Living is death; dying is life. We are not what we appear to be. On this side of the grave we are exiles, on that citizens; on this side orphans, on that children.
Leaves die, but trees do not. They only undress.
Death is the dropping of the flower, that the fruit may swell.
Brethren, we are all sailing home; and by and by, when we are not thinking of it, some shadowy thing (men call it death), at midnight, will pass by, and will call us by name, and will say, "I have a message for you from home; God wants you; heaven waits for you.
Death is not an end. It is a new impulse.
Death? Translated into the heavenly tongue, that word means life!
Going out into life--that is dying. Christ is the door out of life.
So we fall asleep in Jesus. We have played long enough at the games of life, and at last we feel the approach of death. We are tired out, and we lay our heads back on the bosom of Christ, and quietly fall asleep.
We have the promises of God as thick as daisies in summer meadows, that death, which men most fear, shall be to us the most blessed of experiences, if we trust in him. Death is unclasping; joy, breaking out in the desert; the heart, come to its blossoming time! Do we call it dying when the bud bursts into flower?
Death is the Christian's vacation morning. School is out. It is time to go home.
And when no longer we can see Thee, may we reach out our hands, and find Thee leading us through death to immortality and glory.
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