Front matter

OLD WINE AND NEW:

Occasional Discourses.

BY

THE REV. JOSEPH CROSS, D.D., LL.D.,

AUTHOR OF "EVANGEL," "KNIGHT-BANNERET," "COALS FROM THE ALTAR," "PAULINE CHARITY," AND "EDENS OF ITALY."

NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 and 3 Bible House. 1884.

Copyright, 1883, By JOSEPH CROSS.

Franklin Press: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, BOSTON.

DEDICATORY EPISTLE.

To THOMAS WHITTAKER, Esq., Publisher, New York.

My Dear Friend: In former times and other lands, when one wrote a book, he inscribed the volume to some distinguished personage—a bishop, a baron, a monarch, a magnate in the world of letters—through whose name it might win its way to popular favor, and achieve a success hardly to be hoped for from its own merit. Such overshadowing oaks seemed necessary to shield from sun and storm the tender undergrowth; and the dew that lay all night upon their branches the breezy morning shook off in showers of diamonds upon the humbler herbage at their roots. In an age pre-eminently of self-reliance and a country characterized no less by personal than political independence, authors have learned at length to walk alone, marching right into the heart of the public with no patronage but that of the publisher; and if a book have not the intrinsic qualities to bear the scorching beams and freezing blasts of criticism, down it must go amidst the débris of earth's abortive ambitions and ruined hopes. Not so much from conscious need of help as from high esteem of the noblest personal qualities, therefore, I beg leave upon this page to couple with my own a worthier name. Two years ago, when I placed in your trusty hands the manuscript of Knight-Banneret, I had the least possible idea of the harvest which might grow from so humble a seed-grain cast into a very questionable soil. The result was an encouraging disappointment; and Evangel soon followed, enlarging the horizon of hope; and Edens of Italy sent a refreshing aroma over all the landscape; and Coals from the Altar kindled assuring beacon-fires for the adventurer; and Pauline Charity, supported by Faith and Hope, walked forth in queenly state. During the publication of these several productions, so pleasant has been our intercourse—so great your kindness, candor, courtesy, magnanimity, hospitality, and every other social virtue—that I look back upon the period as one of the happiest of my life; and now, at the close of the feast, hoping that our last bout may be the best, I cordially invite you to share with me Old Wine and New.

Yours till Paradise, JOSEPH CROSS

Nov. 1, 1883.

PREFACE.

Dear Reader: In the preface to Pauline Charity, did not the writer promise thee that volume should be his last? Some months later, however, at the bottom of the homiletical barrel, he found a few old acquaintances, in threadbare and tattered guise, smiling reproachfully out of the dust of an undeserved oblivion. He beckoned them forth, gave them new garments, and bade them go to the printer. And lo! here they are—twenty-two of them—in comely array, with fresh-anointed locks, knocking modestly at thy door.

If any of the former groups from the same family were deemed worthy of thy hospitality—if any of the twenty-two Evangelists gladdened thy soul with good tidings—if any of the twenty-two Knights-Banneret stimulated thy zeal in the holy conflict—if any of the twenty white-hooded sisters of Charity warmed thy heart with words of loving kindness—if any of the sixty seraphs, winged with sunbeams, laid upon thy lips a Coal from the Altar—if any of the twelve cherubs, fresh from the Edens of Italy, led thee through pleasant paths to goodly palaces and blooming arbors—turn not away unheard these twenty-two strangers, but welcome them graciously to the fellowship of thy house, and perchance the morrow's dawn may disclose the wings beneath their robes.

But if tempted to discard them as the vagrant offspring of a senile vanity thrust out to seek their fortune in the world of letters, know thou that such temptation is of the Father of lies. For not all of these are thy patriarch's Benjamins—sons of his old age. The leader of the band is his very Reuben—the beginning of his strength. Another is his lion-bannered Judah, washing his garments in the blood of grapes. In another may be recognized his long-lost Joseph, found at last in Pharaoh's chariot. And several others, peradventure, more ancient than thy father, though bearing neither gray beard nor wrinkled brow. And the consciousness of a better ambition than vanity ever inspired prompts their commission to the public, to speak a word in season to him that is weary—to comfort the mourners in Zion, giving them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for weeping, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness, and filling the vale of Bochim with songs in the night. Nay, if the mixture of metaphors be not offensive to thy fastidious rhetoric, these brethren are sent down into Egypt to procure corn for thee and thy little ones, O Reader! that ye perish not in the famine of the land.

"Go to! the tropical language is misleading. We open the door to thy children, and find nothing but a hamper of Wine—twenty-two bottles—some labelled Old, and others New."

As thou wilt, my gentle critic! Perhaps twenty-two jars of water only. Yet healthfully clear, and sweet to the taste, it is hoped thou wilt find the beverage; and if the Lord, present at the feast, but deign to look at it, thou mayest wonder that the good wine has been kept till now.

Of Edward Irving, when he died fifty years ago, a London editor wrote: "He was the one man of our time who more than all others preached his life and lived his sermons." To preach one's life were hardly apostolical, though to live one's sermons might be greatly Christian. At the former the author never aimed; of the latter there is little danger of his being suspected. Yet this book is in some sort the record of his personal history. For a farewell gift to the world, he long contemplated an autobiography—had actually begun the work, written more than a hundred pages, and sketched a promising outline of the whole; when, in an hour of indigestion, becoming disgusted, he dropped the enterprise, and made his manuscript a burnt offering to the "blues." As a substitute for the failure, these discourses represent him in the successive stages of his ministry, being arranged in the chronological order of production and delivery, with dates and occasions in footnotes—the only autobiography he could produce, the only one doubtless to be desired. Should grace divine make it in any measure effectual to the spiritual illumination of those who honor it with a perusal, he will sing his Nunc Dimittis with thankful heart, and wait calmly for the day when every faithful worker "shall have praise of God." Farewell.

J. C.

Feast of All Saints, 1883.

CONTENTS.

