THE PILGRIM'S SECURITY
"Come unto Me all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
"Seek first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you." Matt. 6:33
How many labor and are heavy laden because they reverse the order of their Lord's exhortation; giving priority to the things of earth, and making "the one thing needful" secondary and subordinate; allowing daily worries, cares, perplexities, trifles, to dim and obscure nobler verities! They are more concerned to rear gilded palaces on the shifting sands of the present, than first to make sure of the Hospice with its foundations drilled in the solid and enduring Rock. They allow the flare of earthly torches and the glimmer of artificial lights to blur the stars of heaven. How different existence would be were its first and chief object to live under the inspiration of doing God's will and seeking to please Him! The life of self-abnegation and self-consecration is the happy as well as the heavenly one--the life lived by those who are in the world and yet not of it, who walk and act as seeing Him who is invisible; their thoughts, interests, occupations interpenetrated with the sense of the Divine presence and love, conscious of unswerving fidelity to Truth and Righteousness.
"Come unto ME," says Christ, and seek first My kingdom. Where religion, the law of His kingdom, in the best sense of the word, as an active, living, energizing force, is our recognized guide, giving direction to character and conduct, a wealth of happiness inevitably follows. When love to God strikes the key-note, the varied harmonies of earth assume a beautiful concord and cadence; the ordinary chords of life vibrate in sweet unison. Religion intensifies the enjoyment of common mercies. Hers is the heavenly chemistry which transmutes all things into gold.
The man who walks with God is like Moses in his descent from the mount--his face shines with the reflected glory. The "rest" of Christ takes shape and form. Not infrequently it is so literally--the very outer lineaments are transfigured. We can most of us probably recall some such sunny, radiant countenance bright with the smile of a foretasted heaven--this in striking contrast with that which is scarred with selfishness, debased with vice, gloomy with the tyranny of demon-passion. "The purified righteous man," says Clement of Alexandria, "has become a coin of the Lord, and has the impress of his king stamped upon him." The soul itself becomes a Hospice, the home and haunt of peace, "filled with all joy and peace in believing."
Hear the apostle's definition and description of the heirs of the Kingdom and lovers of God's righteousness--"In everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, (in other words, Let Religion sway and dominate the actions, the life, the whole being); "and the peace of God, which passes all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus."
"All these things shall be added unto you." Added! It seems like a promise of ever augmenting and augmented blessings--like the mountain streamlet, tiny and inconspicuous at first, but deepening as it hastens on its course to refresh and irrigate and beautify, at last expanding into "peace like a river"--the full flood of God.
O You gracious Rest-Giver, prevent me forfeiting Your promised peace by becoming a prey to the groveling cares or the absorbing fascinations and pleasures of a present evil world! Let me listen to the monitory voice, "The kingdom of God is not food and drink; but righteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit."
With this peace reigning and ruling within me, I can say with Paul– "I have all, and abound."
"This is the resting place, let the weary rest. This is the place of repose." Isaiah 28:12
THE UNKNOWN MORROW
"Come unto Me all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
"Take therefore no thought for the morrow--for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Matt. 6:34
Who does not long for some Hospice from which to contemplate, calmly and undismayed, the veiled and shrouded morrow? The present may have its anxieties; but in the case of many, probably most, it is the unsolved riddle of the future that presses most heavily. That turning in the gorge I cannot see. Will the rushing stream be increased in volume? Are there no bridges to span its headlong course, no boulders even to afford a safe footing?
"Come unto Me," says He who was Himself the Pilgrim of pilgrims in earth's Valley of Humiliation. In the midst of these anxious forecastings, "I will give you rest," rest, first of all, in the very thought which engenders these forebodings--that the morrow is unknown; that you are mercifully spared the anticipation of trials which might otherwise project a life-long shadow on your bright present, and make the future one long experience of sadness.
Then, above all, rest in the gracious conviction that the morrow, unrevealed to you, is known to Him. He sees what you cannot see--"the end from the beginning." With Him there is no chance or contingency, no haphazard or peradventure. "Trust Me," He seems to say, "in the fulfillment of a double promise, spoken ages ago, that in this Hospice I have a store of sandals for the feet, and a pilgrim staff for the way. 'Your shoes shall be iron and brass; and as your days so shall your strength be.' These (in other words, My exceeding great and precious promises) will be adequate for all needs and difficulties, helping you over the rugged road and unbridged torrent."
