Then she read them a hymn called “The Gospel of Mystery.”  Coming after the sermon, it was sweet and clear to all the people’s hearts.  Before the sermon it would have seemed obscure.

  The Gospel of Mystery.

    Good tidings every day,
  God’s messengers ride fast. 
    We do not hear one half they say,
    There is such noise on the highway,
  Where we must wait while they ride past.

    Their banners blaze and shine
  With Jesus Christ’s dear name,
  And story, how by God’s design
    He saves us, in His love divine,
  And lifts us from our sin and shame.

    Their music fills the air,
  Their songs sing all of Heaven;
    Their ringing trumpet peals declare
    What crowns to souls who fight and dare,
  And win, shall presently be given.

    Their hands throw treasures round
  Among the multitude. 
    No pause, no choice, no count, no bound,
    No questioning how men are found,
  If they be evil or be good.

    But all the banners bear
  Some words we cannot read;
    And mystic echoes in the air,
    Which borrow from the songs no share,
  In sweetness all the songs exceed.

    And of the multitude,
  No man but in his hand
    Holds some great gift misunderstood,
    Some treasure, for whose use or good
  His ignorance sees no demand.

    These are the tokens lent
  By immortality;
    Birth-marks of our divine descent;
    Sureties of ultimate intent,
  God’s Gospel of Eternity.

    Good tidings every day. 
  The messengers ride fast;
    Thanks be to God for all they say;
    There is such noise on the highway,
  Let us keep still while they ride past.

But the sermon which of all others her people loved best was one on the Love of God.  This one she was often asked to repeat,—­so often, that she said one day to Angy, who asked for it, “Why, Angy, I am ashamed to.  Everybody must know it by heart.  I am sure I do.”

“Yes, that’s jest the way we do know it, Mis’ Kinney, by heart,” said the affectionate Angy, “an’ that’s jest the reason we want it so often.  I never told ye what George Thayer said the last time you read it to us, did I?”

“No, Angy,” said Draxy.

“Well, he was singing in the choir that day, ‘n place o’ his brother, who was sick; ‘n’ he jumped up on one o’ the seats ‘n’ swung his hat, jest ’s you was goin’ down the aisle, ‘n’ we all ketched hold on him to pull him down, ‘n’ try to hush him; for you can’t never tell what George Thayer’ll do when his blood’s up, ‘n’ we was afraid he was agoin’ to holler right out, ’s ef he was in the town-’us; but sez he, in a real low, trembly kind o’ voice,

“‘Ye needn’t be afraid, I ain’t agoin’ to whoop;—­taint that way I feel,—­but I had to do suthin’ or I should bust’:  ‘n’ there was reel tears in his eyes—­George Thayer’s eyes, Mis’ Kinney!  Then he jumped down, ‘n’ sez he, ’I’ll tell ye what that sermon’s like:  it’s jest like one great rainbow all round ye, and before ‘n’ behind ‘n’ everywheres, ‘n’ the end on’t reaches way to the Throne; it jest dazzles my eyes, that’s what it does.’”