Therefore, leaving the principles of the doctrine of Christ, let us go on to perfection, not laying again the foundation of repentance from sin and dead works. Heb. 6:1. The sting of death is sin. I Cor. 15:56.
A slight acquaintance with a man will convince us of. the truth of two propositions.
First. That every man is laboring to attain some object.
Second. That according to the intensity of the interest he feels in the object, will be his delight in pursuing it. It is the deep interest he feels in the object that sweetens the toil, beguiles the time, and cheers him on. These two propositions lie at the foundation of all human effort, they pervade the entire of our actions.
A few illustrations of this point.
Jacob engaged with Laban to serve him seven years for Rachel. The object before him was Rachel; and though the sun scorched him by day, and the frost withered by night, it is said, "Jacob served seven years for Rachel, and they seemed to him but a few days, for the love he had to her." The deep interest he felt in the object of his pursuit gave wings to time, and made years fly as days. Again, a man is deep in debt, and the object he has before him is, to "owe no man anything," to be able to look every man boldly in the face. To accomplish this, what sacrifice will he not make, what labor and toil will he not endure? The deep interest he feels in the attainment of his object calls him to toil ere the sun has yet risen; hurries him on through the whirl of business; braces his spirit; nerves his arm; and sweetens all his labors.
The merchant is looking onward to retirement from business, when, in the calm evening of life, he can sit down and enjoy his neat little country seat; that is the object before him. The interest he feels in its attainment gives zest to his jaded spirit, and throws a charm over what would otherwise be, from year to year, one dull scene of monotony.
The same principle actuates the warrior on the battlefield. His object is military glory; a name in the annals of fame; the applause of the brave. To accomplish this, he will bid adieu to the loved scenes of home, the smiling babe, the heartbroken wife. He will brave the perils of the deep; and, in the face of the gleaming spear, the murderous battle-shout, the shower of death, the roaring cannon's mouth, he will rush to victory or to death; and all to obtain the laurels of earthly, perishing fame. And were I to say that every real Christian in this congregation was not laboring to attain an object, your experience would rise up and contradict me. You have an object before you, a happy dying hour, rest after the storms of life are past, rest now and rest hereafter, sweet rest in the calm of heaven, a crown, a brilliant crown, a crown of life, "a crown of glory that fadeth not away," heaven! heaven!
"Where flesh and blood hath never been, Where mortal eye hath never seen; A mental sphere -- a flood of light; A sea of glory, dazzling bright."
That is the object before you; and, if you would secure it, you must get rid of the sting of death; you must go on to perfection.
We lay down, then, for our discussion, one proposition, -That if a happy and triumphant death-bed be desirable, and if a gloomy and miserable death-bed is to be deprecated, then go on to perfection.
We do not mean to dwell upon the nature of Christian perfection, but simply upon the results of perfection upon a dying hour. How solemn is life's last hour! The journey is ended; the immortal candidate is on life's last shore. The cold and bitter flood lies between him and the better land; and, from thence, he has to review all the road along which he has traveled. Memory retouches all the past; and, in a few minutes, he seems to live the whole of life over again. The scenes long forgotten now, in his dying hour, gather around him in vivid reality; and to be able to look calmly on Death, with the dart gleaming in his uplifted hand, and not be afraid, is the very perfection religion. Poor humanity may, for a moment, shudder, the cold, shivering of mortality may come over it; but the grace of God can enable the Christian to exclaim, "To die is gain." See that sun setting in the western sky; the blue arch is cloudless; everything seems hushed, serene, and quiet; nature bathing in his parting beams. O, how sublime the scene! Still more sublime is the sight of a Christian dying happy in God, "Dying in brighter day to rise." There is one piece of poetry which beautifully describes the Christian's happy close:
"Vital spark of heavenly flame, Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, -O, the pain, the bliss, of dying! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life."
Here the soul seems to say to the body, "We have been companions long; we have traveled together life's rough road; but now home is in view. 'Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife;' let me go." Here the soul is described as hovering on the very precincts of heaven; and, seeming to hear the rustling of the wings of the ministering spirits, it cries -
"Hark! they whisper: angels say, Sister spirit, come away! What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath, -Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
"The world recedes; it disappears. Heaven opens on my eyes; my ears With sounds seraphic ring!"
