Like a weary pilgrim who halts upon his way, I would look back and trace the pathway I have trodden. The sunset hour of life is coming, and the shadows fall around me—but behind, the years are golden with the light of God—and the steady light gleams on the distant hills.
Ah! the value of passing time, the march of the passing years! It seems to me so solemn to think that ever’ moment is taking me from time to God.
And what is a second compared to a century? But it is the passing of these seconds that makes the vistas of the ages.
The gray hairs, the wrinkled brow, the faded cheek, the weary gait, are all the work of seconds; the mystery of change that tells so eloquently of our humanity, is wrought by the busy moments which are held so lightly. They spend their tiny force against the proudest, strongest works of man, and the victory is always theirs. No stronghold and no life can resist the persistent pressure of these tiny giants, for the vitality of eternity is theirs and they are strong with the strength of God.
No one can put back the hands of Time one second—we must go onward—ever onward—BUT TO WHAT GOAL? When life here is done—what is there beyond?
THANK GOD, THERE’S HEAVEN!