But let me remind you, my hearers, that life after death as well as before, is invested with the marvellous power of speech. It is said of righteous Abel, he “being dead, yet speaketh.” Is not this true of those with whom we once held sweet communion and delightful association on the earth? Do we not hear their voices echoing from the other side of the flood, and saying, “Fear not—be not dismayed; the struggle will soon be over, and the victory will soon be won. Gird on thy armour, be faithful unto death; a crown is in reserve for thee.” Some of those living dead who address us, were once our own flesh and blood. It may be a beloved mother, who died in the triumphs of the gospel, that speaks to us from the celestial hills. Hark! what does she say? “Son, daughter, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves. The moment I closed my eyes in death, I opened them to gaze upon the transcendant beauties of these celestial regions. All that I ever conceived of the bliss, the joy, the glory of heaven, is as a dreamy shadow compared with what I know see, hear, and feel. What disclosures of the Infinite are here made! what songs of victory and praise break upon my ear! what rapturous joy swells my bosom! I left my church in conflict below, to join my church in triumph here. I am separated from some I love on earth; but I am joined with those I love in heaven. Prepare, dear children, to meet your glorified mother in glory.” Of all the beings that speak to living man, it appears to me none speaks so impressively, so tenderly, so lovingly, as a departed, Christian mother. For myself, I seem to hear ringing in my ears, the lullabys of my mother, that she sung in the days of my childhood. I seem to listen to that voice, as it went up in prayer from a mother’s loving heart, that her sinful boy might be regenerated, sanctified, saved. The counsels and admonitions of my mother’s tongue, long since silent in death, come echoing over the hills and across the waters, and make their appeal direct to my heart, with all the pathos and tenderness of maternal love, bidding me onward, onward in the path of duty, in the way to heaven. The hand that smoothed my pillow in the hour of sickness, and administered the needful remedies to counteract disease and restore to health, appears to be still stretched out in love to perform the same motherly acts. I speak from experience, then, when I say, that a pious mother, though dead, speaks in accents sweeter and more impressive than those which angels use.