Thoughts of Heaven by Ella M. Robinson

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · May 26, 1910

Thoughts of Heaven

By Ella M. Robinson

ELLA M. ROBINSON

(Republished by request)

Sweet seemed the vesper hour as we heard The minister read from the Holy Word Of the celestial city, bright and fair; And as we knelt in solemn, reverent prayer, We felt and knew the blessed Lord was there. We lingered there awhile, loath to depart:

The preacher spoke: “It hath not entered heart Of any man, the rapture and delight, The peace and joy, the glory and the light, Of our blest home; still let us tell tonight What we most long for in that home of love, Our best conceptions of the joys above.”

The artist rose: “Ah, this were heaven for me. To gaze upon the landscape ever free From taint of sin, and pure and good, the same As first from the Creator’s hand it came. I’d paint no drooping flower, no fading leaf, No sights of sickness, dying, sin, or grief. I’d watch the glowing sunsets stretch away With sevenfold the brightness of our day. But O, the rapture when my eyes behold The walls of jasper and the streets of gold! The crystal sea! the throne of dazzling light! The hosts of saints all robed in spotless white!”

The student spoke: “Through all eternity This boon alone were heaven enough for me: The power to study without weariness, The power to learn the mighty mysteries Of time and space, of suns and worlds untold, The mysteries millenniums unfold, The mysteries eternities still hold.”

A little child spoke next: “It seems to me To have a pair of wings would really be The very best of all: for then I’d fly, Just as the birds do, up into the sky. I’d learn to call each one of them by name: No one would harm them, and they’d be so tame. I’d lead the wolves and lions with my hand, They would not hurt me in that heavenly land.”

And next a woman, worn and pale and weak: Her voice was feeble, and she scarce could speak Above a whisper; but her radiant eyes Gave meaning to her words: “Ah, this my prize,— To feel no more of pain and sickness there, To grow each day more beautiful and fair, To feel the vigor of eternal youth— Ah, this were joy! yea, this were heaven in truth!”

Then spoke the youth whose voice led our praise: “I wonder often if the endless days A sweeter bliss will bring than joyful song, A rapture more profound than with the throng To join in David’s choir, with heart and voice— Of all the joys of heaven, this were my choice.”

The teacher rose: “O may it ever be My lot, my joy, through all eternity To tell the wondrous grace that ransomed me To sinless angels who have never known What it could mean to have a heart of stone,— What it could mean to feel the pangs of woe, Of doubt and sorrow, and of sin below. I’ll tell the grace, the love, the power divine, That melted even this hard heart of mine.”

There was a pause, the minister spoke low: “My children, one and all, pray would you know The joy that thrills my heart, that dims my eye, That fills my soul with sweetest ecstasy, With longing and desire, and yearnings sore, Each time I think of heaven’s blessed store Of joys? ’Tis this — nor wisdom’s mystery, Nor glory, beauty, sweetest rhapsody, Though every one a part of heaven’s bliss— One joy alone makes heaven for me; ’tis this,— To lean upon the blessed Saviour’s breast, Like that disciple whom he loved the best; To know and feel that he is ever near, To pour my heartfelt praises in his ear— A blest reward for life’s small sacrifice,— ’Tis this alone I ask for as my prize.”

Sanitarium, Cal.