Discourse

I. Filial Hope. 1829

II. Rest for the Weary. 1830

III. My Beloved and Friend. 1833

IV. Refuge in God. 1838

V. Parental Discipline. 1840

VI. Joy of the Law. 1842

VII. Sojourning with God. 1858

VIII. Building for Immortality. 1859

IX. Wail of Bereavement. 1862

X. Wisdom and Weapons. 1863

XI. Love tested. 1866

XII. Manifold Temptations. 1866

XIII. Contest and Coronation. 1866

XIV. Calvary Token. 1866

XV. Heroism Triumphant. 1868

XVI. Fraternal Forgiveness. 1869

XVII. Christ with his Ministers. 1872

XVIII. Kept from Evil. 1873

XIX. Contending for the Faith. 1874

XX. The Fruitless Fig-Tree. 1876

XXI. Christian Contentment. 1883

XXII. "Ye know the Grace." 1883

OLD WINE AND NEW.

I.

FILIAL HOPE.[1]

Beloved, now are we the sons of God; and it doth not yet appear what we shall be; but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is.—1 John iii. 2.

"I am to depart, you to remain; but which shall have the happier lot, who can tell?" So spake Socrates to his friends just before he drank the fatal hemlock. In all the utterances of the ancient philosophy there is no sadder word. The uncertainty of the hereafter, the impenetrable gloom that shrouds the state of the departed, sets the contemplative soul shivering with mortal dread. Like the expiring Hobbes, more than two thousand years later, the grand old Athenian felt himself "taking a leap in the dark." In his case, however, there was more excuse than in that of the modern unbeliever. The dayspring from on high had not yet visited mankind. The morning star was still below the horizon. Four centuries must pass before the rising Sun of righteousness could bring the perfect day. The Christ came, the true Light of the world; and life and immortality, dawning from his manger, culminated upon his sepulchre. Redeeming Love has revealed to us more of God and man than all the sages of antiquity ever knew; and our reviving and ascending Redeemer has shed a flood of radiance upon the grave and whatever lies beyond. In the immortal Christ we have a sufficient answer to the patriarch's question—"If a man die, shall he live again?" In his mysteriously constituted personality taking our nature into union with the Godhead, by his vicarious passion ransoming that nature, and then rising with it from the dead and returning with it to heaven, he assures all who believe in him of an actual alliance with the living God and all the blissful immunities of life eternal. And thus the apostle's statement becomes the best expression of our filial hope in Christ: "Beloved, now are we the sons of God; and it doth not yet appear what we shall be; but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is."

The ground of our glorious hope as disciples of Christ is found in our gracious state as sons of God. But is not this the relation of all men? Originally it was, but is not now. By creation indeed "we all are his offspring," but not by adoption and regeneration. Sin has cut off from that original relation the whole progeny of Adam, and disinherited us of all its rights and privileges. The paternal likeness is effaced from the human soul. Alienated from the life of God, men have become children of the wicked One. Only by restoring grace—"a new creation in Christ Jesus"—can they regain what they have lost. To effect this, came forth the Only Begotten from the bosom of the Father, and gave himself upon the cross a ransom for the sinful race. Whosoever believeth in him is saved, restored, forgiven, renewed after the image of his Creator in righteousness and true holiness. Jesus himself preached to Nicodemus the necessity of this new birth, and "born of God" is the apostolic description of the mighty transformation. More than any outward ordinance is here expressed—more than mere morality, or reformation of life—a clean heart created, a right spirit renewed, the inception of a higher life whereby the soul becomes partaker of the Divine Nature. All this, through faith in Christ, by the power of the Holy Ghost. Now there is reconciliation and amity with God—"an everlasting covenant, ordered in all things and sure." More; there is sympathy, and sweet communion, and joyful co-operation, and spiritual assimilation, and oneness of will and desire, and free access to the throne of grace in every time of need. "And because ye are sons, God hath sent forth the Spirit of his Son into your hearts, crying—Abba, Father." "And if children, then heirs—heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Jesus Christ." And oh! what an inheritance awaits us in the glorious manifestation of our Lord, when all his saints shall be glorified together with him! For, "it doth not yet appear what we shall be; but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is."

Our sonship, you see, is the ground of our hope. Our hope, you will now see, is worthy of our sonship.

At present, indeed, our glorious destiny is not apparent. By faith we see it, dim and distant, as through the shepherds' glass; in hope we wait for it with calm patience, or press toward it with strong desire; but what it is—"the glory that shall be revealed in us"—we know not, and cannot know, till mortality shall be swallowed up of life. It is spiritual; we are carnal. It is heavenly; we are earthly. It is infinite; we are finite. It is altogether divine: we are but human. Some of God's artists, as St. Paul and St. John, have given us gorgeous pictures of it, which we gaze at with shaded eyes; but while we study them, we cannot help feeling that they fall far short of the copied original. In our present state, what idea can we form of the condition of the soul, and the mode of its subsistence, when dislodged from the body? Nay, what idea can we form of the natural body developing into the spiritual, and all its rudimental powers unfolding in their perfection? Or, to speak more accurately and more scripturally, what idea can we form of the resurrection body, awaking from its long sleep in the dust, re-organized and re-invested—with new beauties, perhaps new organs, new senses, new faculties, all glorious in immortality? And the enfranchised intellect, who can guess the grandeur of its destiny—what new provinces of thought, new discoveries of truth, new revelations of science, new disclosures of the mysteries of nature and of God? And the spirit—the ransomed and purified spirit—who can imagine what perfection of love, what affluence of joy, what transports of worship and of song, what society and fellowship with the saints in light, it shall enjoy when it has entered its eternal rest? We know not how the statue looks till we see it unveiled; and the whole creation, as St. Paul writes to the Romans, is waiting for the unveiling of the sons of God. Now they are his hidden ones—hidden in the shadow of his wings, in the secret place of his tabernacle—their life hidden with Christ in God—their character and true glory hidden from the world—their ineffable destiny and reward hidden from themselves, till their dear Lord shall appear, and they also shall appear with him in glory. And well is it that our knowledge of the better world to come is so obscure and imperfect—necessarily obscure and imperfect, because God hath graciously revealed only what was essential to our salvation; for if he had revealed all that he might have revealed—if we could foresee and comprehend all that awaits us in the blessed everlasting future—we might have been so dazed and delighted with the splendors of the vision, as to be incapable of business, unfit for society, and better out of the world than in it. Wisely, therefore, God hath veiled the future, even from his saints. The oak is in the acorn, but we cannot divine its form, and must await its manifestation in the tree. Yet this we know, saith the apostle—and surely this ought to satisfy our highest ambition of knowledge—"that when he shall appear, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is."

