Under the trees of life in a corner of the Protestant cemetery in Rome is the grave of the English poet John Keats, with the inscription, "Here lies one whose name was writ in water." That is not true, for Keats's name will live as long as that of most poets. Nevertheless, it is a true description of all earthly things, efforts, honors, renown, achievements. Your name is writ in water. The wind blows, the ripples flow—and yout name is gone. All efforts at length come to nothing. Seek first, therefore, the Kingdom of God. Seek to have your name written in the Lamb's book of life.
Within the precincts of the ancient castle of Edinburgh, hidden from the sight on the storm-swept site by its grim masonry, lies Scotland's Memorial to her dead. It is perhaps the most wonderful building of its kind in modern times. It is vividly modern, yet lacks nothing in dignity. It seems as if it is the very expression of the heart of Scotland proudly mourning for her lost sons.
Round its walls is a pageant of weariness and suffering in bronze, and there, in the centre, the rugged old granite rock of the hilltop bursts through the polished granite of the floor. Upon the rock stands a rich green marble altar; upon the altar is a steel casket, and within the casket, hidden from all human eyes, lies a book which contains the name of every Scotsman who gave his life in the Great War of 1914-1918.
In the Book of Revelation written by the Apostle John as he laboured in the mines in Patmos as a slave, are the words: 'There shall in no wise enter into it anything that defileth but they which are written in the Lamb's book of life.' The names of the sons of Scotland, written in Scotland's book of remembrance will endure well-nigh as long as this old earth endures; but the names which are written in the Lamb's book of life will endure to the furthest bounds of Eternity.—Selected
(Mal. 3. 16; Luke 10. 20; Rev. 20. 15; 21. 27)
Upon the golden seashore sand
I wrote my name one day;
The waves came in and when they left
My name had passed away.
Upon the shifting sands of time
Men write their names today,
But when eternal years roll in
Their names will pass away.
Upon the spotless Book of Life
God wrote my name one day;
Eternal years can never take
That God-penned name away.
My name is there for ever
Through all God's endless day;
For He Who died to write it there
Has put it there to stay.—Fred Cowell
(Rev. 20. 15; 21. 27)