The spirit has now launched into eternity; it has commenced its upward flight; the earth, like a little dark spot, grow less and less; heaven opens upon the vision; the new Jerusalem is now in sight; the pearly gates, the jasper walls, the angelic watchmen, all flaming with the glory of God, are seen floating far away in the blue ether piled against the light. Now the heavenly music, music sweeter than any the earth can produce, bursts upon the ear; now she wants to speed her flight; she exclaims,
"Lend, lend your wings; I mount, I fly! O grave! where is thy victory? O death! where is thy sting?"
Were I to repeat this over again, there is not a gentleman here, however refined in his taste, but would say, "Ah, that is beautiful poetry; that will live as long as the English language shall last." "But," says one, "it is poetry, after all; I like sober prose and sound doctrine." I have seen people die, but never like that; I have seen the glazed eyes, the blanched cheek, the withered face; I have heard the death-rattle gurgle in the throat, and have seen the sinking of the frame into the quiet of death, and something like a faint smile flitting over the countenance; but never have I found anything like that described in the poetry just quoted. To show you that the matchless poetry above does not go beyond the truth that a holy Christian can die happy, I will refer you to one fact. When looking over my papers, I found an account written eight or nine years ago the source whence I obtained it gave me the fullest assurance of its truth. An infidel's son, many miles distant from his father's house, heard of the illness of his mother, and hastened home. The sun was just rising over his native hills, when he alighted in front of his father's mansion; his sister flew towards him, pressed him to her heart, and led the way to the sick-room of his mother. The young infidel stepped forward to the bed; she seemed dozing, but pale and emaciated. He almost concluded her dead, till a sweet smile played upon her countenance Her lips moved; he leaned over, and heard her say, "I come! I come!" opening her eyes gently. "O, I thought I was going." "Where, mother?" he whispered. (She had not recognized him, but supposed it was his sister.) "Hark!" she said, and he instinctively leaned forwards -
"Hark! they whisper: angels say, Sister spirit, come away!"
"I come to join your everlasting songs!" Again he heard his mother's voice, nor could he resist the attractive sound, but was there in time to hear,
"Then shall I see, and hear, and know, All I desired and wished below."
Overcome by his feelings, he left the room for a time. On returning, his mother, who had been made acquainted with his arrival, received him with a cheerful smile, and said, " One thing more I desired of the Lord, and he hath given me the desire of my heart."
The awful hour of dissolution had come; and, after receiving the whole of her family around her bed, her last advice and parting blessing were then given, beginning with the youngest, and speaking to them one by one, till she came to the eldest, the infidel. Tears, which he tried in vain to repress, gushed from his eyes, as he thought to himself, "My mother thinks mine a hopeless case, and desires to leave me to pursue my chosen path to ruin." Again he endeavored to choke his emotions; but tears and the inward monitor suggested,
"Dost thou feel these arguments, Lorenzo?"
He arose to leave the room; but the eye, the heart, the undying love, of an expiring mother followed him; she called him back, and bade him be seated by her side, making some allusion to his infidelity. She took him by the hand, and said, "My son, I know you are an infidel; I know you reject the Bible as a revelation from God; I have watched with painful interest the progress of skepticism in your mind; I feel for you all that a mother in my circumstances can feel. The icy chill of death is now reeling over my frame, this is the last effort of my maternal love. Time is fast receding, eternity opening to my view. What I do must be done quickly; the grave is ready for me, my house is set in order; all my work is done on earth, except a few parting words to my first-born. Let me ask you one question, which I wish you to answer to God and your own conscience. Do you wish your mother to die with a belief in the dark creed of Voltaire or Paine? If so, step forward with me to the tomb, which in the light of infidelity is as dark as darkness itself; death, an eternal sleep, the utter extinction of being; this thinking, reasoning mind, capable of so much passion and enjoyment, must go out like an expiring taper, cease to exist! There is nothing in heaven or earth can give a ray of light to an expiring infidel!" It was now the Holy Ghost and conscience applied the sentiment with power.
"Dost thou feel these arguments, Lorenzo? Or is there naught but vengeance can be felt?"
