she has cymbals.  They look as if they had rusted from sea-spray; and I say to the maiden of Israel:  “Have you no song for a tired pilgrim?” And like the clang of victors’ shields the cymbals clap as Miriam begins to discourse:  “Sing ye to the Lord, for He hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and the rider hath He thrown into the sea.”  And then I see a white-robed group.  They come bounding toward me, and I say:  “Who are they?  The happiest, and the brightest, and the fairest in all heaven—­who are they?” And the answer comes:  “These are they who came out of great tribulations, and had their robes washed and made white with the blood of the Lamb.”

I pursue this subject only one step further.  What is the terminus?  I do not care how fine a road you may put me on, I want to know where it comes out.  My text declares it:  “The redeemed of the Lord come to Zion.”  You know what Zion was.  That was the King’s palace.  It was a mountain fastness.  It was impregnable.  And so heaven is the fastness of the universe.  No howitzer has long enough range to shell those towers.  Let all the batteries of earth and hell blaze away; they can not break in those gates.  Gibraltar was taken, Sebastopol was taken, Babylon fell; but these walls of heaven shall never surrender either to human or Satanic besiegement.  The Lord God Almighty is the defense of it.  Great capital of the universe!  Terminus of the King’s highway!

Doctor Dick said that, among other things, he thought in heaven we should study chemistry, and geometry, and conic sections.  Southey thought that in heaven he would have the pleasure of seeing Chaucer and Shakespeare.  Now, Doctor Dick may have his mathematics for all eternity, and Southey his Shakespeare.  Give me Christ and my old friends—­that is all the heaven I want, that is heaven enough for me.  O garden of light, whose leaves never wither, and whose fruits never fail!  O banquet of God, whose sweetness never palls the taste, and whose guests are kings forever!  O city of light, whose walls are salvation, and whose gates are praise!  O palace of rest, where God is the monarch and everlasting ages the length of His reign!  O song louder than the surf-beat of many waters, yet soft as the whisper of cherubim!

O my heaven!  When my last wound is healed, when the last heart-break is ended, when the last tear of earthly sorrow is wiped away, and when the redeemed of the Lord shall come to Zion, then let all the harpers take down their harps, and all the trumpeters take down their trumpets, and all across heaven there be chorus of morning stars, chorus of white-robed victors, chorus of martyrs from under the throne, chorus of ages, chorus of worlds, and there be but one song sung, and but one name spoken, and but one throne honored—­that of Jesus only.

THE RANSOMLESS.

    “Beware lest He take thee away with His stroke:  then a great
    ransom can not deliver thee.”—­Job xxxvi:  18.