The Journey's End

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jun 25, 1861

The Journey's End.

We have read of the caravans of pilgrims, who after months of weary travel, approach the Holy City. They have been drenched by storms, burned by blazing suns, pinched with hunger, and choked with the dust of the desert. Their shoes are worn out, their garments soiled and tattered, their feet blistered, and their tottering limbs can hardly sustain their steps. Through days of suffering, and nights of sleeplessness, and constantly assailed by merciless foes, they have toiled along, until now they approach the end of their pilgrimage.

The sun, breaking through the clouds of a lurid day, is just sinking behind the hills of Lebanon. The pilgrims ascend an eminence, and lo, Jerusalem is before them! Its turrets, towers, pinnacles, and domes all ablaze in golden splendor, reflecting the rays of the setting sun. A scene of almost supernatural enthusiasm ensues.

"Jerusalem, Jerusalem!" is shouted from hot and blistered lips. "Jerusalem, Jerusalem!" is reëchoed through the long lines of the rear.—The lame, the fainting, the dying, are animated with new life, as they rush forward to catch a glimpse of that sacred city where the Saviour bled and died.

Tears gush from all eyes. Some overwhelmed

with joyous emotion, prostrate themselves upon the ground, and breathe a silent prayer of gratitude and thanksgiving. Some throw their arms into the air, and shout wildly in the outbursting of their rapture, "Hallelujah!" All past fatigues, perils, sufferings, are forgotten. The pilgrimage is ended, their goal is gained.

But O, when the pilgrim of earth, weary of the long, painful, perilous journey, arrives within sight of the celestial city,—a sight so brilliant that no mortal eye can look upon it,—as he gazes upon the splendor of the metropolis of God's empire, and listens to its choirs, and knows that in that city the Saviour has a mansion prepared for him, with robe and harp and crown, and that he there shall repose in peace forever, can language tell his joy? The imagination sinks exhausted in the vain attempt to compass such blessedness.