Going Home (Octavius Winslow)

Deuteronomy 12:9

“For ye are not as yet come to the rest and to the inheritance, which the LORD your God giveth you.” 

And is it so, that at the close of this lonely and weary pilgrimage there is rest above? And that after this earthly fleeting existence there is an inheritance reserved? May I unhesitatingly believe this assurance, and hopefully clasp it to my heart?

Amid the perpetually changing scenes of earth, it is refreshing to think of heaven as our CERTAIN hope. "In hope of eternal life, which God, that cannot lie, promised before the world began." This is no quicksand basis for faith--no mirage of hope. Heaven is a promised "rest"--exquisitely expressive image!--and that promise is the word of Him who cannot lie. Nothing can surpass, nothing can compare with this! Human confidences--the strong and beautiful--have bent and broken beneath us. Hopes--bright and favorable--we too fondly fed, have, like evening clouds of summer, faded away, draping the landscape they had painted with a thousand variegated hues, in the somber pall of night. But heaven is true! God has promised it--Christ has secured it--the Holy Spirit is its pledge--and the joys we now feel are its pledges and "first-fruits." 

The Home to which we aspire, and for which we pant, is not only a promised, it is also a PERFECT and a PERMANENT Home. The mixed character of those seasons we now call repose, and the shifting places and changing dwellings we here call home, should perpetually remind us that we are not, as yet, come to the perfect rest and the permanent home of heaven. Most true, indeed, God is the believer's present home, and Jesus his present rest. Beneath the shadow of the cross, by the side of the mercy-seat, within the pavilion of a Father's love there is true mental repose, a real heart's ease, a peace that passes all understanding, found even here, where all things else are fleeting as a cloud, and unsubstantial as a dream. "Come unto me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

But it is to heaven we look for the soul's perfect and changeless happiness. With what imagery shall I portray it? How shall I describe it? Think of all the ills of your present condition--not one exists in heaven! Bereaved one!--death enters not, slays not, sunders not there. Sick one!--disease pales not, enfeebles not, wastes not there. Afflicted one!--sorrow chafes not, saddens not, shades not there. Oppressed one!--cruelty injures not, wounds not, crushes not there. Forsaken one!--inconstancy disappoints not, chills not, mocks not there. Penitent one!--sin exists not, burdens not, embitters not there. Weeping one!--tears spring not, scald not, dim not there. "The former things are passed away." There rests not upon that smooth brow, there lingers not upon those serene features a furrow, or line, or shade of former sadness, languor, or suffering--not a trace of wishes unfulfilled, of fond hopes blighted. The desert is passed, the ocean is crossed, the home is reached, and the soul finds itself in heaven, where all is the perfection of purity and the plenitude of bliss. Ages move on in endless succession, and still all is bright, new, and eternal. Oh, who would not live to win and enjoy a heaven so fair, so holy, and so changeless as this? He who has Christ in his heart enshrines there the inextinguishable, deathless hope of glory.

Not yet at home--then we would remember that it is "through much tribulation we are to enter the kingdom." As a new period of time slowly rises from the depths of the unknown and mysterious future, its form, half-shadowy, half-brightness, seeming to say,
"Cold is my greeting: but when we part 
You shall find I have crept around your heart. 
Ah! vainly then would'st you bid me stay, 
And sigh to recall me when I am away."

Not yet come to the heavenly rest, we still are approaching it, and oh, ecstatic thought! we shall reach it at last! Everything in our present course reminds us that we are nearing home, as the seaweed washed from the rocks, and as the land-birds venturing from their bowers and floating by the vessel, are indices to the voyager that he is nearing his port. Are you bereaved?--weep not! earth has one tie less, and heaven has one tie more. Are you impoverished of earthly substance?--grieve not! your imperishable treasure is in heaven. Are you sailing over dark and stormy waters?--fear not! the rising flood but lifts your ark the higher and nearer the mount of perfect safety and endless rest. Are you battling with disease, conscious that life is ebbing and eternity is nearing?--tremble not! there is light and music in your lonely and shaded chamber--the dawn and the chimings of your heavenly home. "I am going home! Transporting thought!--true, I leave an earthly one, all so sweet and attractive, but I exchange it for a heavenly one infinitely brighter, more sacred and precious. I am going to Jesus--to the Church Triumphant--to Apostles, Prophets, and Martyrs--to the dear ones who line the shore on the other side, prepared to welcome me there. Death, from which I have so often recoiled, is but the triumphal arch--oh, how bright a risen Christ has made it!--through which I pass into my Father's house."

"I'm fading, slowly, slowly as the day 
Fades into even, and the quiet night; 
But with the body's sinking and decay, 
The spirit gathers new and holy light. 
A brief, brief time, and I shall be at rest, 
Forever sheltered on the Savior's breast."

I'm Going Home!

A poor and aged Christian, who had passed upwards of seventy years on earth, seeing her friends weeping around her death-bed, exclaimed,"Mourn not, I'm going home."

I'm going home--prepare the bridal wreath! 
My Savior bids my happy spirit come: 
Damp not with tears the Christian's bed of death,
Rejoice!--I'm going home! 
Earth has its cares; for threescore years and ten 
My lot has been 'midst thorny paths to roam; 
I would not track those desert scenes again; 
'Tis past--I'm going home! 
The dove has found her nest, the storm-tossed found 
A place of rest beyond the dashing foam 
Of griefs wild billows--there am I bound. 
Joy, joy!--I'm going home. 
Earth's flowers all fade--there fadeless roses blow: 
Earth's sunniest light is shaded by the tomb; 
Earth's loves all slumber in the vault below--
Death dwells not in that home. 
I see the city of the blest on high, 
With the freed spirit's range. I come! I come! 
You calling voices! catch my heart's reply; 
Home! home!--I'm going home.
--Ragg

Oh! To Be Ready!

Oh! to be ready, when death shall come! 
Oh! to be ready to hasten home! 
No earthward clinging, no lingering gaze, 
No strife at parting, no sore amaze; 
No chains to sever what earth has twined; 
No spell to loosen what love would bind; 
No flitting shadows to dim the light 
Of the angel pinions winged for flight; 
No cloud-like phantom to fling a gloom 
'Twixt heaven's bright portals and earth's dark tomb. 
But sweetly, gently to pass away 
From the world's dim twilight into day. 
To list the music of angels' lyres; 
To catch the rapture of seraph fires; 
To lean in trust on the Risen One; 
Until borne away to a fadeless throne. 
Oh! to be ready, when death shall come! 
Oh! to be ready to hasten home!
--Anonymous

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