Indulge, then, no needlessly anxious thoughts. Do not allow life to degenerate into a round and vortex of weary care. God gives no prevenient store of grace. He provides no program of tomorrow's evils and trials, its needs and necessities. But when the morrow comes, the promised strength comes with it, and the traveler pursues his way with the words which the great Rest-Giver whispers in his ear, "I will make My grace sufficient for you."
"Trust Him when dark doubts assail you;
Trust Him when your strength is small;
Trust Him when to simply trust Him
Seems the hardest thing of all."
Let even outer Nature, in her unfaltering laws and sublime sequences, teach the same lesson of confidence in the divine faithfulness:
"And I will trust that He who heeds
The life that hides in mead and wold,
Who hangs yon alder's crimson beads,
And stains these mosses green and gold,
Will still, as He has done, incline
His gracious care to me and mine."
Blessed Savior, on Yourself may I be enabled to cast, not some cares, or the more pressing cares, but all my cares. "Whenever I am afraid, I will trust in You."
From the windows of this Gospel Hospice I will see the future, even though somber with cloud, spanned with the bow of covenant promise, and read the lettering of "dewy gold," – "O rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him."
"This is the resting place, let the weary rest. This is the place of repose." Isaiah 28:12
HOSPICE FOUNDATION
"Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
"God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life." John 3:16
In this brief verse we have a Gospel within a Gospel, the Hospice of hospices--no fragile temporary structure, but formed, so to speak, from monoliths of primeval granite. Before the world was, that Hospice was planned--an eternal, unassailable stronghold. Love was the Rock on which it was built--"God so loved the world." How careful the great Rest-Giver is to trace all up to the sovereign love of the Father--not the tenet of a false and repellent theology, that Christ's atoning sacrifice was the cause of God's love to our world (an inversion and perversion of gospel terms), but rather that God's love was the originating and impelling cause of Christ's death. There was "a covenant of peace between them both." "It is not," says a writer, "that the atonement replenishes the wasting Fountain, but that the unwasting and unwearying Fountain makes the atonement." The measure of the Father's love (He could give no higher) was the gift of His own dear Son--His "Only Begotten."
In thus addressing Nicodemus, Christ may possibly have had an historical reference to the "only begotten" of the head of the Jewish nation, and of the surrender of the heir of covenant promise by the Father of the faithful, typical of a Greater, who willingly laid His Isaac on the altar of burnt-offering--"He that spared not His own Son" (Rom. 8:32). In the immediately preceding context there is allusion made to another memorable incident in the annals of Pilgrim-Israel, and one with which the Rabbi was equally familiar--the lifting up by Moses of the bronze serpent. The host, bitten by fiery snakes, lay gasping on the sands of the wilderness, their eyes glazed with the film of death. They looked at the strange symbol on the standard--they "looked and lived." It was to the Divine Speaker, in His memorable night-colloquy with this anxious inquirer, an emblem of Himself on the cross--a symbol of redemption for the spiritual Israel of all ages who gaze with the eye of faith on the uplifted Son of man.
These two incidents in the story of the Hebrew nation enshrine the most glorious words and message ever delivered to the world; while both events are strong in the assertion of the sacrificial element--Christ the Surety-Savior, Christ, the sufferer in our room and stead, the one only Source of pardon and acceptance and peace. "Come unto ME." "Look unto Me, and be you saved, all the ends of the earth." "God commends His love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us."
Jesus, in our general motto-verse, offers and promises to His weary ones Rest. God the Father, in the verse we are immediately considering, offers and promises to the weary ones everlasting Life. The two are convertible terms--the same gift, only under different figures. The world is weary--a caravan of pilgrims staggering under their burdens--Rest is the welcome boon for such. The world is dead and dying; its millions are perishing--Life is the welcome gift for such. Take which emblem we please. "Come unto Me," says Christ, "and the reality is yours. I died to make it so." Both boons, moreover, are alike present and future--the Rest of grace here, preparatory to the Rest of glory hereafter; the gift of Life here, preparatory to the everlasting Life hereafter.
