THE ADVOCATE OF LOVE.

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BY CAROLINE C——.

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“These things write we unto you that your joy may be full.”

Let us by earnest thought, make this fleeting hour of a fleeting existence sacred to the memory of the Evangelist. For to the striving actors of the “living present,” the past can offer few better gifts than the scripture “record” of this “good man’s life.”

He was one other of that band of obscure fishermen, who, adorned with none of the pride and pomp of official station—destitute of all the attractions of wealth—distinguished by none of the refinements and graces of cultivated life, appeared before the astonished people and rulers of Judea and all the East, suddenly gifted with such miraculous powers as enabled them to proclaim, and enforce, the most important truths on the minds of a nation, which counted itself, in every respect, far beyond all necessity of instruction.

Rightly to study and to estimate the record of St. John, cannot prove to us a profitless task; a deeper feeling than admiration, and an exalted appreciation that will not subside into mere respect for him, is sure to be aroused. The conviction will force itself upon a searcher after truth, of the exceeding beauty and excellence of the character of this Apostle, and disciple—the brother of James—the son of Zebedee and Salome—the fisherman of the Sea of Galilee—the man to whom was revealed the volume of deep mysteries—the meek, attentive, self-forgetful follower, whom Jesus loved.

He lived through all those convulsions, wondrous and terrible, that marked the first century of the Christian era; and when was he found wanting in that indomitable courage that suffered and endured all things for the love of the blessed Jesus? True, it is recorded that when alone in the place of banishment, the Angel of the Lord appeared before the exiled man, uttering the divine proclamation, “I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending—which is, which was, and which is to come, the Almighty,” he fell as one dead at the angel’s feet. What then? Dwells there a mortal on the earth, whose spirit and whose form would not perforce bow before the messenger of Jehovah, crushed by the thought of utter impotency and nothingness? Indeed one might well be called fool-hardy, and idiotically bold, rather than really brave, who could look unabashed and undismayed upon the “terrors of the Lord,” and on “the glory of His power.”

John had not perhaps the ever-glowing ardor of the great Peter—his career may not have been marked by the constantly self-possessed bravery with which that Apostle every where, and at all times, stormed the citadels of Satan, casting in all directions his weapons of spiritual defiance, and carrying on unceasingly what was most emphatically a warfare; but we are not told that he ever denied his Master; we have no proof, we receive no intimation that he was ever a weakly or blindly zealous preacher, or one unreasonably secure in his powers. Never was he a withholder of the truth when once it was revealed to him—and not an inefficient leader in the valiant army of the saints—no weak defender of the moral rights of man, and the sacred truths of eternal life.

And to whose written or spoken words shall we turn, to find a better exemplification of the milder truths, and the more endearing graces, of that faith, of which our Saviour is the chief corner-stone, than to the record of John the Evangelist.

The language he almost invariably adopted to address lost sinners, was not that of denunciatory wrath or of stern condemnation—but rather was it mild, persuasive, gentle and loving, such as tended to soften and win the rebellious heart, rather than terrify it and repel. The great truths of religion as uttered by his lips, were the love and infinite compassion of God—the constant care with which He watches over and provides for all things created; the readiness and joy with which He ever listens to the cries of those who in a right spirit draw nigh to Him.

Never, or very rarely, did he seek to frighten and compel sinners to repentance, by proclaiming to weak and helpless beings the wrath of a God who would surely destroy if they did not instantly yield their allegiance. He did not, to add force to an argument which in itself he conceived all-powerful, strive to make predominant in the minds of terrified hearers the thought of the avenging arm uplifted—the bright sword suspended over the heads of all offenders, threatening to cut them instantaneously from the land of the living. Nor was it the lake of eternally burning fire, nor the deep, dark, dreadful pit, nor the everlasting torments, nor the never appeased wrath of God—nor the undying worm, that he made the themes of his eloquent appeals. Ah, no! but ever was his voice heard urging the beloved in Christ’s name to be reconciled to God; the mild eyes fixed on the people, who could not listen unmoved to his pleading words, and the gentle voice, was sounding in their ears who had been deaf to sterner commands, like sweet and never to be forgotten melody. And tears were shed, and groans were heard, when he stood like an angel of light and of mercy amid the unrepentant and unforgiven.

