There _are_ positions in life, in society, where all
loveliness is seen and noted; chronicled in men's admiring comments, and
perhaps celebrated in adulatory sonnets and songs. And well, perhaps, that
it is so. I would not repress the admiration of society toward the lovely
and good. But there is many a lowly cottage, many a lowly bedside of
sickness and pain, to which genius brings no offering; to which the
footsteps of the enthusiastic and admiring never come; to which there is
_no_ cheering visitation--but the visitation of angels! _There_ is humble
toil--_there_ is patient assiduity--_there_ is noble
disinterestedness--_there_ is heroic sacrifice and unshaken truth. The
great world passes by, and it toils on in silence; to its gentle footstep,
there are no echoing praises; around its modest beauty, gathers no circle
of admirers. It never thought of honor; it never asked to be known.
Unsung, unrecorded, is the labor of its life, and shall be, till the
heavens be no more; till the great day of revelation comes; till the great
promise of Jesus is fulfilled; till the last shall be first, and the
lowliest shall be loftiest; and the poverty of the world shall be the
riches and glory of heaven.
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