Lord, I come, weary and heavy laden, seeking rest. I need no other Hospice than this, bearing on its lintels so full and glorious a motto. I accept Your overtures of grace. Let me delight to ponder, let me be enabled in some feeble measure to grasp the wealth of meaning contained in the unfathomed and unfathomable. So loving of this doomed and dying world--the motive, the Father's Love; the resultant end, "Glory, Honor, Immortality, Eternal Life." In the contemplation of the peerless theme, we seem to be caught up into the third heavens with their infinite depths of blue, the paradise of love.
"This is the resting place, let the weary rest. This is the place of repose." Isaiah 28:12
HOSPICE OF THE MOURNER
"Come unto Me all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
"Blessed are those who mourn--for they shall be comforted." Matt. 5:4
This is a comprehensive Evangel in itself--good news for the weary, a true Hospice for every heavy-laden pilgrim. The one word "mourn" takes in the twofold burden of sin and sorrow--the double load common to the children of humanity.
The beatitude is spoken by Him whose specially foretold mission was to "comfort all that mourn" (Isa. 61:2). No wonder, therefore, it has an early place in His teaching; that it is one of the first Hospices whose gate He flings open with a "Come unto Me, and I will give you rest."
Is it sin--that burden which an old pilgrim says is "too heavy for me"--the consciousness of shortcoming--sins of omission, sins of commission; the treason of the will, the truant affections, the memories of a blurred and blotted past? Cast this burden on your Savior-God. His precious blood besprinkles the lintels and door-posts of the Hospice. That covenant-token gives Him the right to bid you welcome. The forgiveness of God in Christ is surely the most soothing of divine gospel opiates. Owen tells us that when he was brought back from the gates of death, the first text he preached from was this--"But there is forgiveness with You that You may be feared."
Is it sorrow--the burden of affliction? Is the word spoken to those enduring in its thousand shapes poverty, sickness, bereavement? None so needing shelter and rest as these. But God's comforts, like the stars of heaven, are brightest in a dark sky. As the sun requires to set before the stellar glories of the skies are visible, so with the soul. How many can testify, I never saw the surpassing comfort of the divine promises until death, in the removal of brother, or sister, or child, left my world without a sun!
"O joy that do you seek me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain
That morn shall tearless be."
It is doubtless this latter class--the afflicted--of whom the words of our verse today are mainly spoken. And how often in strange ways, in the case of such, do we find this beatitude of Christ realized and exemplified--blessedness surrounding the weary and heavy-laden pilgrim, and making him calm, restful, happy! It is one of the great compensations in the Christian life, that the mourner and sufferer are most conscious of the sweet drops that mingle in the bitter cup which their Father has prepared. Call to remembrance, in the circle of your acquaintance, some child of affliction--say of sickness and pain. Were not these the lips most lavish in acknowledgment of God's goodness and love? You would naturally expect otherwise--that the man who is seated luxuriously at life's banquet, and has nothing apparently to break the trance of outward happiness--material enjoyment--would be most profuse in his gratitude. How often is it the reverse! How often he takes the gifts with thankless, it may be peevish unconcern!
While, on the other hand, it is frequently they who gather the scattered crumbs, and must be content with the cup of cold water, who enjoy God's commonest mercies--a glimpse from their secluded couch of the blue of summer sky, and breath of summer fragrance and gush of summer song--these accepted as pledges and parables of diviner realities.
Thus does the gracious Rest-Giver fulfill the old promises spoken of Himself by the evangelical prophet--"I will restore comforts to him and to his mourners" (Isa. 57:18). "The Lord has anointed Me to bind up the brokenhearted…to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness" (Isa. 61:1, 3). The valleys of Baca and the tents of Kedar are thus often made musical with the songs of Paradise; the bed of languishing becomes as the house of God and as the gate of heaven. One of Samuel Rutherford's sayings, rendered into metre, beautiful alike for its imagery and simplicity, is on many such lips–
"With mercy and with judgment
My web of time He wove,
And aye the depths of sorrow
Were lustered with his love."
