Dale did not look for
them, did not miss them, would not have wished them here.
It might be said that there was not a single person of the whole
gathering on whom there was not plainly printed, in one shape or
another, the stamp of toil. That fact perhaps formed the root of the
difference between this and a Church of England congregation. To
Dale's mind, however, there was something else of a saliently
differentiating character. Once again he was struck by the expression
of all the faces. He thought how calm, how trustful, how quietly
joyous these people must be feeling, in order to shine back at the
lamps as steadily and clearly as the lamps were shining on them.
"Friends, let us praise God by singing the hundred and tenth hymn
before we separate."
They all rose and began to sing their final song; and Dale observed
that here and there, as the loud chorus swelled and flowed, singers
would sink down upon their knees as though of a sudden impelled to
silence and prayer.
"There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Emmanuel's veins;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains.
"The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day;
And there may I, as vile as he,
Wash all my sins away.
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