Childlike, pure-minded, and kind, and charitable in his dealings with the most grievous sinner, as he delivered the doctrine of redemption it became peculiarly the doctrine of reconciliation. And yet, the gentleness and affectionateness of John’s nature, evinced in his every word and deed, may not be taken as a proof, or as a support, of the idea that either personally or spiritually he was a coward!

It was surely no evidence of a weak or trifling character, the readiness with which in his early manhood he listened to and obeyed the Saviour’s “follow me.” Could we even for a moment suppose that his mind was cast in a mould so weak as would render him unable to resist any command made, with a show of superior power? Speedily that thought would die away in the reflection, that no power or authority on earth could in such case have held him steadfast to his vows, till the shadows of a century clustered around him! To the cause which he espoused that morning when the people’s Heavenly Teacher promised that He would make them “fishers of men,” he cleaved steadfast, through persecutions and fiery trials innumerable, until worn out by many toils, and many years, he died. The love of God, revealed by his son, Jesus, extended to miserable, erring man, was the great truth that first touched and won his heart; and it was because he fervently believed that the marvellous mercy of God could not be otherwise than powerfully efficacious in turning sinners from the ways of death, that he so constantly presented that blessed thought to the mind of his hearers. In the recesses of his once darkened mind had penetrated the glorious mystery “God is Love.” To a generous, lofty spirit, that truth having made his own peace, it was the instant and abiding impulse, that he should always, and most earnestly, by that argument, urge the Christian duties on his fellows.

The recorded deeds of this missionary do not occupy so important or prominent a place in the sacred pages as do those of Peter, and of Paul, but by no means are we to consider him as gifted with less natural, or less miraculous power; neither was he subordinate to them in any particular.

When we think of these remarkable men, it is true, we are struck with their boldness, and perseverance, and unconquerable energy—we regard with admiring thought the action of their strong will, directed to the attainment of the most holy, heavenly objects; but even such contemplation does not take away the interest with which we consider him, on whose manly nature was laid the crown of loving gentleness; which, when we consider what his mission was, and what he taught, seems peculiarly and beautifully appropriate, and renders his character irresistibly attractive to whosoever studies it.

God and Love were the words graven on his spirit. Indeed, they were terms almost synonymous to his apprehension. God was love—and love an emanation from God, and these two, (if we may call them separate thoughts) induced as great a result, and as strongly marked John’s character, making so prominent the angelic features of his soul, as did self-love and covetousness stamp that of Judas—as did defiance of evil, and confidence in God’s justice, mark that of Paul; or, as did persevering faith, and determination for victory, distinguish the career of Peter.

His amiable and conciliatory nature did not exempt him from suffering, any more than did the straight-forward boldness of the bravest disciple of Christ. Distress and danger were his hand-maids, as they were of all who in that dark age advocated Christianity, and never could the humility, kindness, and forbearance of John, by his most bitter enemies, be construed into meanness, or to the promptings of a paltry spirit that weakly cringed to the rich men and the powerful.

In that solemn hour when Judas went forth from the presence of the Lord, convicted of his foul treachery, when the Saviour addressed to his disciples the saddest words of prophecy, speaking to them in that tender manner which won their deep attention, and lasting affection. He called them “little children”—saying—“A little while and I am with you, ye shall seek me, and as I said to the Jews, whither I go ye cannot come; so now I say unto you. A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another, as I have loved you. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.”

Not one of the eleven listened to those words in vain, but a deeper impression seem they to have made upon the youngest of that honored group, the holy John; for the sentiment of that most impressive address was the burden of his thought and of his voice, to the last hour of his life.

