There are some of my readers on whose head time has laid its hand and whitened their hair to the whiteness of that winter in which all their glory must fade. Their sun of life is going down beyond the hill of life. The young may die; the old must die. Oh, the pity of it, to see the old and gray with no eternal life insurance for the winter of life! The gray head is indeed a crown of glory if it be found in the way of life; otherwise it is a fool's cap. Reader, may your eventide be light, and may your path be as the path of the just that shineth brighter and brighter unto the perfect day! Thus we see that the grave is not the end. We pass through the grave only in order that we may place our last climbing footstep upon the threshold of our Father's house, to go out no more. Then we shall dwell for ever there. Beyond the grave lie the Plains of Peace, the Homeland--with all the loved who have gone before--those whom we "have loved long since and lost awhile." Is the way so dark, O wanderer, Is the hillcrest wild and steep, Far, so far, the vale beyond thee, Where the homelights vigil keep? Still the goal lies far before thee, Soon will fall on thee the night; Breast the path that takes thee onward, Fight the storm with all thy might. Tho' thy heart be faint and weary, Tho' thy footsteps fain would cease, Journey onward--past the hillcrest Lie for thee the Plains of Peace! Is thy path so rough, O pilgrim, Passing on thy way through life; Deep the sorrows that beset thee, Great the burden, wild the strife? Tho' the hill of life be weary, Tho' the goal of rest be far, Set thy whole heart to endeavor, Turn thy soul to yon bright star. From the toiling, from the striving There at last shall come release; One shall bring thee past the hillcrest, Home unto his Plains of Peace; One shall bring thee past the hillcrest, Home, Home, Home unto His Plains of Peace! --_Clifton Bingham_