In his best hours, home, his own sinless home—a home with his Father above that starry sky—will be the wish of every Christian man. He looks around him—the world is full of suffering; he is distressed by its sorrows, and vexed by its sins. He looks within him—he finds much in his own corruptions to grieve him. In the language of a heart repelled, grieved, vexed, he often turns his eye upward, saying, “I would not live alway.” No. Not for all the gold of the world’s mines, not for all the pearls of the seas, not for all the pleasures of her flashing, frothy cup, not for all the crowns of her kingdoms—would I live here alway. Like a bird about to migrate to those sunny lands where no winter sheds her snows, or strips the grove, or binds the dancing streams, he will often in spirit be pruning his wing for the hour of his flight to glory. —GUTHRIE.
The Christians Home