"But," she continued, "while life recedes, my hopes, hopes, my confidence in God strengthens. Peace like a river pours its balmy influence over me; eternity and immortal life open on my delighted vision; unutterable thoughts of God and heaven fill my already expanded capacities. I feel the assurance that God is my Father, Christ my Saviour, and the Holy Ghost my Comforter. I shall soon have an unclouded vision of the glory of God's palaces. All that is now dark, or deep, or high, to my present limited capacities, will be then unfolded and understood; nature, providence and grace, will be themes for eternal research; the perfections and attributes of God an endless intellectual feast; redemption an eternal song. The resurrection has rolled away the stone from the sepulcher and illumined the dark enclosure, -- has swallowed up death in victory. My Saviour, Jesus, the friend of sinners, is present, -- is sweet-- is s-w-e-e-t. ... O, my son!"...... She would have proceeded, but gasped for breath, and reclined upon the pillow. He called the family, but the precious mother had departed; a smile of hope, peace and joy, rested upon her features. His father sank down upon the chair; and the pious sister, with a face beaming with religious emotion, gently closed her eyes, and all was still. The young man stood awe-struck. He saw how the religion of the Bible could support in a dying hour. He felt himself a lost sinner, but discovered the Saviour of sinners revealed in the long neglected Bible. He was an infidel no longer. Such is the end of a holy Christian. Still, it must be confessed that multitudes within the pale of the churches of Protestantism, yea, and even within the pale of the Methodist churches, do not die like this, do not honor either God or religion much in their deaths. It is no good to conceal the fact; there are a great many painful, gloomy death-bed scenes, a great number of persons whose sun sets under a cloud. A great many professors of religion are so immersed in business, that, when suddenly called to die, instead of passing full sail into the heavenly port, they hold on to life like a poor wrecked mariner to the rock on which he is cast, till the last wave comes and washes him off into the ocean.
The facts of the death-beds of many professors are too painful to bring to light; they are concealed, they are hushed up. You must go to a second hand for the account of their death; their friends draw a veil over their closing hours. I wonder not at their painful death; they could not bear in life the searching truths of God's word; and, if men cannot bear searching truth a strict examination, the scrutiny of conscience in the hour of affliction, how can they do in the swellings of Jordan?
"O, could we make our doubts remove Those gloomy thoughts that rise, And see the Canaan that we love, With unbeclouded eyes! But tim'rous mortals start and shrink To cross this narrow sea And linger, shivering on the brink, And fear to launch away."
The same poet, in another place, says,
"O, what are all my sufferings here, If, Lord, thou count'st me meet?"
Ah! it is the want of meetness, the gloomy doubts, the dread uncertainty, that makes life's last hour so unhappy. There she lies, lingering, shivering at the port, afraid to launch away. There she lies, enduring the sting of death. The heart is not purified, sin is not all gone, and sin arms death with power. Never; till you are holy, will you be able to look upon death and not be afraid. Brethren, heaven is a sanctuary of purity; a sanctuary guarded with all the jealousies of the Godhead; and, were you to dare to approach it without purity, fire would break forth from the throne, and, with holy indignation, repel your approach. To a soul not purified from all sin, death is armed with a sting; and, oh! how it will harass, and goad, and sting the soul, in the hour of death! I was once called to visit one of my congregation when she was dying. As I entered the room, she fastened her eyes upon me, and gave me such a look as I shall never forget. She cried out, "O! Mr. Caughey, the sting of death! death has a sting!" Yes, it has a sting that tortures the soul in that awful hour. Ah, that was a striking comment on this text. And what is it that gives a sting to death? Is it not recollections of misimproved opportunities, abused mercies, indulged temptation unfruitfulness, unfaithfulness in the work of God? Ah, the Christian looks back upon the Sodom he has left, and onward to the bleak, untraveled eternity before him. Death is life's last chore; and, as he lingers there, his mind retraces the journey he has traveled. And all that seemed faded and indistinct is retouched by conscience; those things that appeared, amidst the bustle of life, but trifling, now seem awfully magnified; they are now viewed in the light of eternity. Ah! it is the holiness of the law by which they are to be judged, the purity of the God with whom they have to do, that exhibits those imperfections in their true colors. Ah! it is conscience retouching the past, making all the little failings of life gather around the bed of death. It is the immediate prospect of going, with all these failings, to meet a heart-searching God. It is a sight of these things that makes death-bed purgatories, death-bed hells!
How are we to account for those gloomy death-bed scenes among professors of religion? I answer,
First, a want of regeneration; -- many of them have never been born again.
