p. 11 | BEAUTIFUL ROBES

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Apr 29, 1903

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 29, No. 17.

BEAUTIFUL ROBES.

Once, in the long ago, when I was but a little, wondering child, I looked down into a tiny coffin, in which lay the still body of a little dead playmate. The parents were poor in purse, and there was no costly shrouding of the little form. He lay dressed in the little, light-colored calico dress in which we had so often seen him, with a few white flowers scattered about his face.

I remember I looked with a feeling of pain at the garment, and when I turned away from the coffin, it was with a feeling of gladness that he was so young—he was not old enough to feel ashamed of his clothes when the glittering angels came to carry him home to God.

I had heard of “beautiful robes,” of the “garments of salvation,” and of the robes that were to be “washed whiter than snow,” and I had a vague idea that the angels were always clad in some spotless, glittering, diaphanous stuffs that were brighter than the sunshine; and one day I had heard a poor mother telling her friend, between sobs, that she had bought the finest goods she could get for her child’s shroud, so that when the little body rose at God’s call, it should not feel poorly clad among the angels it associated with.

That was such a long while ago! Since then I have looked down into many a coffin; I have laid away loved ones of my own, and still others so dear have fallen upon life’s battle-field, far from home, and other hands have laid their bodies away in the awed stillness of death. The poor, perishing forms were more often than not clothed in the ordinary garments of every-day fashion, but rarely were they white.

And I have not regretted it. I have learned that the “beautiful robes” in which the angels walk are not such as are fashioned by human hands, are not made of cloths of earthly texture, and that the poor trappings that wrap our dead are left in the tomb when the angels come to roll away the stone.

I have learned, too, that, day by day, we are weaving the garments that shall not wax old in the life beyond the grave. Hour by hour, thread by thread, we are storing the “fine linen,” and stitch by stitch we are setting the pearls upon the pattern. Thought by thought, act by act, the cloth is being woven, the pattern unfolded. A loving touch here, a word of tenderness there, a look of kindly sympathy, a sacrifice of self for another, a little shifting of the burden, a little lightening of the load, a little sunshine let into a shadowed life, a cloud of sorrow comforted away, a cruel thorn gathered out of the tangled pathway, a few rose leaves scattered over the bare rocks of affliction, a cheering away of petty trials, a patient pointing out of the higher pathway, a gentle smoothing away of the wrinkles of care, a strengthening of the feeble knees, a morsel of bread for the lips that famish, a cup of water for the parched tongue, a little kindness done, and a comforting word or helpful act—these are some of the threads, some of the pearls that we may gather in this life, and of these are woven the tissue that makes, by His grace for our freed souls, the garments, whiter than snow “that shall shine, even among the glorious band in the gardens of God.” We shall no more remember the pain of the gathering, the toil of the years left behind us. In the glory of God’s smile, we shall “stand before the King,” and we shall not be ashamed.—Anon.