In the spiritual world, as in the natural, God has made greater lights and lesser lights. Some have more light and some have less. The main thing is, to use well such light as we have. A traveller is making his way home. He is very glad to have daylight, that he may see his way clearly. But when he cannot have daylight, he is thankful for moonlight: and if he has not moonlight he will fain use starlight; and if he has not starlight he will be glad to have even a lamp or taper. The traveller wants to get home, and if so be that he gets home even by a taper light, it is well. And so, I believe that there are millions of heathens who are led home by tapers. Many of ourselves, we hope, God will light home by dim lights. The way seems dark enough, and in the darkness we may stumble and fall; but if we use well the light we have, we shall find our way. * * * * * Here is a drop of dew. It is suspended from a leaf. It glints, and gleams, and glows, in the clear morning light. As you look into it, if you are in a contemplative mood, the drop of dew expands into a world; and what a world of beauty! It seems a very paradise, where the redeemer of the Lord might walk; where angels might soar and sing. * * * * * Some time ago an organist died in the assured hope that he would be the leader of a heavenly choir. It does not seem far fetched to believe that his ambition is gratified. At this very hour he may be a director of those harpers that are harping upon their harps. Here is a sketch which we may term "Imprisoned." It was suggested to me by a lark flying into the room, and dashing itself against the windows in its efforts to escape: Oh! birdie from the blue, This is no home for you! In spacious fields of air, Beneath a boundless sky, Without a fear or care, You sang, and soared so high; I wonder much what brought you here To this dark room's contracted sphere. Oh, birdie dear, beware! Poor fluttering thing, take care! I fear you'll hurt your pretty wings Against these hard, material things. Would you were free to rise, And seek your native skies, And from those heights no more to roam, Or seek a lower, earthly home. And see! I ope your prison door! Escape, and sing, and heavenward soar! Oh! spirit from the blue, This is no home for you. In fleshly walls confined Frets the aspiring mind; Imprisoned here in human clay, We pine and long to soar away. The soul would burst these prison bars, And find its home beyond the stars. Oh! heaven born soul, beware! Poor fluttering thing, take care! Oh do not hurt your spirit wings Against earth's hard material things; A hand some day will ope your prison door! Oh, glad escape, to sing, and heavenward soar!