I fell asleep and I dreamt, and
in my dream I saw a vision which was very fair. It
was the figure of an angel; and his face was radiant and full
of joy. His eyes shone with a light which seemed to pierce the
shadows and illumine the darkness. His lips were parted with
a smile so sweet, so joyous, that I was fain to smile too,
for very gladness as I looked upon him. His brow was encircled with
a crown on which was inscribed, in letters of gold, one
word, and that was “Hope.”
I marveled at his beauty, and then I looked at that which
he bore in his hands. In the left he held a closed book,
so heavy he scarce could hold it up. It was evidently worn
with use, and stained with many a blot and torn and injured,
but the iron clasps which bound it were so firmly shut, it seemed
as if nothing could undo them. The title was plain
to see, but it seemed to me, as if, even the angel himself
sighed as he saw me read it. “The Past” was the
name it bore.
“Fair sir,” I said in my dream, “may I not open
that book?” The angel shook his head.
“Many have asked before you,” he said, “to open
its pages, many have besought on their knees and with tears
of agony to rewrite, if it were but one word, in those pages,
but a page once turned can never be written over again, even
though men gave their lives to do it. Only one thing can
ever blot out the writing in that book.”
“Sir, tell me, I pray you, what is that? Is it a thing
easy to obtain, is it a common thing, is it costly and
precious?”
“It is the most precious thing in heaven and earth, and
it cost the Son of God His life. It is only the Blood of the
Lamb of God Himself that can blot out the writing in that book--naught
else can do it, and if only those who wrote such words,
in the book, could know what it cost to blot them out,
rather would they have died a thousand deaths than let
them be written.”
“Surely they know it not, or they would never, never
do it.”
The angel looked down on me and gently shook his head. “They
might have known had they cared to know, but you mortals,
you forget, you have only mortal eyes; we who have
eyes which see through the veil continually wonder and marvel
at your blindness, and sometimes we long to say to you,
‘If only you saw, if only you knew!’”
“Ah! fair sir, if indeed we only saw and knew--alas!
why cannot we?”
“You might see and know far more than you do, did you
care, but if you saw and knew all, where would be your trial
of faith? No, thus it is decreed that you should live by
faith and not by sight--but see,” and his eyes again shone
with their wonted light, ”there is another book which I
bear,” and he showed me the volume in his right hand. The
title of this book was “The Future.” Its leaves were
white and fair; not a word was yet written on them. They were
edged with gold, at least so it seemed to me, and in the beginning
was this heading, “Called to be Saints.”
“Saints!” cried I, “Who are called to be saints?”
and I grieved in my dream because of this, for I had hoped
that in this book, one like myself might find a page wherein
to write.
“Who are called to be saints?” the angel repeated,
and his words and smile sank into my heart. “Why you, and
others like you are called to be saints.”
“I,” I exclaimed, and my voice seemed to mock the
angel's words.
“Yes, you,” and he laid down the book of the
past and took my hand in his. “The saints in paradise were
once just like you, some, it is true, God took while their page
was still white and clean, but others had many blots on
their pages, some of them caused much grief to God's Holy
Son, but the blots were wiped away, by blood, and the pages
washed with tears, and so it may be with you; here is your
page now ready, I’ll turn it for you,” and he
turned the page. I looked up in his face and once more
hope and joy filled my heart, as he gazed on me. Then I
considered what should be the first words that I would
write on that fair white page, which was numbered 1896,
and I wrote--“Teach me to do Thy will, O God, and let Thy
loving Spirit lead me forth in the way of righteousness,”--and
as I wrote there seemed to be shadowy letters coming in
between the lines-- “Grant them to be numbered with
Thy saints in glory everlasting.”
Then the writing faded, the vision of the angel vanished,
but in my heart there still remained printed the golden
letters of the word--Hope.
Nay, in all these things we are more than
conquerors through him that loved us. For I am persuaded, that
neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor
powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height,
nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate
us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 8:37-39