Appear he certainly will. Let us not lose sight of this blessed hope. It is his own promise to the disciples on the eve of his departure: "I will come again, and receive you unto myself; and where I am, there ye shall be also." And the angels of the ascension reiterate the assurance to them, as they stand gazing after him from the Mount of Olives: "This same Jesus, who is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven"—that is, visibly, personally, gloriously, in the clouds, with the holy angels. And what saith the apostle? "Christ was once offered to bear the sins of many; and to them that look for him, he shall appear the second time, without sin, unto salvation"—the second advent as real as the first, and as manifest to human sight. To such statements no mystical or figurative meaning can be given, without violence done to the language. Not in the destruction of Jerusalem was the prediction fulfilled; nor has it since been fulfilled, nor ever can be, in any revival or enlargement of the Church; neither does Jesus come to his disciples at death, but through death they pass to him. Come at length he will, however, and every eye shall see him sitting upon the throne of his glory. The redemption of our humanity by price pledges a further redemption by power, which cannot be accomplished without his personal return to the ransomed planet. "And we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is."

That likeness to our Lord must be both corporeal and spiritual. St. Paul speaks of the whole Church as "waiting for the adoption—to wit, the redemption of the body;" and elsewhere states that the Saviour for whom we look "shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto his own glorious body"—spiritualizing the natural, sublimating the material, endowing the physical organism with powers like his own, and adorning the long-dishonored dust with the radiant beauty of immortality. Yet more wonderful must be the change wrought upon the intellectual and spiritual nature. To be like "God manifest in the flesh"—what is it but to realize a mental development and maturity far transcending all that the wisest ever attained to in this mortal state, perpetual union of our redeemed humanity with the Divinity, and a blissful process of assimilation going on forever? Christ is light without darkness; and to be like him implies a clearness of understanding and a certitude of truth free from all prejudice, distortion, and blinding error. Christ is divine charity incarnate; and to be like him is to love as he loved—with the ardor, the intensity, the self-forgetfulness, which drew him to the manger and led him to the cross. Christ is immaculate holiness made visible to men; and to be like him is to be as spotless, as faultless, as free from iniquity, perversity, hypocrisy, impurity, as He who could challenge the world with the demand—"Which of you convinceth me of sin?" Christ is every moral excellence combined and blended in human character; and to be like him is to be subject to all those high principles and noble impulses which give him infinite preeminence as a model to mankind, and make him in angelic estimation "the fairest among ten thousand and altogether lovely." Christ is the King whom God the Father hath exalted above all powers and principalities even in heavenly places; and to be like him is to reign with him, partners of his glory upon an imperishable throne, when all the dominions of earth shall have passed away as a forgotten dream. All this, and much beside that no human imagination can conceive, is manifestly comprehended in the apostolic statement, that "he shall come to be glorified in his saints, and admired in all them that believe"—men and angels, the whole universe, beholding in every disciple a perfect facsimile of the glorified Master. And thus the declaration is triumphantly verified: "We know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is."

Spirit is invisible. In his essence, we shall never see God. That men might see him, he became incarnate in human flesh. Except in the person of Jesus Christ, his creatures will never see him. But even Christ is far away, gone back to heaven, and seen only by faith. Often, no doubt, his disciples wish they could see him with their eyes of flesh; but they never will till his promised personal return. With the apostle, they are ever thinking and speaking of him whom, not having seen, they love; in whom, though now they see him not, yet believing, they rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory. But often, looking at him even by faith through the disturbing and distorting media of prejudice and passion, they make sad mistakes about him, about his complex nature, his divine perfections, his human character, his former work in the flesh, his present mediation with the Father, his spiritual relation to the Church, his headship over the redeemed creation. We can appreciate another only through his like within ourselves, our sympathy with his moral qualities. Wanting such sympathy, vice never appreciates virtue, the carnal never discerns the spiritual, the selfish never understands the benevolent and disinterested. Failing to discover the true substratum of character, they mistake motives, ridicule peculiarities, and give no credit for qualities which they cannot perceive. Thus, through the imperfection of our sympathy with the Saviour, or the utter want of such sympathy, even when we regard him by faith, we see him not as he is. Ask the world, "What think ye of Christ?" you will get a great variety of answers. One will tell you he is a myth, a phantom, a creation of genius, that never had a real historic existence. Another will call him a pretender, an impostor, a false prophet, utterly unworthy of human credit and confidence. Another pronounces him an amiable enthusiast, and a very good man; but self-deceived as to his mission and ministry, and not a teacher sent from God. Another deems him a wise moralist, enunciating principles and precepts such as the world never heard before; and in his life, an example of all that is pure and excellent; but not essential and eternal God, nor a vicarious sacrifice for human sin. But here is one who regards him as supremely divine, and yet "the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world;" and, by the nail-prints in his palms and the thorn-marks on his brow, so shall he be recognized when he cometh in his kingdom, and the nations of the quickened dead go marching to his throne. All mistakes about him will thus be corrected; and those who have seen him only through a glass darkly, shall see him face to face; and all who have loved and honored him as their Saviour, and trusted in him as their wisdom, righteousness, sanctification, and redemption, awaking in his likeness from the dust, shall begin the antiphon which preludes the eternal song: "This is our God! we have waited for him, and he will save us! This is the Lord! we have waited for him, we will be glad and rejoice in his salvation!" Oh that we all may then be found like him, and see him as he is!