Among the weeping women who gathered around the sacred Cross, the youngest disciple stood, notwithstanding his recent desertion, still the object of his Master’s kind regard and favor. How lovingly did the Saviour’s eyes rest upon the apostle—with what earnest emotion he directed John’s attention to the Virgin Mother, saying to her, “Woman, behold thy son!” and to John, “behold thy mother!” remembering even in that hour of bitterest sorrow, to provide for her who had been the guardian of his infancy, the fond, unfailing lover of his manhood.

To think on that obscure home of poverty, where the blessed Mother Mary dwelt, with the beloved disciple!

Blessed indeed was she, most worthy to be held by all the world in an ever affectionate remembrance; and yet, as a mortal woman, subject to like infirmities, passions and sins, with all born of the flesh, altogether unworthy adoration or worship!

What a communion of thought, and of hope, must there have been between those two human beings, in the years when, as mother and son, they dwelt together! With what inconceivable interest must the narratives of Mary respecting the Redeemer’s early life, have fallen upon the ear of John, when, after his fatiguing labors were for a brief time suspended, he would return to his home, and to her! How must his heart have thrilled, as he listened to the mournful words, and witnessed the regretful tears with which she called to mind His days of helplessness—when he lay beautiful in his weakness in her arms, and she knew that he was the Son of God! Fraught with intense interest, as she related it, must have been the story of that visit of the wise men from the East, of whose fame she had often times heard, but whom she had always regarded as a superior race of beings! How eagerly must he have listened to that tale which had so many times been repeated in his hearing, of the shepherds who came in the night time to worship Jesus. Of how, while they looked with so much wonder and awe on the infant, so like in all respects to their own children, their faith grew strong to recognize in Him, even while He lay helpless in the manger, a mighty ruler—a lord over them all—a king greater than any that had ever reigned on the throne of Israel.

And how must John have rejoiced as he beheld anew the proof of the all-protecting power of God, when many spoke of that most opportune gift of the wise men, which enabled the distressed parents to escape with their child to the land of Egypt, where in safety they might dwell, far removed from the cruelty of Herod.

As she told the faith that upheld both Joseph and herself when they set out on that long, tedious journey toward the strange land, which had proved a land of such dread bondage to their fathers, how greatly must his courage have revived, how strengthened must have become his confidence in God! And then, how must the desire, and the ability which almost invariably accompanies strong desire to labor, have increased, when John heard from Mary’s lips the story of the perseverance, humility and diligence, with which her child had applied himself to learn his father’s craft, how he had so faithfully labored to better the temporal condition of his poor parents, giving thus to the whole world an example of patient and uncomplaining perseverance, beneath the strong test, poverty—and proving that when he adopted the nature of humanity, he did not exempt himself from that dread curse pronounced on Adam, “by the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat thy bread.”

With no common emotion could that disciple have listened, when Mary told of Jesus as he was in the years of his boyhood, while he was increasing in stature, and in favor with God and man. With no unsympathizing ear could he have heard her tell of those days, when she, with Joseph, sought for the child with tears, finding him at last in the temple questioning and arguing with the learned doctors and teachers!

And then, what sorrowful tears must they have wept together, as they recalled the scene of His last bitter agony!

She, the mother, with a sorrow which at times would not be comforted, lamented the child who was ever so affectionate, obedient and truthful—the son of her heart, her pride, and her deep love—who, born under the most adverse circumstances, had lived a life of great exertion, of poverty, persecution, and deep sorrow, and oh, horrible and most strange consummation of such a life! She had seen him, the blameless and the perfect, ignominiously sacrificed upon the Cross, with malefactors!

