The Blessed Gate by D. T. T.

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Mar 11, 1875

The Blessed Gate.

By D. T. T.

THERE is a gateway at the entrance of a narrow passage in London, over which is written, “No burdens allowed to pass through.” And there is another gate through which no burdens will ever pass: it is the gate of pearl. And there is another city into which this gate leads: it is the city New Jerusalem. London is the city of man: Jerusalem, the city of God. London is the city of time; Jerusalem, the city of eternity. There are sorrow and sin in London; there is neither in the holy city. There is death in London; there is no death in Jerusalem the golden. London is two thousand years old; Jerusalem is the city of unnumbered years. London has four millions of people dwelling within her precincts; Jerusalem will have a multitude that no man can number. London will go down in the crash of the earth's fiery doom; Jerusalem will stand forever and ever. Which city do you prefer?

And after all, mortals do carry their burdens through that London gate. These burdens may not be visible to the eye, but nevertheless the sore, sad, stricken heart bears them, and they are many. Beneath the weight of these burdens men stoop, and their steps falter. Into that mighty city day and night men and women bear heavy burdens, so crushing that they would fain fling them at their feet; but they cannot. But no burdens will pass the gate of the better, the enduring city; the burden of evil, the burden of grief, the burdens of hearts so broken as never in time to be healed, the countless burdens of the world's long dreary night,—none of these can enter there. All will be laid down at the beautiful gate. Into the light of a long, sweet home, into the breast of a glad, glorious welcome, into the air of the eternal blessed, they will pass who cross that threshold, and are enfolded within. O blessed gate! Toward thy ever-open portals we onward press. Holy Bridegroom, we beseech thee, let us in!

“Roll back on your hinges, ye jeweled doors, Till our souls shall your beauty know; Till Heaven bursts through her starry floors, And strews all her light below. Till the glow of a thousand suns comes down, And the sheen of a silver flood Shall deck our sad earth like a golden crown, Till it flames like the hill of God.”

—D. T. T., in The Christian.