II.

REST FOR THE WEARY.[1]

Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.—Matt. xi. 28.

A fine legend is related of St. Jerome. Many years he dwelt in Bethlehem, the town of his dear Lord's nativity. Hard by was the cave, formerly occupied as a stable, in which the blessed Babe was born. Here the holy man spent many a night in prayer and meditation. During one of these—waking or sleeping, we know not—he saw the divine Infant, a vision of most radiant beauty. Overwhelmed with love and wonder, the saint exclaimed: "What shall I give thee, sweet child? I will give thee all my gold!" "Heaven and earth are mine," answered the lovely apparition, "and I have need of nothing; but give thy gold to my poor disciples, and I will accept it as given to myself." "Willingly, O blessed Jesus! will I do this," replied the saint; "but something I must give thee for thyself, or I shall die of sorrow!" "Give me, then, thy sins," rejoined the Christ, "thy troubled conscience, thy burden of condemnation!" "What wilt thou do with them, dear Jesus?" asked Jerome in sweet amazement. "I will take them all upon myself," was the reply; "gladly will I bear thy sins, quiet thy conscience, blot out thy condemnation, and give thee my own eternal peace." Then began the holy man to weep for joy, saying: "Ah, sweet Saviour! how hast thou touched my heart! I thought thou wouldst have something good from me; but no, thou wilt have only the evil! Take, then, what is mine, and grant me what is thine; so am I helped to everlasting life!"

This, my dear brethren, is what Jesus, with unspeakable compassion, offers to do for us all. He would have us bring the several burdens under which we toil and faint, and lay them down at his feet. Pardon for guilt he would give us, peace for trouble, assurance for doubt and fear, and for all our fruitless agony divine repose. See how miserably men mistake his gospel, when they regard it merely as a set of doctrines to be believed, of duties to be performed, of ceremonies to be observed, instead of a mercy to be received, a blessing to be enjoyed, a salvation offered for our acceptance. It is indeed the unspeakable gift of God, the sovereign remedy of all our ills; in which, as rational and immortal beings, fallen in Adam, but redeemed by Christ, we have an infinite interest. There is a tenderness in the invitation, combined with a moral sublimity, demanding for its utterance the melody of an angel's tongue, with the accompaniment of a seraph's harp; and we ought to listen to the words of Jesus to-day with a faith, a love, a joy, such as Simon, James and John never knew, nor the pardoned sinner of Magdala, sitting in rapt wonder at the Master's feet. "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

How suitable was this address to those who first heard it, laboring and heavy laden with the costly rites and burdensome observances of the Levitical law! Those rites and observances required a large portion of their time and a larger expenditure of money; yet of their real nature and meaning the common people knew very little, and therefore felt them to be a burden which neither they nor their fathers were able to bear. Types and symbols they were of better things to come; but they could not take away sin, nor quiet a troubled conscience, nor give any assurance of the reconciliation and favor of Heaven. For this, God must be manifested in human flesh, the Prince of peace must come and set up his kingdom among men, by the blood of his sacrifice redeeming us from the curse of the violated law, and securing an eternal salvation to all them that obey him. Jesus here assures the Jews that he is what John the Baptist has already proclaimed him—"the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world." It is as if he had said: "Come away from your bloody altars and sacrificial fires. These are but the shadows, of which I am the substance; the prophecies, of which I am the fulfilment. In me they all find their meaning and their virtue, and by my mission as the promised Saviour they are set aside forever. Come unto me, and I will give you rest."

Some there were, no doubt, among the hearers of Jesus, who were laboring and heavy laden with vain efforts to justify themselves by the deeds of the law. The Jews imagined that by doing more than their duty they could make God their debtor, and by extra acts of piety and mercy insure their own salvation as a matter of sheer justice. And even among Christians, who profess to take Christ as their only Saviour and his merit as the only ground of their justification before God, are there not many who are not altogether free from this Pharisaic leaven, endeavoring by their moral virtues and perfect obedience to make amends for the errors and delinquencies of the past? But creature merit is absurd, sinful merit impossible, and "by the deeds of the law shall no flesh be justified." The creature belongs to the Creator; and loving the Creator with all his soul, and serving the Creator with all his energies, and continuing that love and service without fault or failure throughout all the immortal duration of his being, he merely renders to God his own, and is still an unprofitable servant. But the sinner, already in arrears of duty to the Creator, can never, by yielding to God what is always due even from sinless creatures, satisfy the demands of the law upon its transgressor; and without some other means and method of pardon, which the divine wisdom alone can reveal, the old debt remains uncancelled upon the books, and no power can avert the penalty. Moreover, the sinner by his sin becomes incapable of offering to God any true love or acceptable service without divine grace prevening and co-operating to that end, so that no possible credit can accrue to human virtue and obedience, but all the glory must redound to God. Christ calls us away from all such futile hopes and fruitless endeavors. "I am your Saviour," he saith; "by no other name can you be saved; by no other medium can you come to the Father; through no merit but mine can you obtain absolution from your guilt; through no sacrifice or intercession but mine can you know that peace and purity for which you have hitherto striven and struggled in vain; come unto me, and I will give you rest."

And still another class, found in every large gathering of men and women, especially wherever the dayspring from on high hath dawned, there must have been among these hearers of the divine Preacher—those, namely, who were laboring and heavy laden with the conscious burden of their guilt. True it is, indeed, that such as are going on still in their trespasses do not commonly feel their sins to be a burden. They rejoice in them, and roll them as a sweet morsel under their tongues, talking of them as if it were a fine thing to be foolish and an honor to be infamous. But when the law of God is effectually brought home to the understanding and the heart—when they see themselves in the light of the divine holiness, and the whole inner man seems converted into conscience—then they feel that sin "is an evil and exceeding bitter thing," and cry out with the terrified Philippian, "What must I do to be saved?" or exclaim with the awakened and illuminated Saul, "Oh! wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" or, smiting a guilty breast, pray with the publican of the parable, "God be merciful to me a sinner!"