"Blessed are those who mourn!"
Then remember, He who utters this balm-word is Himself the King of sorrows, the Mourner of mourners. He knows, by the experience of His own suffering humanity, every pang that rends the heart. He was announced in the same great prophecy, hundreds of years before his incarnation, as "the Burden-Bearer." It sounds more like a gospel statement than a long antecedent prediction--"Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows." Seeing that "He has suffered being tempted," there is an elevating speciality surely for our sorrowing seasons in the words emanating from His lips--"Come unto Me, and be comforted."
Lord Jesus, impart to me a true mourning for sin, a true submission in trial. The storm-clouds may be gathering--they may have gathered, as I am holding on my darksome way; but with this Hospice in sight, I shall listen to Your own gracious invitation--"Come, my people, enter into your chambers, and shut your doors about you--hide yourself as it were for a little moment, until the indignation be overpast" (Isa. 26:20).
"Come unto Me, and rest,
You weary heart, distrest
With wasting toil, and strivings vain and endless;
Mourning from day to day
For blessings passed away;
Come unto Me; I will not leave you friendless.
"I watched your cisterns fail,
I saw you spent and pale,
With parched lips, and heart with anguish bursting,
When from the desert sod,
Your cry went up to God.
Come unto Me; I will not leave you thirsting."
-S. Doudney
"The days of your mourning shall be ended."
"This is the resting place, let the weary rest. This is the place of repose." Isaiah 28:12
VOICES OF THE GLORIFIED REST-GIVER
"Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
"He laid His right hand upon me, saying unto me, Fear not; I am the first and the last--I am He that lives, and was dead--and, behold, I am alive for evermore; and have the keys of Hades and of death." Rev. 1:17-18
John was at this moment, in no ordinary sense of the word, one of the weary and burdened. He was left alone of the apostolic band. Many of his fellows and friends had died a martyr's death. Untold cruelties had stained the imperial purple; clouds brooded over the Christian cause. No sympathetic human voice was near to cheer him in his loneliness, as he wandered along the shore of that prison-island. Can we wonder if, in his solitary hours, he grouped himself among the heavy-laden? Can we wonder if these waves of the Aegean Sea were a type of his own inner feelings--so far as earth was concerned, seeking rest and finding none? His earthly home and Hospice was a desolate and terrible one.
But the Rest-Giver, He who of old permitted him in tranquil love to pillow his head on His bosom, was near with the well-known lullabies which he had heard amid the pauses of the storm on Tiberias, and at the timid gathering in the upper room on the first Easter evening--"Fear not;" "I am alive!" Among the prognostications of coming evil and disaster conveyed in vision of opened seals and emptied vials--Hades and Death specially active participators in the drama--He reveals Himself as the great Lord of life, watching, as such, the destinies of the Church--not a seal broken, not a vial outpoured, without His bidding--walking in the midst of the golden candlesticks, and alone pronounced "worthy" to open the roll of Providence.
Life and Death alternate and palpitate, strangely in this verse. DEATH, the mystery and portent of mankind; death, which lies like a cold avalanche on the heart of humanity; death, with its ghastly tapers lighting the long corridors of the past; death, the most irresistible of all natural forces, is here confronted by a Force mightier still--"I am alive for evermore;" "I have the keys of that gloomy gate, opening to the vast unknown, suspended at my belt. 'Fear not!' I Myself know death. I have felt it. I have passed through its portals. I was dead; but I have conquered it and its defiances, spoiled it of its power, and left the King of Terrors a vanquished foe. I have converted the very home of death, the grave, into a veritable Hospice, a 'cemetery,' a sleeping-place or bed of rest, preparatory to a waking up in endless life. 'Write, From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord; for they rest.'"
"There is no death--the leaves may fall,
The flowers may fade and pass away;
They only wait through wintry hours
The coming of the May!"
O weary and heavy-laden ones, who, it may be, through fear of death are all your lifetime subject to bondage, fear it not. Your Lord was dead. Fear not the chill tenets of the prophets of annihilation, who meet the yearnings of humanity with the requiem of despair– "Sleep the sleep that knows no waking."
