Deep even unto the shadow of death is the gloom. Every syllable of this last sad wail is as a funeral knell to all our hopes, tolling mournfully; and, like a passing bell, attending _them_, too, to their "age-long home"! Oh, well for us if we have heard a clearer Voice than that of poor feeble human Reason break in upon the silence, and, with a blessed, perfect, lovely combination of Wisdom and Love, of Authority and Tenderness, of Truth and Grace, give soul-satisfying answers to all our questionings. Then may we rejoice, if grace permit, with joy unspeakable; and, even in the gloom of this sad scene, lift heart and voice in a shout of victory. We, too, know what it is for the body thus to perish. We, too, though redeemed, still await the redemption of the body, which in the Christian is still subject to the same ravages of time,--sickness, disease, pain, suffering, decay. But a gracious Revelation has taught us a secret that Ecclesiastes never guessed at; and we may sing, even with the fall of Nature's walls about us, "Though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day." Yea, every apparent victory of the enemy is now only to be answered with a "new song" of joyful praise. It is true that, "under the sun," the clouds return after the rain; and, because it is true, we turn to that firmament of faith where our Lord Jesus is both Sun and Star, and where the light ever "shineth more and more unto perfect day." _Let_ the keepers tremble, and the strong men bow themselves. We may now lean upon another and an everlasting Arm, and know another Strength which is even _perfected_ in this very weakness. The grinders may cease because they are few; but their loss cannot prevent our feeding ever more and more heartily and to the fill on God's Bread of Life. _Let_ those that look out of the windows be darkened: the inward eye becomes the more accustomed to another--purer, clearer--light; and we see "that which is invisible," and seeing, we hopefully sing-- "City of the pearl-bright portal, City of the jasper wall, City of the golden pavement, Seat of endless festival,-- City of Jehovah, Salera, City of eternity, To thy bridal-hall of gladness, From this prison would I flee,-- Heir of glory, That shall be for thee and me!" _Let_ doors be shut in the streets, and _let_ all the daughters of music be brought low, so that the Babel of this world's discord be excluded, and so that the Lord Himself be on the _inside_ of the closed door, we may the more undistractedly enjoy the _supper of our life_ with Him, and He (the blessed, gracious One!) with us. Then naught can prevent His Voice being heard, whilst the more sweet and clear (though still ever faint, perhaps) may the echo to that Voice arise in melody within the heart, where God Himself is the gracious Listener!