And remorse is accompanied with terror, and fearful apprehensions of the wrath to come. Condemned already, the affrighted sinner sees a more formidable sword than that of Damocles hanging over his head. Amidst all his carnal pleasures and social enjoyments, he is like that prince of Norway, who went to his wedding festival well knowing that it would end in his execution; and at the altar, and in the gay procession, and over the table loaded with luxuries, and through palatial halls strewed with flowers and ringing with music and merriment, saw everywhere and heard continually the preparations for the fatal hour. The agony of such a situation how can we imagine? I once knew an awakened sinner who described himself as enclosed in the centre of a granite mountain, no room to move a muscle, no seam or crevice through which one ray of light could reach him—picture of utter helplessness and absolute despair! Ah! my brethren! He who made the granite may dissolve it, or reduce the solid mountain to dust! And is there any guilt or misery from which the Mighty to save cannot deliver the soul that trusts in him? Your sin may be great, but his mercy is greater. Your enemies may threaten, but has he not conquered them and nailed them to his cross? To whom, then, will you apply for help, but to your divine and all-sufficient Saviour? Go not to human philosophy,

but cannot satisfy the mind nor tranquillize the conscience. Go not to the ritual law of Israel, which could never make the comers thereunto perfect; nor to the blessed saints and martyrs, none of whom can avail you as mediators between your sinful souls and God; nor depend upon sacraments and sermons, for these can aid you only as they bring you into spiritual contact with Christ, the light and life of the world. Hear him calling—rise and obey the call—"Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

Rest is a pleasant word—how pleasant to the husbandman, toiling on through the long summer day! how pleasant to the traveller, pressing forward with his load to the end of his tedious journey! how pleasant to the mariner, after tossing for weeks on stormy seas, stepping upon his native shore and hasting away to his childhood's home! how pleasant to the warrior, when, having won the last battle of his last campaign, he returns with an honorable discharge to his mother's cottage among the hills! Rest is what we all want, and what Jesus offers to the weary and heavy laden soul. I saw a young lady bowed down with grief at the memory of her sins; and when I spoke to her, she looked up with a smile that made rainbows on her tears, and said: "O sir! I have had more happiness weeping over my sins for the last half hour than I ever had in sinning through all my life!" And if

have in them so much sweetness for the soul, what shall we say of

It is the rest of conscious pardon and satisfied desire; the rest of faith, seeing the invisible and grasping the infinite; of hope, reposing in the infallible promise and anticipating a blissful immortality; of resignation, losing its own will in the will of God, and leaving all things to the disposal of the divine wisdom and goodness; of perfect confidence and trust, saying with St. Paul: "I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that, he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day." Christ is the love of God incarnate in our nature; and where shall the loving John find rest, but in the bosom of the Eternal Love? And, tossed by many a tempest, or racked with keenest pain, why should not the weary and heavy-laden disciple of the divine Man of sorrows sing like one of his faithful servants whose flesh and spirit were being torn asunder by anguish:—

Hear ye, then, the loving words of Jesus. The invitation is unlimited; the grace is free for all. No sin is too great to be forgiven, no burden too heavy to be removed, no power in earth or hell able to keep you back from Christ. However dark your minds, however hard your hearts, however dead your spirits, hear and answer: "I will arise and go!"

Lo! with outstretched arms he hastes to meet you, with tokens of welcome and the kiss of peace.

All heaven, with expectant joy, awaits your coming. Come, and satisfy the soul that travailed for you in Olivet! Come, and gladden the heart that broke for you upon the cross! Come, and at the nail-pierced feet find your eternal rest!

III.

MY BELOVED AND FRIEND.[1]

This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem!—Song of Sol. v. 16.

By the ablest interpreters and critics of Holy Scripture, the Song of Solomon has generally been regarded as an epithalamium, or nuptial canticle. But, like many other parts of the sacred volume, doubtless, it has a mystical and secondary application, which is more important than the literal and primary. The true Solomon is Christ, and the Church is his beautiful Shulamite. In this chapter, the Bride sings the glory of her divine Spouse, and our text concludes the description. But what is thus true of the Church in her corporate capacity, is true also of her individual members; and without its verification in their personal experience, it could not be thoroughly verified in the organic whole. Every regenerate and faithful soul may say of the heavenly Bridegroom: "This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem!"

Christ for a beloved—the Son of God for a friend! What nobler theme could occupy our thoughts? what sublimer privilege invest the saints in light?

So constituted is man, that love and friendship are necessary to his happiness, almost essential to his existence. Accumulate in your coffers the wealth of all kingdoms, and gather into your diadems the glories of the greatest empires. Bid every continent, island and ocean bring forth their hidden treasures, and pour the sparkling tribute at your feet. Subsidize and appropriate whatever is precious in the solar planets or magnificent in the stellar jewellery of heaven, and hold it all by an immortal tenure. Yet, without at least one kindred spirit to whom you might communicate your joy, one congenial soul from whom you might claim sympathy in your sorrow, the loveless heart were still unsatisfied—

Among the children of men, however, love and friendship, in one respect or another, will always be found defective, liable to many irregularities and interruptions, painful suspicions and sad infirmities, which mar their beauty, tarnish their purity, and imbitter their consolations, turning the ambrosia into wormwood and the nectar into gall. Sometimes they are manifest only in words, and smiles, and hollow courtesies, and other external tokens; while the heart is as void of all true affection and confidence as the whitewashed sepulchre is of life and beauty. Beginning with flattery, they often proceed by hypocrisy, and end in betrayal. Or if there be sincerity in the outset, it may prove as impotent as childhood, as changeful as autumn winds, or as fleeting as the morning cloud. Or if not destroyed by some trivial offence, or suffered to die of cold neglect, their ties are clipped at length by the shears of fate, and no love or friendship is possible in the everlasting banishment of the unblest.

