Around Him stand a great multitude that no man can number, harpers harping with their harps, a thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands.

How white are their robes, washed in the blood of the Lamb! And the music rises higher, and rends the vault of heaven with its unutterable sweetness.

And we, as we listen, ever and anon, as it sinks on the sweetest, lowest note, hear a groan of the damned from below.

We shudder in the sunlight.
"The torment," says Jeremy Taylor, whose sermons our father reads aloud in the evening, "comprises as many torments as the body of man has joints, sinews, arteries, etc., being caused by that penetrating and real fire of which this temporal fire is but a painted fire.

What comparison will there be between burning for a hundred years' space and to be burning without intermission as long as God is God!" We remember the sermon there in the sunlight.