And John, the companion of that Saviour’s manhood, while with regretful thought he pondered on all these things which had come to pass, still buoyed up by a hope that never faded, would seek to comfort her, repeating the kind words of encouragement their Lord had spoken when He was alone with the disciples. The mother mourned a son, such as never was given to another parent—and the apostle wept over the memory of a friend, whose like neither before or since His coming, has the world ever seen!

Ah, never was there such a mingling of thought, and of prayer, as in that humble household!—never were such regret, and hope, and love rising with the memory of one departed, as with His, whose image was so devoutly shrined in their hearts!

When Mary, (unable always to merge her affection as a mortal mother, in the thought that the risen Lord was no more her son, that as the ascended God, he was to her only as to all the world, a Redeemer, a Saviour, and a Judge) wept, as she remembered the “wonder child,” her first born, whose infancy Joseph and herself had watched with the fondest care, and with such an ever-present feeling of responsibility, with what consoling words, taught him by that spirit which Jesus had sent to all his apostles, must John have comforted her! And there was efficacy in his words to calm the troubled waters of her soul, and the “peace! be still!” he spoke, was singularly powerful to reconcile her, to cheer, and to inspire with new hope.

For fifteen years, as is supposed by some, John dwelt in Jerusalem with that woman, who to this day is honored of all who have received the truth, and adored, and glorified, and worshiped by that church built on the unfailing foundation, “the infallible Peter”—as its members declare. Yes! and there are myriads who never heard that the great Cæsar reigned once in power and magnificence—to whom the rulers and the high-priests of that day are as though they never had been. There are multitudes of these, who, even at this distant day, bow down to the very dust to supplicate a blessing of Mary, the Mother of God!

Tenderly, as over an aged mother, did St. John watch her declining years, providing for her comfort, soothing and cheering her heart, and smoothing the pathway to her feet, as they tottered toward the grave. But during all this time the apostle had not forgotten the duties of his more important and more dangerous vocation.

In the great, the holy city, he had performed the duties devolving on his ministerial office, with great encouragement. Though, with Peter, he had suffered cruel imprisonment, and wicked men had not failed to afflict, and torment him, by bringing evils in innumerable shapes upon him—for in such ways did they seek to dissuade the apostles from preaching, and the people from lending a listening ear.

Many times St. John had journeyed to the various churches scattered round about, unfolding in every place where he sojourned the heavenly message that was given him to reveal, but invariably he had returned to Jerusalem, and to Mary, making his home with her.

As has been stated, it is supposed by many that at the expiration of these fifteen years, the mother of Jesus died; and, that John then removed from Jerusalem to Asia Minor, where he founded seven churches, while he resided chiefly at Ephesus.

In this new scene of labor, St. John did not escape persecution—surrounded, as he was, by a superstitious and idolatrous people, danger and sorrow constantly attended and awaited him.

Neither was it given him to labor in a portion of the Master’s vineyard, untroubled by the distress and misfortune that attended his distant brethren. The tidings which from time to time came to him of the progress of the holy work, and the welfare of those, who, from the peculiar ties that bound them to him, he held most dear, were such as caused his heart to ache, and his tears to fall, oftener than they aroused his soul to gratitude, or his voice to thanksgiving.

And all this time the missionary was not continuing in the “vigor of his youth;” old age was rapidly taking from him his strength, and his power of exertion—but wondrous scenes were yet to be revealed to John before his final departure. Jerusalem, the vast, proud city, whose destruction the Jews held to be a thing impossible, when Jesus foretold its ruin, deeming it the wildest and most absurd idea, that a misfortune so overwhelming should overtake them. Jerusalem, the glory of monarchs, and of whole generations of men; Jerusalem, the stronghold of pride and intolerance, was destroyed!—completely despoiled, and ruined!

Many authorities agree that this signal punishment of sin occurred seventy years after the death of Christ. Assuredly it was a complete, an awful visitation to those proud, rebellious, persecuting Jews, who raised the cry—“His blood be upon us and on our children!” Never since that time have they become a united, separate people—never yet have they regained their country, or a shadow of their former power!

