Picture to yourself "a city set upon a hill," built above the clouds in serene azure and unfathomable glory. No temple therein, for God is the temple thereof; nor need of the sun, neither of the moon, for God doth lighten it. Then from this sacred summit behold a Stranger wending his way below, where a few laborers in a Valley at the foot of the Mountain are working and watching his coming. The descent is beset with peril, privation, temptation, toil, suffering; venomous serpents lurk in the rocks, beasts of prey prowl in the path, wolves in sheep's clothing are ready to devour him. But he meets their secret and open attacks with the sublime success of everlasting victory.
The Stranger stands in the Valley at the foot of the Mountain. He saith unto his patient toilers, "What do you here? Would you ascend the Mountain, climb its giant cliffs, bathe in its streams, rest in its cool grottoes, and drink from its living fountains? The way winds and widens in the Valley; up the hill it is straight and narrow, and few there be that find it."
His converse with the watchers and workers in the Valley closes, and the Stranger goes into the streets of a city made with hands. Pausing at the thresh-hold of a palatial dwelling, he knocks and waits. The door is shut. He hears the sound of festivity and mirth; youth, manhood and age gaily tread the gorgeously tapestried parlors, dancing-halls, billiard and banquet rooms. But a little while, and the music is dull, the wine is unsipped, the footfalls abate, the laughter ceases. Then from the window of this dwelling a face looks out anxiously surveying him who waiteth at the door.
