shining
afar off, but there we shall see them in all their blaze of splendor,
here we listen to the whisperings of heaven's melody, borne by winds
from afar; but there, entranced, amidst the grand oratorio of the
blessed, we shall join in the everlasting hallelujah to the great
Messiah, the God, the I AM. Oh! again I say, do we not wish to mount
aloft, and fly away, to enter into the rest which remaineth to the
people of God?
II. And now, yet more briefly, and then we shall have done. I am to
endeavor to EXTOL this rest, as I have tried to EXHIBIT it. I would
extol this rest for many reasons; and oh! that I were eloquent, that I
might extol it as it deserves! Oh! for the lip of angel, and the
burning tongue of cherub, to talk now of the bliss of the sanctified
and of the rest of God's people!
It is, first, a perfect rest. They are wholly at rest in heaven. Here
rest is but partial. I hope in a little time to cease from every-day
labors for a season, but then the head will think, and the mind may be
looking forward to prospective labor, and whilst the body is still, the
brain will yet be in motion. Here, on Sabbath days a vast multitude of
you sit in God's house, but many of you are obliged to stand, and rest
but little except in your mind, and even when the mind is at rest the
body is wearied with the toil of standing. You have a weary mile
perhaps, many miles, to go to your homes on the Sabbath day. And let
the Sabbatarian say what he will, you may work on the Sabbath day, if
you work for God; and this Sabbath day's work of going to the house of
God is work for God, and God accepts it. For yourselves you may not
labor, God commands you to rest, but if you have to toil these three,
these four, these five, these six miles, as many of you have done, I
will not and I must not blame you. "The priests in the sanctuary
profane the Sabbath, and are blameless." It is toil and labor, it is
true but it is for a good cause–for your Master. But there, my
friends, the rest is perfect; the body there rests perpetually, the
mind too always rests; though the inhabitants are always busy, always
serving God, yet they are never weary, never toil-worn, never fagged;
they never fling themselves upon their couches at the end of the day,
and cry, "Oh! when shall I be away from this land of oil?" They I never
stand up in the burning sunlight, and wipe the hot sweat from their
brow; they never rise from their bed in the morning, half refreshed, to
go to laborious study. No, they are perfectly at rest, stretched on the
couch of eternal joy. They know not the semblance of a tear; they have
done with sin, and care, and woe, and, with their Saviour rest.
Again, it is a seasonable rest. How seasonable it will be for some of
you! Ye sons of wealth, ye know not the toils of the poor; the
horny-handed laborer, perhaps, you have not seen, and you not how he
has to tug and to toil. Among my congregation I have many of a class,
upon whom I have always looked with pity, poor women who must rise
to-morrow morning with the sun, and begin that everlasting "stitch,
stitch," that works their finger to the bone. And from Monday morning
till Saturday night, many of you, my members, and multitudes of you, my
hearers, will not be able to lay aside your needle and your thread,
except when, tired and weary, you fall back on your chair, and are
lulled to sleep by your thoughts of labor! Oh! how seasonable will
heaven's rest be to you! Oh! how glad will you be, when you get there,
to find that there are no Monday mornings, no more toil for you, but
rest, eternal rest! Others of you have hard manual labor to perform;
you have reason to thank God that you are strong enough to do it and
you are not ashamed of your work; for labor is an honor to a man. But
still there are times when you say, "I wish I were not so dragged to
death by the business of London life." We have but little rest in this
huge city, our day is longer, and our work is harder than our friends
in the country. You have sometimes sighed to go into the green fields
for a breath of fresh air, you have longed to hear the song of the
sweet birds that used to wake you when you were lads; you have
regretted the bright blue sky, the beauteous flowers, and the thousand
charms of a country life. And perhaps, you will never get beyond this
smoky city, but remember, when you get up there, "sweet fields arrayed
in living green" and "rivers of delight" shall be the place where you
shall rest, you shall have all the joys you can conceive of in that
home of happiness; and though worn and weary, you come to your grave,
tottering on your staff; having journeyed through the wilderness of
life, like a weary camel, which has only stopped on the Sabbath to sip
its little water at the well, or to be baited at the oasis, there you
will arrive at your journey's end, laden with gold and spices, and
enter into the grand caravanserai of heaven, and enjoy for ever the
things you have wearily carried with you here.
And I must say, that to others of us who have not to toil with our
hands, heaven will be a seasonable rest. Those of us who have to tire
our brain day after day will find it no slight boon to have an
everlasting rest above. I will not boast of what I may do, there may be
many who do more, there may be many who are perpetually and daily
striving to serve God, and are using their mind's best energies in so
doing. But this much I may say, that almost every week I have the
pleasure of preaching twelve times, and often in my sleep do I think of
what I shall say next time. Not having the advantage of laying out my
seven shillings and sixpence in buying manuscripts, it costs me hard
diligent labor to find even something to say. And I sometimes have a
difficulty to keep the hopper full in the mill, I feel that if I had
not now and then a rest I should have no wheat for God's children.
Still it is on, on, on, and on we must go, we hear the chariot wheels
of God behind us, and we dare not stop, we think that eternity is
drawing nigh, and we must go on. Rest to us now is more than labor, we
want to be at work; but oh! how seasonable it shall be, when to the
minister it shall be said–
"Servant of God, well done!
