A Vision of Death

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jan 30, 1872

A Vision of Death.

I saw—whether asleep or awake, I cannot tell—but this I know: I saw the dark and dismal door of death. It was narrow as the grave; and only one could enter at a time, and tread its winding steep. Yet thousands passed the door. At its threshold all left their earthly idols. Some cast a wistful look, as they pushed forward, and shrieked; some lingered, trembling; and some rushed forward, regardless of the consequences. There were seen all ages, all ranks, and all conditions, passing toward the door.

I saw the drunkard quaff his bowl of poison, burst open the door of death, and stagger in. I heard a groan, a fall, a hollow, dismal sound, and all was silent as the tomb.

Next came a voluptuary. He laughed, he danced, and leaped the fearful leap. The door closed on him. I heard a trembling cry. Spectators shuddered, and turned their eyes away, and nothing more was seen.

A selfish miser came. His head was white with care. His look was fearful with despair. Envy was his only attendant. He staggered to the door, laid down his gold, and wept. A dismal cloud enveloped him. A laugh was heard. And when the cloud was gone, gold, miser—all had disappeared.

There came a man of honor. His step was stately. At his nod many bowed and fawned. He, too, must pass the gate. He touched the secret spring. The door flew wide open. Darkness enveloped him. The multitude shrank back to follow some other leader. And now nothing was seen, save a few dried leaves of laurel.

I saw one other come. Hope sat on his brow. He smiled and wept; but, with a forward look, he traced the path, while in his hand he held a little Book, and often read. I saw he had a glass that penetrated the dark abyss, and left a ray behind. I heard him sing. ’Twas not a song of earth, but soft and sweet, like the melodious sounds of distant music on a summer’s eve. He passed the door of death; and, like the sun whose rays have chased the flying clouds away, he passed, to rise more glorious on the morrow.

Dear reader, how will it be with you?