But if you and I will reckon that this thing belongs to us, as if there were nobody else to do it, and push on;—­well, there’ll be sacrifice of the real sort and, too, there’ll be all of sacrifice’s peculiar winsomeness going out to draw men.  And there will be men changed where you live, and out where you will never go personally.

And there will be a great joy in your heart, but with the greater joy breaking out in the Morning, when the King comes to His own.

    “I hear the sob of the parted,
    The wail of the broken-hearted,
    The sigh for the loved departed,
      In the surging roar of the town.

    And it’s, oh, for the joy of the Morning! 
    The light and song of the Morning! 
    There’ll be joy in the Christmas Morning
      When the King comes to His own!

    “Now let our hearts be true, brothers,
    To suffer and to do, brothers;
    There’ll be a song for you, brothers,
      When the battle’s fought and won. 
    It won’t seem long in the Morning,
    In the light and song of the Morning
    There’ll be joy in the Christmas Morning
      When the King comes to His own!

    “Arise, and be of good cheer, brothers;
    The day will soon be here, brothers;
    The victory is near, brothers;
      And the sound of the glad ‘Well done!’
    There’ll be no sad heart in the Morning
    No tear will start in the Morning;
    There’ll be joy in the Christmas Morning
      When the King comes to His own!

    “We’re in for the winning side, brothers,
    Bound to the Lord who died, brothers,
    We shall see Him glorified, brothers,
      And the Lamb shall wear the crown. 
    What of the cold world’s scorning? 
    There’ll be joy enough in the Morning
    There’ll be joy in the Christmas Morning,
      When the King comes to His own!”

Years ago a steamer out on Lake Erie caught fire, and headed at once for the nearest land.  All was wild confusion, as men and women struggled for means of escape.  In the crowd was a returning California gold-miner.  He fastened the belt containing his gold securely about his waist and was preparing to try to swim ashore.  Just then a little sweet-faced girl in the crowd touched his hand, and looked up beseechingly into his face, and said, “Won’t you please save me?  I have no papa here to save me.  Won’t you, please?”

What would he do?  He gave the belt of gold, that meant such a hard struggle, one swift glance.  But that soft child-touch on his hand, and that face and voice strangely affected him.  He couldn’t save both;—­which?  The quick-as-flash thoughts came all in a heap.  Then he dropped the gold, and took the child, made the plunge, and by and by reached land, utterly exhausted, and lay unconscious.  As his eyes opened the child he had saved was standing over him with the tears of gratitude flooding her eyes.  And a human life never seemed quite so precious.  He had lost his gold, and his years of toil, but he had saved a life, and in saving it had found a new life springing up within himself.