John had outlived all his apostolic brethren. And it was in that trying time when the care of all the churches devolved upon him, that the sentence of banishment was pronounced against him. It was like taking the deputed shepherd, the watchful and careful guardian, away from a helpless and wandering flock; for not well could be spared, at that time, his vigilant eye, his loving heart. Especially needed then, was his voice, to warn, to teach, to cheer, and to encourage. They who were weak in the faith required to have much before their eyes that living witness of the power of faith—the old man, who through so many years, even from his youth, had fought a most excellent fight.

During the loneliness of his exile, the marvelous Revelation was delivered to the veteran apostle. In a dreary island, uncheered by the sound of human voices, those aged eyes beheld the glory of the Lord revealed—saw the heavenly angel, heard the wondrous voice. It was there those mysterious shadowings of things to come, were given him to spread before all men. The voices of the prophets all were hushed—now came one forth from the very presence of God, to prophecy great and wondrous things indeed—to foretell the before unuttered secrets of time and eternity; to “win souls to repentance,” by revealing one glimpse of the blessed land, which needeth not sun, nor moon, nor candle—which the smile of the Lord God illumines forevermore; to point out to the hardened and presumptuous hearts of sinners the horrors of the second death—to tell of the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is unquenchable!

How strange to think of that white-haired man, severed from all he held most dear on earth, distressed with constant tears for the firmness of his repentant people, bearing in mind many beloved ones whom he yet hoped to see bowing down to the mild sceptre of Jesus, and whom daily he presented before the throne of God in prayer, and fearing ever for the steadfastness of the churches he had established in the midst of the idolatrous and unbelieving, and separated from all who through years of friendly companionship had grown very dear to him.

Well nigh seventy years had passed since John, in the vigor of his youth, had stood a horrified witness of the death of torture to which the Almighty Master had submitted; and there he was, having passed bravely through the raging sea of persecution, bearing up bravely under all the infirmities of age, heightened by a life of exposure and hardship, banished to an island where, we are not aware, was one congenial companion to cheer his lonely hours; compelled, after so many years of unceasing exertion, to what would at first, perhaps, seem a most wretched kind of rest.

A wretched rest? dreary loneliness? Ah, no! such peace, such joy as the most prosperous worldling never knew, made sweet and bright the days of that man’s exile!

God the Father watched over him, assuring him, in the hour when his mortal courage and strength utterly failed him, whispering “it is I! be not afraid!” God the Son, the exalted, glorified Friend, was, though invisible, ever nigh at hand! and John knew it, and as in a dream, he heard the echo of the words the Saviour had once spoken on earth, “Whatsoever ye ask the Father in my name, He will give it you.” And God the Holy Ghost, the Comforter, was ever near, sustaining and cheering with a power nothing less than Almighty.

Was he alone, then? Alone! God was with him, a Friend, a Companion, a Guide, a Consoler. Alone! Methinks in that banishment St. John could scarcely have learned the meaning of the word!

Considering the subject of the Revelation delivered to him, we are struck with the peculiar fitness attending all the circumstances of its delivery.

To whom were the mystical words given? Not to a youth brave-hearted, and fiery, whose feet were newly shod with the “preparation of the Gospel of Peace.” Not to a man who had served the Lord Jesus for a few troublous years, but to one who, from youth to extreme old age, had wrought in the fields of his Master, bearing with all patience and meekness, the burden and the heat of the day, and who now stood upon the very verge of the grave! Observe, too, the time that was chosen for the Revelation to be made. It was not while St. John was borne down by anxiety, and exposed every hour to danger, insult, and all that could distract his mind, but when far-removed from the scene of his labors, it was impossible for him to longer turn up the furrows of the field, or gather in the fruit ripe for the harvest. And the place! far removed from his home, surrounded by a quiet “deeper than silence is,” safe from persecution—away from the jarring sights and sounds of a busy world.

