The doctrine of the resurrection is full of joy to the bereaved. It clothes the grave with flowers, and wreathes the tomb with unfading laurel. The sepulchre shines with alight brighter than the sun, and death grows fair, as we say, in full assurance of faith, 'I know that my brother shall rise again.' Rent from the ignoble shell the pearl is gone to deck the crown of the Prince of Peace; buried beneath the sod the seed is preparing to bloom in the King's garden. Altering a word or two of Beattie's verse we may even now find ourselves singing:
'Tis night and the landscape is lovely no more:
Yet ye beautiful woodlands I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew:
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
Kind nature the embryo blossom will save;
The spring shall yet visit the mouldering urn;
The day shall yet dawn on the night of the grave.'