Your Lord lives. Leave to paganism to carve on its sepulchral slabs--"The land of no return." He is alive forever more. He will come again in His advent glory to take you to Himself, and to transplant you among the ingathered company of His ransomed.
"Therefore dread I not to go
O'er the silent river.
Death, your hastening oar I know;
Bear me, you Life-giver,
Through the waters to the shore,
Where mine own have gone before!''
He gives us, meanwhile, the sublime guarantee– "Because I live, you shall live also."
"This is the resting place, let the weary rest. This is the place of repose." Isaiah 28:12
THE MEEK AND LOWLY PILGRIM
"Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
"Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart--and you shall find rest unto your souls." Matt. 11:29).
This is the sequel to our motto-verse, the expansion of the rest-saying of the loving Rest-Giver. None who have entered into the spirit of these words, but must recognize and find in them a gracious Hospice--a chamber of the "House Beautiful."
"No man," says Luther, "if he were the gentlest and kindest in the world, could have such a gentle bearing as Christ had." He further tells of a legend regarding the Apostle Peter, that his eyes were always red with weeping and on being asked the cause; the reply was--"I weep when I recall the most sweet gentleness of Christ with His apostles." Possibly the remembrance of that sweet gentleness and forbearance towards himself was the most touching of all.
Note the Savior's special message, in the meditation of today, to His burdened and weary ones. He virtually says--"Exchange burdens. Part with your own and take Mine. Make trial of My yoke, and bear it for My sake. It will be heavy without Me; but with My grace and blessing it will be easy and light. I do not promise in the rest I confer to 'remove your shoulder from the burden,' to give you immunity from care, and trial, and exactions; but I will do better--I will impart strength and endurance to bear."
The existence of many is a pursuit after spurious and counterfeit rest, misnamed happiness--an aimless, vapid life of pleasure engrossed with objects which bring with them no sense of satisfaction or compensation--a dull, weary round in the world's monotonous tread-mill. This is not the rest Christ promises to His weary ones. Often the world's burdens, too, are weighted with unworthy accompaniments--wounded pride, injured self-love, disappointed ambition, the harboring of proud, vain-glorious thoughts. Here is a recipe for tranquillity of soul which the gospel may well claim as all its own--"For I am meek and lowly in heart." It has well been called the birth-song of Christianity--"He has put down the mighty from their seats, and has exalted the humble and meek."
It was by these principles the new creed won its way on earth--not by material agencies. The martial spirit, the greatest of the old-world forces, had its day and its collapse. The serene, gentle spirit, nurtured among the hills of Nazareth, fought a bloodless war and conquered, with the sole weapons in His armory--weapons which He Himself assayed--"meekness and lowliness." Rich and poor, master and slave, owned the magic of "this new thing on the earth;" they took His yoke upon them, and, by strange paradox, all who tried found in the bearing of it rest.
Further--gather from this gracious saying the bliss of endurance, submission, forbearance, love; lifted above the fret and fever of the world, the clash of debasing rivalries. Be not aspiring after great things, or envious of others, tempted to quarrel with outer circumstances--in other words, showing dissatisfaction with the appointments of God, making base surrender of duty to self-interest.
The quiet mountain-lake is a beautiful thing, sleeping on its shadows, no ripple to disturb the placid mirror. But what is more inspiring and invigorating is the stream which issues from it, hurrying impetuously onward, battling its way over rock and boulder, to water and fertilize the plains below. Build your Hospice in the faithful study of Christ's spotless character and example, in its humility and self-sacrifice, combined with active consecration in doing His Father's will. "I am meek--I am lowly." These are the two silver and golden bells--curfew-chimes ringing to deepest and truest rest. They together constitute the true "patent of nobility." In the possession of calm, elevated peace in Himself, as on a mount of transfiguration, the tumults of passion are hushed, and with the favored disciple on Hermon you are able to exclaim--"It is good for us to be here." Moreover, included in this is the blessed privilege, taught by the meek and lowly Master, of helping other weary ones to bear their burdens and carry their crosses.
"I know we are not here
For our own selfish ease;
The kingliest One the earth has known
Lived not Himself to please.
