There is another sweet to-morrow of which we hope to sing in the night.  Soon, beloved, you and I shall lie on our dying bed, and we shall want a song in the night then; and I do not know where we shall get it, if we do not get it from the to-morrow.  Kneeling by the bed of an apparently dying saint, last night, I said, “Well, sister, He has been precious to you; you can rejoice in His covenant mercies, and His past loving-kindnesses.”  She put out her hand, and said, “Ah! sir, do not talk about them now; I want the sinner’s Savior as much now as ever; it is not a saint’s I want; it is still a sinner’s Savior that I am in need of, for I am a sinner still.”  I found that I could not comfort her with the past; so I reminded her of the golden streets, of the gates of pearl, of the walls of jasper, of the harps of gold, of the songs of bliss; and then her eyes glistened; she said, “Yes, I shall be there soon; I shall meet them by-and-by;” and then she seemed so glad!  Ah! believer, you may always cheer yourself with that thought.  Thy head may be crowned with thorny troubles now, but it shall wear a starry crown directly; thy hand may be filled with cares—­it shall grasp a harp soon, a harp full of music.  Thy garments may be soiled with dust now; they shall be white by-and-by.  Wait a little longer.  Ah! beloved, how despicable our troubles and trials will seem when we look back upon them!  Looking at them here in the prospect, they seem immense; but when we get to heaven, we shall then,

  “With transporting joys recount
  The labors of our feet.”

Our trials will seem to us nothing at all.  We shall talk to one another about them in heaven, and find all the more to converse about, according as we have suffered more here below.  Let us go on, therefore; and if the night be ever so dark, remember there is not a night that shall not have a morning; and that morning is to come by and by.

And now I want to tell you, very briefly, what are the excellences of songs in the night above all other songs.

In the first place, when you hear a man singing a song in the night—­I mean in the night of trouble—­you may be quite sure it is a hearty one.  Many of you sang very prettily just now, didn’t you?  I wonder whether you would sing very prettily, if there was a stake or two in Smithfield for all of you who dared to do it?  If you sang under pain and penalty, that would show your heart to be in your song.  We can all sing very nicely indeed when everybody else sings.  It is the easiest thing in the world to open your mouth, and let the words come out; but when the devil puts his hand over your mouth, can you sing then?  Can you say, “Tho he slay me, yet will I trust in him”?  That is hearty singing; that is real song that springs up in the night.  The nightingale singeth most sweetly because she singeth in the night.  We know a poet has said that, if she sang by day, she might be thought to sing no more sweetly than the wren.  It is the stillness of the night that makes her song sweet.  And so doth a Christian’s song become sweet and hearty, because it is in the night.