“Our brains are seventy year clocks. The angel of life winds them up once for all, closes the case, and gives the key into the hand of the resurrection angel.” When I read this I thought, what a stupendous task awaits the angel of the resurrection, when all the countless millions of old rickety, rusty, worm-eaten clocks are to be resurrected, and wiped, and dusted, and repaired, for mansions in the skies! There will be every kind and character of clock and clockwork resurrected on that day. There will be the Catholic clock with his beads, and the Episcopalian clock with his ritual. There will be an old clock resurrected on that day wearing a broadcloth coat buttoned up to the throat; and when he is wound up he will go off with a whizz and a bang. He will get up out of the dust shouting, “Hallelujah!” and he will proclaim “_sanctification!_” and “_falling from grace!_” as the only true doctrine by which men shall go sweeping through the pearly gates into the new Jerusalem. And he will be recognized as a Methodist preacher, a little noisy, a little clogged with chicken feathers, but ripe for the Kingdom of Heaven. There will be another old clock resurrected on that day, dressed like the former, but a little stiffer and straighter in the back, and armed with a pair of gold spectacles and a manuscript. When he is wound up he will break out in a cold sepulchral tone with, firstly: “_foreordination!_” secondly: “_predestination!_” and, thirdly: “_the final perseverance of the saints!_” He will be recognized as a Presbyterian preacher, a little blue and frigid, a little dry and formal, but one of God’s own elect, and he will be labeled for Paradise. There will be an old Hard-shell clock resurrected, with throat whiskers, and wearing a shad-bellied coat and flap breeches. And when he is wound up a little, and a little oil is poured into his old wheels, he will swing out into space on the wings of the gospel with: “My Dearly Beloved Brethren-ah; I was a-ridin’ along this mornin’ a-tryin’ to study up somethin’ to preach to this dyin’ congregation-ah; and as I rid up by the old mill pond-ah; lo and behold! there was an old snag a-stickin’ up out of the middle of the pond-ah; and an old mud turtle had clim up out uv the water and was a settin’ up on the old snag a-sunnin’ uv himself-ah; and lo! and behold-ah! when I rid up a leetle nearer to him-ah, he jumped off of the snag, ‘ker chug’ into the water, thereby proving emersion-eh!” Our brains _are_ clocks, and our hearts are the pendulums. If we live right in this world, when the Resurrection Day shall come, the Lord God will polish the wheels, and jewel the bearings, and crown the casements with stars and with gold. And the pendulums will be harps encrusted with precious stones. They will swing to and fro on angel wings, making music in the ear of God, and flashing His glory through all the blissful cycles of eternity! * * * * *