And they who have truly learned of Him
How a burden can give rest,
And joyfully share the great human care,
Have learned life's secret best."
Beautiful and touching is the plea of the apostle immediately following--"Thanks be unto God for His unspeakable gift."
"I beseech you by the meekness and gentleness of Christ."
"This is the resting place, let the weary rest. This is the place of repose." Isaiah 28:12
THE REASSURING VOICE
"Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
"Be of good cheer; it is I--be not afraid." Matt. 14:27
It surely was an exceptional season of fear and unrest with the disciples, that night-storm on the Sea of Galilee.
The saddest feature of the moment was that faith--the strong resolute faith of other times--had now deserted their better natures. They could see nothing but perilous environment, the surging billows and the darkness--for "it was the fourth watch of the night," about three o'clock, when the gloom was deepest, and no flush of morn as yet had tinted the wild hills of Gadara. Strangely different from their experience on a former occasion! He was then with them. Though asleep on "a coil of ropes for His pillow," He was there. They had the comfort of His Presence. They could awake (as they did awake) the weary slumberer; and the voice of the God within the toil-worn man rebuked the waves and turned the storm into a calm. Now it was different--their despairing monotone rather was, "How has He left us at the moment we most needed Him?" "Surely the Lord has forsaken me, and my God has forgotten me!" No, more, when He at last appeared on the crest of the waves, instead of recognizing Him with a shout of adoring welcome, they in their superstitious fear imagined that a demon of the deep, an apparition premonitory of death, had come from the spirit-world. Their cry was a cry of trouble.
To such unworthy turbulence and misgiving truly they need not have given way. We know from the context where He had been all night--on some adjoining mountain engaged in prayer--engaged in prayer for them, watching through the darkness their tempest-tossed bark, in sympathetic touch with their palpitating hearts, and eager to speak His word of power. At last it is spoken. He who comes down from the mountain oratory to tread the waters, pronounces His gracious rest words--the reassuring "It is I" (literally, I AM). It is preceded and followed by "Fear not"--"Be not afraid." There can be no mistake. "O Lord God of hosts, who is a strong Lord like unto You? You rule the raging of the sea--when the waves thereof arise, You still them."
It is a parable of profounder spiritual realities. In the unrest of the soul, amid the swirls and eddies of life's ocean, Jesus comes to His people--most often, too, when darkness is deepest. The sensible tokens of His love and mercy seem withdrawn. In their misgiving and incredulity they wail out the plaintive cry, "Where is now my God?" He seems, in accordance with the narrative of the storm, "as if he would pass them by." "My way is hidden from the Lord, my judgment is passed over from my God."
"Be still!" Let patience have her perfect work. He will in His own time and way change the storm into a calm. We are, alas! often ourselves responsible for our unworthy despondencies. We turn our backs to the Sun of Righteousness. There is a shadow projected, but that shadow is our own. We conjure up some phantasms of unbelieving doubt. We say, like the disciples, "It is a spirit," and we "cry out for fear." Let us look away from ourselves, the surging waves and billows within us and around us, and keep the unwavering eye of faith on Him who is waiting to give rest to the weary, and peace to the troubled, and hope to the desponding. To revert to our figure, He has His Hospice built at every turn of the perilous way. He fences it with these same two buttresses--"Fear not; IT IS I; be not afraid."
"O Redeemer! Shall one perish
Who has looked to You for aid?
Let me see You, let me hear You,
Through the gloomy midnight shade,
Utter You Your voice of comfort–
'It is I; be not afraid!'"
In all time of our tribulation He will be true to His promise--"I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him." As the Hospice is most valued by the tempest-beaten traveler, so every trial is a fresh reason for resorting to "the Refuge from the storm, the Covert from the tempest." And when the last trouble of all, the hour of departure arrives, the Hospice-gates will be opened by the Divine Promiser of Rest, and the triplet-comfort fall for the last time on the ears of the weary and heavy laden– "Fear not; it is I; be not afraid."
"This is the resting place, let the weary rest. This is the place of repose." Isaiah 28:12
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Isaiah 28:12
“To whom he said, This is the rest wherewith ye may cause the weary to rest; and this is the refreshing: yet they would not hear.”
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