The Sunday School Teacher's Grave
It has no costly monument. There are only a few plain, simple flowers growing upon it. But there is a monument to her memory, not sculptured in marble — which shall never crumble. There are flowers of sweetness and beauty growing in many a heart which shall never fade, and which God shall some day gather in his hand and entwine into a wreath for her glorified brow.
She was in the fullness and freshness of youth when she went out from us at the close of a sweet Sabbath — never to return to us again. When we look at the dead form of one cut down so early in life, and in the midst of such usefulness — we think that death came too soon.
Oftentimes in cemeteries we see, over the graves of the young, the sculptured symbols of incompleteness. But there are no such symbols in Heaven, for everyone is immortal, until his work is done. The Master takes none of his servants home, until every task is fulfilled. Even the babe of an hour that merely opens its eyes to gladden the mother's heart, and then closes them again — finishes the work God gave it to do. This teacher's work was done.
Thirty moons have waxed and waned since her gentle, tired hands were folded to rest — but her memory is fresh as ever; and her work is going on. The noblest work which God gives to mortals was hers — fashioning the hearts and lives of little children. The artist's canvas will crumble — but it was her blessing, to paint hues of fadeless beauty in immortal spirits.
She was one of earth's lowly ones, but in Heaven bright honors will be hers, when God gathers up all the lessons she taught, all the good words she spoke, all the blessings she left in infant hearts, all the beautiful things she did, and all the children's tears, and all their love — and weaves all together into an immortal crown of glory for her head. She is resting from her labors — and her works are following her!