Secondly, backsliding. "I was converted," says one; "I could tell the time and place of my conversion." Ah! but you are a backslider now. Satan was once an angel of light, and raised the high hallelujahs of heaven, but he is now a devil. What comfort will it give you, in a dying hour, to remember you were once a Christian, but that you have crucified your Lord afresh, and put him to an open shame? This is another reason for these gloomy death-beds.
Thirdly, remaining depravity. I don't wish to throw one doubt on your minds in reference to your friends who have gone to their graves. One says, "I have a husband gone;" and another, "I a wife," and "I a sister," "a brother," "a dear friend;" "they sought and found pardon, but we do not know that they ever professed to find Christian perfection; and are they lost?" I answer, No, no; I would not lead you, for a moment, to doubt their final safety: but, ah! you do not know what they suffered in the first week of their affliction. You thought it was bodily pain that gave them that piercing, shuddering look, and wore them to a skeleton; but it was not that; it was sin stinging them. They did not tell you what it was that gave them such deep anguish, and no mortal can tell what they endured in that week's affliction. If you wish a calm hour in the last struggle, your conscience must be as clear as a diamond; it will then be like a mirror, it will reflect all the past.
When passing by a house the other day, I saw a mirror placed outside of the window; another was also placed inside. What, thought I, can they want with these mirrors? The fact was, the person sitting at the window, by looking at the one inside, could see all that was passing on the outside. Ah! conscience will be a mirror; it will reflect the past; it will retouch life, and bring it again into distinct view. In the dying hour, conscience will look back; it will force every Christian to review life. And what a scene does it present! Where is the man that can lay his hand upon his heart and say, I have kept inbred sin under during the whole of my Christian life. Can you say, I have never been envious at the prosperity of another, never indulged in pride on the ground of your wealth, standing, talents, never felt the love of the world, impure thoughts, unholy desires? Can you say, I have been free from the slightest touch of sin since I believed? I don't think one of you can say so? The remains of sin in the heart are like powder; and only let a spark fall into it, and there will be an explosion. There has been powder enough in our hearts, and this world is full of sparks.
One is saying, "I contracted an unsuitable marriage; I was unequally yoked, and all has been wrong ever since." Another Is saying, "I formed an improper connection in business." "I," says another, "fell, gave way to bad tempers, angry passions, and, oh! there are a thousand witnesses in my own breast." Conscience bears witness loud, distinct, and clear; but God has brought the wanderer back, back to the throne of grace, and your language is,
"Though I have most unfaithful been Of all who e'er thy grace received, -Ten thousand times thy goodness seen, Ten thousand times thy goodness grieved, -Yet, oh, the chief of sinners spare, In honor of my great High Priest! Nor by thy righteous anger swear To exclude me from thy people's rest."
You feel how true these words are, how unfaithful you have been. If you harbor and indulge these enemies of God in your heart, what kind of a death will you have. Ah! we know! We have seen your brethren die; we know the whole race of you; we tell you, there is before you a stormy Jordan. What, then, is to be done? The past cannot be altered. "What," say you, "are you aiming at?" I answer, I want you to be aroused, to be restored, to get this standing doubt removed, to be washed again in the blood of the Lamb, to get this sting of death taken away, to go on to perfection. Only get this sting removed, and your nature purified, and then you will have a happy death-bed. Bless God, you may start for glory, and never strike a rock. See! see! that vessel leaving the port of Liverpool. She passes the Pier-head, she jostles her way through the crowd of shipping that obstructs her passage; she clears every dangerous point; she escapes the sand-banks that lie concealed under the waters; she gets fairly out on the ocean; by and by she gets an overhaul, and all's right. Every inch of canvas is now crowded on, and on she bounds before the breeze. At length the shout, "land ahead," is heard; she heaves in sight of port; she reaches it. As the captain steps ashore, his friends hail him with sparkling eyes, "Well, captain, what sort of a voyage ?" "O, capital; 'tis true, we have had a few tremendous gales; but we have never split a sail, snapped a rope, or lost a spar; and here we are, safe in harbor!" "Well, captain, we congratulate you on your voyage."