Beholding under such circumstances a vision so wonderful, so miraculous, listening for the first time to a voice whose sound was like the rushing of many waters, it is neither a very strange thing, nor the slightest evidence of a want of entire confidence and faith in God, that John fell as one dead at the feet of the Son of Man, whose countenance was like the sun shining in his strength.

Into that mystery of mysteries, the revelation of the Divine, it is not my purpose now to look.

Its deep things which remain yet unsolved, I cannot flood with light, and as regards much of the Revelation, far-reaching, keen, and subtle minds, have endeavored (with how much of success it were best each reader should determine for himself) to sweep back the clouds which hang around that declaration of things that have been.

Of those pages St. John has said, “Blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy, and keep those things which are written therein, for the time is at hand.” And surely we are not to consider those words as applicable only to the Seven Churches to which they were first addressed. And if, in all those pages so gorgeously illumined with prophecy, there is advanced no truth the mind can comprehend, save the record of the New Jerusalem’s glory, if that, and the promise of the everlasting “rest of the saints,” only inspires the reader to strive without ceasing for the blessings that await the redeemed, it will surely not have proved a sealed volume to him.

There are none who by searching may find out God, further than he in his good pleasure chooses to reveal himself; but there can be no one who is possessed of a “seeing eye,” or a “hearing ear,” who is incapable of perusing this allegorical or highly figurative series of prophecies with an uninterested or uninstructed mind and heart.

Who that has once read, can forget “the pure river of the water of life, pure as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and the Lamb?” or who that toils on, wearing in weariness the burden of life, does not rejoice to think of that “tree of life, the leaves of which are for the healing of the nations;” and of that blessed land, whereof it is told “there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, nor light of the sun, for the Lord God giveth them light, and they shall reign forever and ever?”

Or who that would make a jest and a mock of sacred things, can read without a thrill of terror of the “great white throne, and Him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and heaven fled away, and there was found no place for them;” and of the dead, small and great, whom he saw stand before God, when the books were opened, and “the sea gave up the dead which were in it, and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them—and they were judged every man according to his works, and death and hell were cast into the lake of fire?”

Was it strange that he to whom this marvel was revealed fell even as one dead?

Overpowered by the glory of the “mighty angel,” the aged saint would have knelt to worship him. So great was John’s reverence for his Maker, that he felt constrained to render homage to his ambassador also. But the angel said, “See thou do it not, for I am thy fellow-servant, and of thy brethren the prophets, and of them which keep the sayings of this book—worship God!”

History says that “After Dominitian had reigned fifteen years, and Nerva succeeded to the government, the Roman Senate decreed that the orders of Dominitian should be revoked, and that those who had been unjustly expelled should return to their homes, and have their goods restored.” And among those banished men then recalled was St. John, who, with great joy, returned again to Ephesus, bearing with him a scroll, that was to him more precious than was in the eyes of Nerva the crown and the throne which had fallen to him.

It is estimated that the Revelator was at this time ninety-seven years old; but even then—and it is a fact on which the laggard may well ponder—even then, though infirm, and struggling with the weariness of years, gladly and zealously (as though he had but just received his commission to labor,) did he set out on the homeward journey.

He was returning to his churches and his people; should he find them faithful still, or would they all be gone astray? Would they receive him as a friend who had taught them truths most blessed and welcome, or would they meet him with cold words and scornful looks, and despitefully treat him, as though they were ashamed to have been once beguiled by what they now believed to be a foolish, senseless humbug?

Once more among that people, the doubts and misgivings which probably so troubled the aged preacher on his homeward journey, were happily all put to flight. The good work had gone forward, the prayers of repentance were not hushed; the songs of praise which burst from the redeemed on earth, so far from dying utterly away into a mournful silence, had gathered strength and caught the tone of triumph! the voices of the “ministers of grace” were still adjuring sinners by the love of God to put away the thoughts and deeds of unbelief; the tears of men subdued by the striving spirit were falling yet.