But amidst all the sad uncertainties of human attachments, how pleasant it is to know that "there is a Friend who sticketh closer than a brother"—a Beloved whose affection is sincere, ardent, unchanging, imperishable—who can neither deceive nor forsake those who have entered into covenant with him—from whom death itself will not divide us, but bring us to a nearer and sweeter fellowship with him than we are capable now of imagining! Enoch walked with God till he was less fit for earth than for heaven, and St. John leaned upon the heart of Jesus till his own pulse beat in unison with the divine. Drawn into this blissful communion, every true disciple becomes one spirit with the Lord. Christ calls his servants friends, receives them into his confidence, and reveals to them the secrets of his kingdom. Not ashamed to own them now, he will confess them hereafter before his Father and the holy angels. "They shall be mine," saith he, "in that day when I make up my jewels." And the happy Bride, dwelling with ineffable delight upon the perfections of her Spouse, and anticipating the fulfilment of his promise when he cometh in his glory, concludes her song of joy with the declaration—"This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem."

What, then, are the conditions on which such intimacy of the soul with Christ is to be established? Nothing is required but what is in the very nature of things necessary. Prophet, Priest and King, he can take into amicable alliance with him only such as respect and honor him in these relations. The prophet cannot be the beloved and the friend of those who refuse to hear his word; nor the priest, of those who reject his sacrifice and intercession; nor the king, of those who are still in arms against his gracious government. We must love him, if we would have his love; we must show ourselves friendly, if we would enjoy his friendship. Having died to redeem us, he ever lives to plead for us, and by a thousand ambassadors he offers us his love and friendship; but, no response on our part, no sympathy or co-operation, how can we call him our beloved and our friend? "Can two walk together except they be agreed?" There must be reconciliation and assimilation. We must submit to Christ's authority, and co-operate with his mercy. We must love what he loves, and hate what he hates. His friends must be our friends, and his enemies our enemies. The world, the flesh, and the devil, we must for his sake renounce; reckoning ourselves dead indeed unto sin, and alive unto God through Jesus Christ our Lord. Does not St. Paul tell us that as many as have been baptized into Christ have put on Christ?[2] What does he mean? That in baptism we not only enter into covenant with Christ, but also assume his character, and profess our serious purpose to walk as he walked, conformed to his perfect example, and governed by the same divine principles. As when one puts on the peculiar habit of the Benedictines or the Franciscans, he declares his intention to obey the rules and copy the life of St. Benedict or St. Francis, the founders of those orders; so, in putting on the Christian habit when you are baptized, you avow yourself the disciple of Christ, and openly declare your death thenceforth to sin and your new birth to righteousness. And without any thing in your heart and life corresponding to such a reality, how can you say of Jesus—"This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem!"

But where there are no attractive qualities, there can be neither love nor friendship. Something there must be to inspire affection and confidence. In our divine Beloved resides every mental grace and every moral virtue. Our heavenly Friend is "the fairest among ten thousand and altogether lovely." Of the excellency of Christ all the charms of nature afford but the faintest images, and poetry and eloquence falter in the celebration of his praise. I ask your attention here to a few particulars.

Jesus is always perfectly sincere. With him there are no shams, no mere pretences, no unmeaning utterances of love or friendship. All is real, all is most significant, and there are depths in his heart which no line but God's can fathom.

And his ardor is equal to his sincerity. "Behold how he loved him!" said the Jews when they saw him weeping at the tomb of Lazarus. "Behold how he loveth them!" say the angels when they witness the far more wonderful manifestations of his friendship for the saints. Let the profane speak of Damon and Pythias, and the pious talk of David and Jonathan; there is no other heart like that of Jesus Christ, no other bond so strong as that which binds him to his disciples.

And his disinterestedness is commensurate with his ardor. In human friendships we often detect some selfish end; Christ seeks not his own glory or profit, but sacrifices himself for our salvation. No earthly affection is greater than that which lays down life for a friend; Christ died for us while we were yet enemies, upon the cross prayed for those who nailed him there, and from the throne still offers eternal life to those who are constantly crucifying him afresh and putting him to open shame. And in all his gracious fellowship with those who love him, it is their good he seeks, their honor he consults, their great and endless comfort he wishes to secure.

And not less wonderful are his patience and forbearance toward them. How meekly he endured the imperfections of the chosen twelve as long as he remained with them in the flesh! How tenderly he bore their misconceptions of his purpose, their misconstructions of his language, their fierce and fiery tempers, their slowness of heart to believe! How beautifully his patience carried him through all his life of suffering, and sustained him in the bitter anguish of the cross! And since his return to heaven, how often, and in how many ways, have his redeemed people put his forbearance to the proof! Try any other friend as you try Jesus, and see how long he will endure it. But our divine Beloved will not faint nor be weary, till he have accomplished in us his work of grace, and brought us in safety to his Father's house.

And who ever matched him in beneficence and bounty? "He is able," saith the apostle, "to do exceeding abundantly above all we ask or think." His ability is as large as his love, and that is immeasurable and inconceivable. Other friends, loving us sincerely, may want power to help us; he hath all power in heaven and earth. They may be far away in the time of need; he saith—"Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world." As the vine gives its life to the branches, as the shepherd gives his time and care to the sheep, as the monarch gives riches and honors to his favorites, as the royal spouse gives himself and all he has to his chosen bride, so gives Christ to his elect, making them joint-heirs with himself to all that he inherits as the only begotten Son of God—unspeakable grace now, eternal glory hereafter! "All things are yours, and ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's!"

