Who that has once read, can forget “the pure river of the water of life, pure as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and the Lamb?” or who that toils on, wearing in weariness the burden of life, does not rejoice to think of that “tree of life, the leaves of which are for the healing of the nations;” and of that blessed land, whereof it is told “there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, nor light of the sun, for the Lord God giveth them light, and they shall reign forever and ever?” Or who that would make a jest and a mock of sacred things, can read without a thrill of terror of the “great white throne, and Him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and heaven fled away, and there was found no place for them;” and of the dead, small and great, whom he saw stand before God, when the books were opened, and “the sea gave up the dead which were in it, and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them—and they were judged every man according to his works, and death and hell were cast into the lake of fire?” Was it strange that he to whom this marvel was revealed fell even as one dead? Overpowered by the glory of the “mighty angel,” the aged saint would have knelt to worship him. So great was John’s reverence for his Maker, that he felt constrained to render homage to his ambassador also. But the angel said, “See thou do it not, for I am thy fellow-servant, and of thy brethren the prophets, and of them which keep the sayings of this book—_worship God_!” History says that “After Dominitian had reigned fifteen years, and Nerva succeeded to the government, the Roman Senate decreed that the orders of Dominitian should be revoked, and that those who had been unjustly expelled should return to their homes, and have their goods restored.” And among those banished men then recalled was St. John, who, with great joy, returned again to Ephesus, bearing with him a scroll, that was to him more precious than was in the eyes of Nerva the crown and the throne which had fallen to him. It is estimated that the Revelator was at this time ninety-seven years old; but even then—and it is a fact on which the laggard may well ponder—even then, though infirm, and struggling with the weariness of years, gladly and zealously (as though he had but just received his commission to labor,) did he set out on the homeward journey. He was returning to his churches and his people; should he find them faithful still, or would they all be gone astray? Would they receive him as a friend who had taught them truths most blessed and welcome, or would they meet him with cold words and scornful looks, and despitefully treat him, as though they were ashamed to have been once beguiled by what they now believed to be a foolish, senseless humbug?