It was after his return to the field of his labor at Ephesus, as is supposed, that John wrote his gospel, or a great portion of it, together with the Epistles addressed to his brethren.

Even when the day of his death drew near, and the weakness of the time-worn body prevented his moving among them, even then his spirit labored, and they who so loved and reverenced him, feeling that when he was among them their prayers would prove more “articulate in the ear of heaven,” would bear him in their arms to the place of worship, that his so dear, but feeble and faltering voice, might be yet once more heard teaching them with words of inspiration.

Well might they love him who had spent himself in their service; well might they venerate the aged preacher, and treasure up his mild and peaceful words in their hearts; well might they give heed to the dying entreaties of the saint, “Little children, keep yourselves from idols,” and “love one another.”

In his one hundredth year the faithful missionary died, breathing his last amongst the grateful people for whom he had so successfully labored, and making them, and all the world, heirs of a treasure of blessed example, by which whosoever shall be led, will not need to go through life,

“Forever sighing

For the far-off, unattained, and dim!”

because, in that case, Love, the first-born of the Father, will have entered the heart, and in the brightness of her smile fruits will ripen, which will certainly prove other, far other than the poor “apples of Sodom.”

Is it a vain thing to urge upon the reader a careful examination of his character, the scenes of whose life we have now so rapidly glanced over?

Is there, my beloved, no reason why we should turn our eyes to the distant Past for lessons of wisdom, because the brightest sunlight streams around us now?

Ah! whence come all these rumors of wars—these unlawful strivings after power—these convulsions of governments—this inordinate seeking after riches? Why art thou, oh earth, so disquieted within thee, when so many centuries ago angels came unto thee, singing “peace upon the earth?” The Prince of Peace has lived and died, and now reigneth forevermore in glory; the Prophets are also dead; and the Apostles—what, are they dead to us? Not so! they are “alive unto God!” and behold what they have left to us in this world! A treasure-house, where are garnered riches they have bequeathed to all posterity, which are vast enough to ransom an enslaved world!

Within those jeweled gates, glistening and glowing in the light of the Father’s smile, we may enter, we may take to ourselves what shining gems we will, for, enriched as we shall be, the treasury will not be impoverished—the riches there are exhaustless as is the compassion of God.

Then why is it that we consume our years, our hopeful youth, our powerful manhood, our perfected age, in a search that never yet, in any case, has proved successful; hunting forever amid the sandy wastes of time for what is constantly eluding our grasp? Why is it that we seek continually a good that never satisfies? Why is it that we are ever so averse to entering that place which is so radiant with the purest gold and gems magnificent?

Oh, can it be because the portal is so narrow and so low, that we must bend to the dust if we would enter, or because our worldly garments must be flung aside, that we may say with truth, “we are miserable, blind, and naked?” Is it because we are required to give to the winds the dust which we have gathered through years of wasting toil? For, bearing only the olive branch, freed from pride, from disbelief, from ingratitude, thus only, thus only, may we enter the treasury of God!

By wisdom we shall seek the entrance-gate in vain. Faith and Love alone can guide us. Had it been possible that the world should by the light of wisdom know God, then had the multitudes who have followed the plausible imaginings of their own hearts never perished so miserably! the Celestial city had at this hour been revealed for the misguided ones, who for years sought it carefully and with tears!

Oh! let us remember that it was Love that created us; it was Love that redeemed us! And shall we madly refuse to know aught of that Divine effulgence—that centre of all life—that light of the world—that God? Through the coming ages, by the light of Revelation I behold the day when He shall come again in power and great glory, to judge the world—and it will be in righteousness!

Let us not deceive ourselves! God is Love, but He is also Justice! If one of earth is saved, it will be through His boundless mercy; if we are lost, only upon ourselves can be laid the burden of such unaccountable folly.