I shall be satisfied, when I awake, with thy likeness—Psa. 17: 15.


Now let our thoughts on wings sublime Rise from the trivial cares of time, Draw back the parting veil, and see The glories of eternity.


Let thoughts of God and Christ and the worthy saints of the past and present, of the Kingdom inheritance, of the blessedness of our future work in cooperation with Christ, of the magnitude and benevolence of the Divine Plan, and of the glory and blessedness of our gathering together unto Christ when our work of the present life is finished, fill our minds and inspire our hearts. And to these contemplations let us also receive the additional comfort and blessedness of personal communion and fellowship with God through prayer and study of the Word and the assembling of ourselves together for worship and praise.


*          *          *


By God's likeness here we understand His character, nature and rulership to be meant. He has held these up to us as the goal of our attainment. The vicissitudes of experiences preparatory for their attainment make it impossible for us to be satisfied with our present condition, though content therewith. So completely will the longings of the faithful be realized in the resurrection, that perfect satisfaction with their lot will be their blessed experience forever, which prospect urges on to faithfulness.


Parallel passages: 1John 3: 2; Psa. 4: 6; Gen. 17: 1; Luke 1: 6; 2Cor. 3: 18; 5: 1-8; Job 19: 26, 27; Isa. 61: 10; Matt. 5: 8; 1Cor. 13: 12; Rev. 22: 4; 1Cor. 15: 23, 41-48; 1Thes. 4: 13-17.


Questions: What has the resurrection hope been to me this week? How did it affect me? What were its results?




I MOURNED the summer rose that died;

I said: "It will return no more."

But lo! its beauty glorified

I saw next summer's sun restore.


New-born, it crowned with radiant grace

The stalk where last year's blossom came;

I marked its hues, I knew its face;

 'Twas the same rose—yet not the same.


I could not trace amid its bloom,

The atoms of a former flower,

Nor tell what waste from nature's tomb

Had robed it for its perfect hour.


I asked not if its form expressed

The very substance that decayed—

But there, in every trait confessed,

My lovely favorite stood displayed.


And when I knew the parent tree

Had planned the rose ere spring begun

To set its prisoned being free,

I felt the old and new were one.


O! not in watched and labeled dust

Lies beauty's resurrection form;

Live in God's mind her likeness must,

His memory keeps her ashes warm.


There is no pattern lost; where'er

The perished parcel blends with earth,

The cast no changes can impair,

Nor death deface the seal of birth.


Of every face that fades away,

Somehow, in custody Divine,

The mould that shaped the featured clay

Preserves its image, line for line.


What though this dust, dispersed, complete,

Shall never, grain for grain, be found?

'Tis but the shoes the pilgrim's feet

Put off to walk on holy ground—


Wherever, from the grave estranged,

To life awaked, he only knows

New grace hath clothed his form and changed

The faded to the freshened rose.


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