Rest from thy loved employ;
The battle fought, the victory won,
Enter thy Master's joy."
It will be seasonable rest. You that are weary with state cares, and
have to learn the ingratitude of men; you that have sought honors, and
have got them to your cost, you seek to do your best, but your very
independence of spirit is called servility, whilst your servility would
have been praised! You who seek to honor God, and not to honor men, who
will not bind yourselves to parties, but seek in your own independent
and honest judgment to serve your country and your God you, I say, when
God shall see fit to call you to himself, will find it no small joy to
have done with parliaments, to have done with states and kingdoms, and
to have laid aside your honors, to receive honors more lasting amongst
those who dwell for ever before the throne of the Most High.
One thing, and then once more, and then farewell. This rest, my
brethren, ought to be extolled, because it is eternal. Here my best
joys bear "mortar" on their brow; here my fair flowers fade; here my
sweet cups have dregs and are soon empty; here my sweetest birds must
die, and their melody must soon be hushed; here my most pleasant days
must have their nights; here the flowings of my bliss must have their
ebbs, everything doth pass away, but there everything shall be
immortal; the harp shall be unrusted, the crown unwithered, the eye
undimmed the voice unfaltering, the heart unwavering, and the being
wholly consolidated unto eternity. Happy day, happy day, when mortality
shall be swallowed up of life, and the mortal shall have put on
immortality!
And then, lastly, this glorious rest is to be best of all commended for
its certainty. "There remaineth a rest to the people of God." Doubting
one, thou hast often said, "I fear I shall never enter heaven." Fear
not, all the people of God shall enter there; there is no fear about
it. I love the quaint saying of a dying man, who, in his country
brogue, exclaimed, "I have no fear of going home; I have sent all
before me. God's finger is on the latch of my door and I am ready for
him to enter." "But," said one "are you not afraid least you should
miss your inheritance?" "Nay," said he "nay, there is one crown in
heaven that the angel Gabriel could not wear; it will fit no head but
mine. There is one throne in heaven that Paul the apostle could not
fill; it was made for me, and I shall have it. There is one dish at the
banquet that I must eat, or else it will be untasted, for God has set
it apart for me." O Christian, what a joyous thought! thy portion is
secure! "there remaineth a rest." "But cannot I forfeit it?" No, it is
entailed. If I be a child of God I shall not lose it. It is mine as
securely as if I were there.
"Come, Christian, mount to Pisgah's top,
And view the landscape o'er."
Seest thou that little river of death, glistening in the sunlight, and
across it dost thou see the pinnacles of the eternal city? Dost thou
mark the pleasant suburbs and all the joyous inhabitants? Turn thine
eye to that spot. Dost thou see where that ray of light is glancing
now? There is a little spot there; dost thou see it? That is thy
patrimony; that is thine. Oh, if thou couldst fly across thou wouldst
see written upon it, "this remaineth for such an one, preserved for him
only. He shall be caught up and dwell for ever with God." Poor doubting
one; see thine inheritance; it is thine. If thou believest in the Lord
Jesus thou art one of the Lord's people; if thou hast repented of sin
thou art one of the Lord's people; if thou hast been renewed in heart
thou art one of the Lord's people, and there is a place for thee, a
crown for thee, a harp for thee. No one else shall have it but thyself,
and thou shalt have it ere long. Just pardon me one moment if I beg of
you to conceive of yourselves as being in heaven. Is it not a strange
thing to think of–a poor clown in heaven? Think, how will you feel
with your crown on your head? Weary matron, many years have rolled over
you. How changed will be the scene when you are young again. Ah,
toil-worn laborer, only think when thou shalt rest for aye. Canst thou
conceive it? couldst thou but think for a moment, of thyself as being
in heaven now, what a strange surprise would seize thee. Thou wouldst
not so as much say, "What! are these streets of gold? What! are these
walls of jasper?" "What, am I here? in white? Am I here, with a crown
on my brow? Am I here singing, that was always groaning? What! I praise
God that once cursed him? What! I lifting up my voice in his honor? Oh,
precious blood that washed me clean! Oh, precious faith that set me
free! Oh, precious Spirit that made me repent, else I had been cast
away and been in hell! But oh! what wonders! Angels! I am surprised. I
am enraptured! Wonder of wonders! Oh! gates of pearls, I long since
heard of you! Oh! joys that never fade, I long since heard tell of you!
But I am like the Queen of Sheba, the half has not yet been told me.
Profusion, oh profusion of bliss!–wonder of wonders!–miracle of
miracles! What a world I am in! And oh! that I am here, this is the
topmost miracle of all!" And yet tis true, tis true; and that is the
glory of it. It is true. Come, worm, and prove it, come, pall; come
shroud; come, and prove it. Then come wings of faith, come, leap like a
seraph; come, eternal ages, come, and ye shall prove that there are
joys that the eye hath not seen, which the ear hath not heard, and
which only God can reveal to us by his spirit. Oh! my earnest prayer
is, that none of you may come short of this rest, but that ye may enter
into it, and enjoy it for ever and ever. God give you his great
blessing, for Jesus sake! Amen.