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Our Home

Our Home

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Published by glennpease
BY P. C. SCHILLING
"In my Father's house are many mansions." Jno. 14 :2.
BY P. C. SCHILLING
"In my Father's house are many mansions." Jno. 14 :2.

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Published by: glennpease on Dec 06, 2013
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12/06/2013

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Our Home BY P. C. SCHILLING "In my Father's house are many mansions." Jno. 14 :2. ''Tamping thy tuneful soul to that large noon Where thou shalt choir with angels. Words of woe Are for the unfulfilled, not thee, whose moon Of genius sinks full-orbed, glorious aglow." ''No moaning of the bar; musical drifting Of time's waves, turning to the eternal sea, Deaths soft wind all thy gallant canvass lifting, And Christ thy pilot to the peace to be.'' "In my Father's house are many mansions." Jno. 14 :2. The scene is laid in a small home in Waco, Texas. An only daughter is lingering on the border of the great divide. She v^as rapidly approaching the coronation period of her short career. She went home the eighteenth day of April, 1913. This was the darkest day in the history of myself and of my lonely, heart-broken wife. But it has its bright side  — as every cloud has its silver lining. The moments and minutes and hours that composed it are swal-
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lowed up in an endless eternity. The mistakes, lost opportunities, misfortunes and soul-harrowing cal-amities that transpired during its passage are mat-ters of record with the Judge of all the earth. Though clouds and shadows came vdth it, yet it was beautiful in the extreme in comparison with the days [79] CHRIST TRIUMPHANT of sorrow and misery that passed thru the exper-iences of those who are unacquainted with God, and whose loved ones are not prepared to go into His presence, but who, in spite of neglected opportuni-ties to repent and make their peace with God, in obedience to His word have had to go away unpre-pared. Dawning fair and bright, it rose upon our storm-tossed world, and like a heavenly messenger dispatched from the throne of God, opened wide the gates of life, pouring in upon our shadow-haunted earth billows of radiant light that, rolling over
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oceans and seas, snow-capped mountains, moss-cover-ed hills, and clover-laden valleys, kissing the frag-rant smiles back to the petals of the drooping rose, dissolving raindrops that lingered lovingly upon the cheek of the modest little pink, and bathing forest and glen, orchard and garden, in roseate crimson-tinted light, dispelling the clouds, chasing away the shadows, awakening all nature, and making the world glad with the music of multitudinous, feath-ered songsters. And in the time of our deepest sor-row, how forcibly were we reminded of the heavenly Canaan, whither our darling daughter had gone — where sunlight skies are ever cloudless, sin never comes, nor misery with its deplorable tale of woe, nor poverty with its haggard face and mendicant garb, ever enters. There, all are pure, all are hap-py, all are rich. As I looked into her pale, dead face, I was reminded of a dark, dismal night in the [80] OUR HOME
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