Mount Pisgah, or, A prospect of heaven being an exposition on the fourth chapter…Movnt Pisgah, or, A prospect of heaven being an exposition on the fourth chapter…

A comfortable notion! which were it realized by Believing, would be able to silence our complaints, and to still all our moan-makings over our departed Christian friends and Relations; how sweet and precious soever they have been to us.

For, do we indeed take on so, when any of the Family are gone to Bed before us, in the Evening? Do we, indeed, cry out, woe and alas, my Father is fallen asleep, my Mother is laid to Rest, my dear Yoke-fellow is gone to bed before me; my sweet Child, the delight of mine eyes, the joy of my heart, his eyes are closed, the Curtains drawn close about him, and I cannot awake him? Do we I say thus take on and afflict our selves in this case? no surely, he would be accounted little better than a Mad-man, or a Fool, that should do so; Oh fie, then fie for shame, why do we so here? the case is the same; only if the night be a little longer (which yet no man can determine before hand) the morning will be infinitely more joyous, and make us more abundant compensation for our patience and expectation: why are we so unlike our selves in one, and in the other? Surely, because we either forget our notions, or believe them not; we call the absence of our Friends by a wrong name. We say, my Father is dead, my Mother is dead, my Isaac is dead, my dear Yoke-Fellow is not, and these be killing words: Dead! the Letter killeth. ¹Death is the most terrible of all terrible things, the very name of it strikes a chilness, and coldness into our hearts; enough to kill us before our time; (for even worldly sorrow many times causeth death.) Call we then things, as God calls them; make we use of the notions, which God hath suggested to us: say we, my Parent is gone to bed, my Yoke-Fellow is at Rest, my beloved Babe is fallen asleep^*, and behold, the terror of death will cease.

For, do we indeed take on so, when any of the Family are gon to Bed before us, in the Evening? Do we, indeed, cry out, woe and alas, my Father is fallen asleep, my Mother is laid to Rest, my dear Yoak-fellow is gone to bed before me; my sweet Child, the delight of mine eyes, the joy of my heart, his eyes are closed, the Curtains drawn close about him, and I cannot awake him? Do we I say thus take on and afflict our selves in this case? no surely, he would be accounted little better than a Mad-man, or a Fool, that should do so; Oh fie, then fie for shame, why do we so here? the case is the same; only if the night be a little longer (which yet no man can determine before hand) the morning will be infinitely more joyous, and make us more abundant compensation for our patience and expectation: why are we so unlike our selves in one, and in the other? Surely, because we either forget our notions, or believe them not; we call the absence of our Friends by a wrong name. We say, my Father is dead, my Mother is dead, my Isaack is dead, my dear Yoak-Fellow is not, and these be killing words: Dead! the Letter killeth.