THE RIVER OF LIFE by ADOLPHUS SMITH

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jul 20, 1869

THE RIVER OF LIFE.

By ADOLPHUS SMITH

I HAVE rowed a skiff, in the darkness of night, against the current of a dark, turbid river, whose purling, gurgling waters spoke to my ears of the death-struggles of many a hapless wretch, against its resistless tide. And although help may have been within reach, its merciless waters gagged his last cry for aid, and he sank, to rise no more till the seas give up the dead that are in them.

Then I thought of the resurrection, and how cheerless the end must be to one who is compelled to yield his life to the merciless element that has engulfed millions of the human race, without hope. O God, pity the drowning wretch! But in his lifetime he rejected the call of mercy; he chose to live in pleasure, and now he must die in his sins to await a resurrection to damnation.

I continued rowing my skiff against the resisting current;

the gnarled and broken trees, heavy with the foliage of June, that studded the irregular bank of the river, were reflected darkly from the bosom of the restless waters, or drawn in dim outline against the murky sky. The rank, wild grass and underwood, that lined the margin of the river, afforded a secure retreat for the serpent. On the air was borne the miasm of putrescent marshes, freighted with disease and death to poor, fallen man.

Then I thought of the river of life, which takes its rise at the throne of God, in the midst of Paradise. Oh! how strange the contrast between its crystal waters; its banks of green, “Where bright angel feet have trod;” its tree of life, yielding its delicious fruit to immortal hands; and the pure air laden with the odor of Eden’s blossoms; and the scene I now behold.

Dear reader, does this dark world afford you ample satisfaction? Or have you a desire to inherit a portion in the New Earth, “Where ’tis one bright summer, ever bland, and storms do never come”?

Does not the ceaseless round of toil, care, and sorrow, when contrasted with the inheritance of the saints, inspire within your breast an insatiate thirst for the waters of life, a desire to tread the banks of the beautiful river in the immortal state? God grant that your life, henceforth, may give an affirmative reply.

“Shall we gather at the river Where bright angel feet have trod, With its crystal tide forever Flowing by the throne of God?”

That you and I, dear reader, in companionship with angels, may tread the golden sands that line the margin of the river, is my prayer. * ADOLPHUS SMITH.