The morning! That is our watchword. Our evening prayers and songs are filled with hope. The morning adds hue to life, imparting color to that which is colorless, and freshening that which is faded. It is the essence of our hopes and dreams.
Stars may help to make the sky less gloomy, but they are not the sun – and besides, clouds have now covered them so they are no longer visible. Torches and beacon lights do not help. Our own lights make no impression upon the darkness; it is so deep, so real, so unmistakable. We might give up all for lost if we were not assured that there is a sun and that it is hastening to rise, and we are watching for it.
The church's pilgrimage is nearly complete, yet she is no less a pilgrim as its end draws near. The last stage of the journey might be the dreariest for her. Her path lies through the thickest darkness that the world has yet felt. It is the sound of falling kingdoms that is guiding us onward. It is the fragments of broken thrones lying across our path that assure us that our route is the true one and that its end is near. Then comes the morning with its songs; and in that morning, a kingdom; and in that kingdom, glory; and in that glory, the everlasting rest, the Sabbath of eternity.
We belong to the day, and the day belongs to us, as our true heritage – and when it comes, we will not be ashamed for having zealously awaited that great day.