Glory to God! you may yet get safe out of harbor, clear every rock, and pass, full sail, into the port of glory, amidst the congratulations of the heavenly host. "My grace is sufficient for you;" but this sting of death has remained, and, consequently, your experience has been a checkered scene, sometimes up, sometimes down. Now, I want to take you out of this uncertain state; I want you to get this standing doubt removed. If you want a triumphant and happy dying hour, then you must go on to perfection. I will not stop to explain the nature of Christian perfection, only to ask a question or two. Are you a Protestant? Well, then, stick to your Bible. I tell you, there are too many creeds floating abroad already; I'll stick fast to my Bible; God's book is truth. Well, John says, speaking of God "And in him is no sin." Do you believe that? "Yes," says one, "it would be blasphemy to believe the opposite of that." Well, he says again, in I John 3:9, "Whosoever is born of God doth not commit sin; for his seed remaineth in him, and he cannot sin because he is born of God." Do you believe that? "Perfect love casteth out all fear;" but, ah! you have not enjoyed that. Your experience has been a checkered scene. I appeal to your secret experience, has it not been of such a character? Good old Bunyan describes purity of heart under the figure of the "Land of Beulah" He was a Calvinist, and thought it was only in death the soul could be cleansed from sin; but Beulah, however, was this side of the river. When describing Christian and Hopeful as entering the land of Beulah, he says, "In this land the sun shone night and day; they were got quite over the enchanted ground, and Doubting Castle was clean out of sight; the very air was sweet and pleasant, and they heard continually the singing of birds. Here they were in full sight of the city to which they were going, and the view became more and more distinct and clear. It was built of pearls and precious stones, and the streets thereof were pure gold. As they drew nearer and nearer, there were orchards, and vineyards, and gardens, and their gates opened into the highway. And now the sun shining full upon the city, it became so extremely glorious, that they could not yet with open face behold it, for the city was pure gold. As they traveled on, they met two men in raiment that shone like gold. These men asked the pilgrims whence they came, and what difficulties, dangers, comforts, and pleasures, they had met with on the way. The men also said to Christian and Hopeful, 'You have but two difficulties more, and you are in the city.' Now I further saw, that between them and the city there was a river, and there was no bridge to go over, and the river was very deep. At the sight of the river the pilgrims were much stunned, but the men said, 'You must go through, or you cannot get at the gate.' They then inquired if there was no other way to the gate. 'Yes,' said the men, 'there is a bridge, but only two, since the days of Adam, have been allowed to pass over it, nor shall any more till the last trumpet sounds.' Christian began to despond, and looked this way, and that way, but no way appeared but through the water. Christian plunged in, and went over head, and began to cry to Hopeful, and say, 'I sink in deep waters; thy billows go over my head; all thy waves go over me.' Then said Hopeful, 'Be of good cheer, my brother; I feel the bottom, and it is good.' Then said Christian, 'Ah, my friend, the sorrows of death compass me about, and I shall not see the good land;' and with that a great horror of darkness fell upon him, so that he could not see before him. Hopeful had much trouble to keep his brother's head above the waters; yea, sometimes he would be quite gone down; and then, ere a while, he would rise up again half dead. Hopeful said, 'Brother, I see the gate, and men standing by to receive us;' but Christian would answer, 'It is you, it is you they wait for. Ah, brother, for my sins he hath brought me into a snare, and hath left me.' Hopeful said, 'Be of good cheer, Jesus Christ maketh thee whole;' and with that Christian brake out with a loud voice, 'O, I see him again, and he tells me, when thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee.' They took courage and waded through; and as they landed on the other shore, the two shining ones awaited them, and conducted them off to the New Jerusalem."