And what confiding intimacy find we in this heavenly friendship! The father, the brother, the husband, live in the same house, occupy the same room, eat and drink at the same table, with their beloved; Christ comes into our hearts, takes up his abode there, and feasts with us, and we with him. "Shall I hide from Abraham," said Jehovah, "the thing that I do?" "therefore Abraham was called the friend of God." "The secret of the Lord is with them that fear him," saith the Psalmist, "and he will show them his covenant." "Henceforth I call you not servants," said Jesus to the twelve, "but I have called you friends, for whatsoever I have received of my Father I have made known unto you." "Eye hath not seen," writes St. Paul, "nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him; but God hath revealed them to us by his Spirit; for the Spirit searcheth all things, yea the deep things of God." Every true disciple, like Ignatius, carries the Crucified in his heart, and knows and comprehends with all saints, the lengths and breadths and depths and heights of the love that passeth knowledge, being filled with the fulness of God.

And all this is unfailing and everlasting. Having loved his own who were in the world, Christ loved them unto the end, loved them still upon his cross, and ceased not to love them when he left them and returned to the Father, but remembered his promise to pray for them, and to send them another Comforter who should abide with them forever, and finally to come again and receive them unto himself, that where he is they might be also. Nearly nineteen centuries are past since he ascended whence he came, and still the promise holds good, and the lapse of ages has not diminished his affection, and to-day he loves his friends as tenderly as when he talked so sweetly with the little flock at the Last Supper and along the path to Olivet. Death, which dissolves all other friendships, confirms this forever. "I have a desire to depart," wrote the heroic Christian prisoner from Rome—"I have a desire to depart, and to be with Christ, which is far better." Not long had the dear old man to wait. One morning—the 29th of June, A.D. 68—the door of his dungeon opened, St. Paul went forth, walked a mile along the way to Ostia, with his hands bound behind him knelt down, the sweep of a sword gleamed over him like the flash of an angel's wing, and the servant was with his Lord!

Thus, dear brethren, we see the incomparable qualities of our Beloved, the divine excellences of our Friend. Perfect wisdom is here, perfect knowledge, perfect prudence, perfect justice, perfect purity, perfect benevolence, perfect magnanimity, with immutability and immortality—whatever is necessary to win and hold the heart—all blending in the character of Christ. Is he not the very friend we need? How, without him, can we bear to live or dare to die? What are riches, culture, power, splendor, without his love? What can our poor human friends do for us in the hour of death? What could worlds of such friends do for us in the day of judgment? "In the name of the Lord is strong confidence, and his children shall have a place of refuge." Flee away, ye heavens! Dissolve, thou earth! and vanish! It is my Beloved that cometh with his chariots! It is my Friend that sitteth upon the throne!

Oh! my brethren! Christ Jesus loves to make new friends, though he never abandons the old. Let us accept his gracious overtures, and join ourselves unto the Lord in an everlasting covenant. The poorest and vilest of us all would he take home to his heart, and love him freely and forever. The most unworthy of all the human race would he gladly introduce to the fellowship of saints and the innumerable company of angels, and seat the pardoned sinner at his side upon the throne. Oh! when I enter the metropolis, and hail the immortal millions of the blood-washed, and kneel to kiss the nail-pierced feet of the King, while all the harps and voices that have welcomed me go silent for his gracious salutation, with what rapture, as I rise, shall I look round upon the happy multitude and say—"This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem!"

IV.

REFUGE IN GOD.[1]

Be thou my strong rock, for a house of defence to save me.—Ps. xxxi. 2.

On a superb arch in one of the halls of the Alhambra, the traveller reads as he enters: "I seek my refuge in the Lord of the morning." The sentiment is worthy of Holy Scripture, whence doubtless it was taken by the writer of the Koran. More than two thousand years earlier than Mohammed, Moses had said to the beloved tribes, just before he ascended to his mountain death-bed: "The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath thee are the everlasting arms." And how often does King David, environed with dangers and oppressed with sorrows, comfort himself with the assurance of an almighty protection and support! "Thou art my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust; my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower." "In the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion; in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me; he shall set me up upon a rock; and now shall my head be lifted up above mine enemies that are round about me." "Thou hast been a shelter for me, and a strong tower from the enemy; I will abide in thy tabernacle forever, I will trust in the covert of thy wings." "Thou art my hiding-place: thou wilt preserve me from trouble; thou wilt compass me about with songs of deliverance." And so in a hundred other passages of his psalms, and notably in the words we have chosen as the basis of this discourse: "Be thou my strong rock, for a house of defence to save me." In all such utterances, there seems to be some reference to the Hebrew cities of refuge, whither the manslayer fled from the avenger of blood, where he remained unmolested till he could have an impartial hearing, and whence, if found innocent of premeditated murder, he finally came forth acquitted amidst the congratulations of his family and friends. Here is the double idea of escape from persecution and security from punishment; and with reference to both these, the psalmist seeks his refuge in the Lord of the morning.

The first idea is refuge from persecution. David's persecutions were varied, and violent, and long continued. How sadly he tells the story, and pours out his melting soul in song! Deceitful and bloody men, full of all subtlety and malignity, compassed him about like bees, like strong bulls of Bashan, like a troop of lions from the desert. Daily they imagined mischief against him, and consulted together to cast him down from his excellency. They laid to his charge things which he knew not. To the spoiling of his soul, they rewarded him evil for good. With hypocritical mockers in feasts, they gnashed upon him with their teeth. As with a sword in his bones, they reproached him; saying continually, "Where is now thy God?" In his adversity they openly rejoiced, and with his misfortunes made themselves merry. They persecuted him whom God had smitten, and talked to the grief of him whom the Most High had wounded. With cruel hatred they hated him; yea, they tore him in pieces, and ceased not.

With these woful complaints agree the recorded facts of his life. One while we see him pursued like a partridge upon the mountains by the royal army, with his royal father-in-law at its head; from whom he escapes only by frequent flight, concealment in caverns, and weary sojourn at the court of a pagan king. And later in life we behold him driven from his throne, and chased from house and hold, by his own insurgent son; while Shimmei comes forth to curse the weeping fugitive, and cast stones at the Lord's anointed; and Ahithophel, his former familiar friend and courtly confidant, with whom he has often taken sweet counsel and walked in the house of God, lifts up the heel against him, and basely goes over to the standard of the conspirators.