If you would have a happy death, go on to perfection. A holy Christian will have a happy death; this is the rule; I know there are exceptions to every rule, and there are exceptions to this. You will remember the closing scenes of John Smith and Walsh; their dying hours were of a most distressing character; but I believe it was not for any sin that remained in them, for they had been sanctified for years; they had done the devil a great deal of harm, and no wonder that he should make a deadly onset upon them in the last solemn conflict. These instances, however, are the exceptions; the other is the rule; a holy life is followed by a happy death. If, in your course of Christian duty, you "roll round with the year, and never stand still till the Master appear," at the even tide it will be light. If you want to lay quarantine outside the port of glory, like the fever ships, then live without holiness. I know God keeps some holy souls lying quarantine outside the port; not, however, because there is any sin in them, but to show them to earth, heaven, and hell. God shows them to the universe as a proof of the power of the blood of the cross. See! see! those two vessels just heaving in sight of the port. "Land ahead!" shouts the man at the look-out; they draw nearer and nearer shore. See! see! those two little boats rushing over the rippling waves; they are the health-boats; now they haul alongside, there, they are drawn upon the deck of the vessel. "Well, captain from what port?" "From the port of Justification. We got, however, our papers signed at the port of Holiness," responds the captain. "Any sick on board?" "No, sir; no, sir, all well and sound!" Ah! you who have been to sea, after a long voyage; you know what it is to lay-quarantine forty days. "Well, captain," say the health officers, "they are all in excellent trim, clean as a pin; go in, go in -- do as you please -- the whole country is before you." The other vessel looms in sight; the officers go on board. "What port from, captain?" "The port of Justification." "Any sick aboard?" "Why, a few of the passengers are not very well." The officers pass through the vessel, to see the state of things. Here, they find one stowed away in his hammock, with the fever burning through his veins, as though it would devour him; another yonder, sitting up in his berth, pale, wan, and emaciated; in fact, sickness pervades the whole ship. "Well," says the captain to the officers, "we have had a long voyage and bad weather; we should be glad to go in." "Nay, nay," say the officers, "we cannot allow that; we cannot go beyond our commission." The captain says, "Well, you do not mean to turn us back, I hope?" "Turn you back! no, no -- we'll neither turn you back, nor sink you. We never reject a vessel from your port; and, moreover, you shall have the best provision the land will afford; but here you must lay quarantine forty days. There's the beautiful country open to your view, and when your sickness is gone you shall enter it. Down with your sails, and cast anchor." There she rides on the tossing waves, while the crew often go and view from the deck the good land. Ah! God has to keep many poor sin-sick souls outside the ports of glory, lying quarantine forty days, like the fever ships. There they are, tossing on the billows of the Jordan; and, as they view the land through the mist and rage of the foaming waters, how plaintively they can sing
"On Jordan's stormy banks I stand, And cast a wishful eye To Canaan's fair and happy land, Where my possessions lie.
"O, the transporting, rapturous scene That rises to my sight! Sweet fields, arrayed in living green, And rivers of delight.
"No chilling winds, no poisonous breath Can reach that healthy shore; Sickness and sorrow, pain and death,
Are felt and feared no more.
"When shall I reach that happy place, And be forever blest? When shall I see my Father's face, And in his bosom rest?"
They will enter at last. And, oh! how interesting it is to see a ship, after a long voyage, sail into port! See! see that crowd on the pier. A vessel is expected. "A sail! a sail!" shouts one. Every eye is now peering through the dim haze. There she is, like a speck, far off on the ocean. She comes nearer and nearer-- she grows more and more distinct. Many hearts are now beating high with intense anxiety. See that aged woman in the crowd; she presses now nearer to the pier edge; her eye wanders not. How fixed that look! how intense that gaze! Her whole soul is in her countenance. The little speck grows larger and larger to her view. "Yes," says she, "'tis the vessel. There -- the sailors are now pacing the deck. I see him. 'Tis he -- 'tis he -- 'tis my son, I had given him up for lost; but here he comes, he comes once more! Blessed be thou, oh God of Israel, who doeth all things well." Now, as the sight of home opens upon the view of the sailors, their hearts swell with joy. "Home! home! sweet home!" shout the crew. "Welcome! welcome! tempest-tossed mariners, again to our shores!" respond the crowd. On a spring tide, before a fine breeze, amidst smiles, tears, and loud acclamations of joy, they pass full sail into the harbor. Faintly, indeed, does this shadow forth the scene witnessed when a soul is entering heaven, when it passes full sail into the port of glory.
"Christian, behold! the land is nearing, Where the wild sea storm's rage is o'er; Hark! how the heavenly hosts are cheering See in what throngs they range the shore.
"Cheer up! cheer up! the day breaks o'er thee, Bright as the summer's noon-tide ray; The star-gemmed crowns, and realms of glory, Invite thy happy soul away.
"Away! away! leave all for glory; Thy name is graven on the throne, -Thy home is in those realms of glory Where thy Redeemer now is gone."
Go on to perfection; and may you all at last be enabled to shout, "Victory, victory, in the blood of the Lamb!"