No wonder he exclaims, as with the sigh of a breaking heart: "Save me, O God; for the waters are come in unto my soul. I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing; I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me. I am weary of my crying; my throat is dried; mine eyes fail, while I wait for my God. They that hate me without cause are more than the hairs of my head; they that would destroy me, being mine enemies wrongfully, are mighty.... Thou hast known my reproach, and my shame, and my dishonor. Reproach hath broken my heart, and I am full of heaviness. And I looked for some to take pity, but there was none; and for comforters, but I found none."[2] "I mourn in my complaint and make a noise, because of the enemy, because of the oppression of the wicked; for they cast iniquity upon me, and in wrath they hate me. My heart is sore pained within me, and the terrors of death are fallen upon me; fearfulness and trembling are come upon me, and horror hath overwhelmed me. Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I flee away, and be at rest; lo! then would I wander far off, and remain in the wilderness; I would hasten my escape from the windy storm and tempest."[3]

Vain wish, O disquieted and trembling soul! No wings, no distance, no solitude, can save thee. Nearer at hand thou shalt find thy refuge, even in the Lord of the morning. And well knows the persecuted king where to look for succor and consolation. "O Lord, my God! in thee do I put my trust. Save me from them that persecute me, and deliver me; lest he tear my soul like a lion, rending it in pieces, while there is none to deliver."[4] "Show thy marvellous loving-kindness, O thou that savest by thy right hand them that put their trust in thee from those who rise up against them! Keep me as the apple of thine eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wing, from the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies who compass me about."[5] "Plead my cause, O Lord! with them that strive with me; fight against them that fight against me. Take hold of shield and buckler, and stand up for my help; draw out also the spear, and stop the way against them that persecute me. Say unto my soul, I am thy salvation."[6]

How expressive is all this of utter helplessness, and reliance upon the living God! What fervent prayer is here! what faith in a personal power and a special providence which no human agency can baffle or resist! Proud mortals! talk no more of the strong will, the valiant arm, the dauntless courage, and your own self-sufficiency! "Cursed is the man that trusteth in man, and maketh flesh his arm." "Trust ye in the Lord forever, for in the Lord Jehovah is everlasting strength." What is the strategy of generals and the prowess of armies, to him "who rideth upon the heavens in thy help, and in his excellency on the sky"? Faith as a grain of mustard-seed is better than all your military science, and the prayer of the humblest peasant is mightier than embattled millions. The prayer of faith divides the sea, cleaves the granite, marshals the troops of the tempest, and makes the angels of God our allies. "When I call upon thee, then shall mine enemies be put to flight; this I know, for God is on my side." Such is David's confidence; such, my brethren, be ours! Is not every attribute of Jehovah in league with the devout believer, and all his infinite resources pledged to the support of his servants? And without any doubt of a divine hearing or fear of ultimate failure, every persecuted Christian may pray to the God of David: "Be thou my strong rock, for a house of defence to save me."

The second idea is refuge from punishment. The chief element of David's distress is a painful consciousness of guilt. It is conscience that wrings the wormwood for him into every cup of sorrow. It is remorse for past transgression that turns his tears into gall and makes his persecutions intolerable. Pure and innocent, he might defy his enemies, he might glory in tribulations. But he is forced to regard the wicked as God's sword for the punishment of his sins; and in all his pleadings we hear the voice of the penitent—sad confessions, bitter self-reproaches, touching appeals to the mercy of Heaven. "Lord, what wait I for? My hope is in thee. Deliver me from my transgressions; make me not a reproach of the foolish.... Remove thy stroke away from me; I am consumed by the blow of thy hand."[7] "Deliver me out of the mire, and let me not sink. Let not the water-flood overflow me, neither let the deep swallow me up. Hear me, O Lord! for thy loving-kindness is good. Turn unto me, according to the multitude of thy tender mercies; and hide not thy face from thy servant, for I am in trouble. Hear me speedily."[8]

A good man, we all know, may be surprised by temptation, and so fall into grievous sin. Thus some of God's holiest servants have committed enormous crimes. Not the single or occasional act, however, constitutes character; but the habit of a man's life—his dominant impulse and prevailing tendency. To judge St. Peter, for example, by the one solitary instance of defection, were manifestly unfair; when his whole course, up to that moment, and ever afterward, was marked by uncompromising fidelity to the Master, with the most heroic daring and enduring in his service. Far more just were it to estimate the man by the tears which he wept when the reproving glance brought home the guilt to his conscience, and by his subsequent earnest endeavors to undo the evil he had done and honor the Saviour he had denied.

Apply this principle to the royal penitent. Who ever more truly loved God, or more honestly sought to serve him? Was not holy obedience the tenor and tendency of his life? If he erred in numbering the people—if he took Uriah's wife to his bosom, and slew the husband to conceal the crime—it was under the power of peculiar temptation, which we, having never experienced, are quite incapable of estimating; and those deplorable deeds are the only recorded exceptions—the manifest violent contradictions—to a long life of singular piety, purity and uprightness. And now, made sensible of his sin, mark you how bitterly he grieves for it, and how earnestly he groans for its forgiveness:—

"Have mercy upon me, O God! according to thy loving-kindness; according to the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight; that thou mayest be justified when thou speakest, and be clear when thou judgest.... Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Make me to hear joy and gladness, that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice. Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities. Create in me a clean heart, O God! and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from thy presence, and take not thy Holy Spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation, and uphold me with thy free Spirit. Then will I teach transgressors thy ways, and sinners shall be converted unto thee. Deliver me from blood-guiltiness, O God! thou God of my salvation! and my tongue shall sing aloud of thy righteousness."[9]

What keen remorse and penitential shame are here! Was there ever a more ingenuous confession, a more thorough contrition, a more profound humility, or a more utter self-despair? The royal sinner seems to see the sin in all its hideousness, and to hate it with unutterable hatred. He seeks no subterfuge, attempts no extenuation; but charges the guilt home, with all its aggravations, upon his own soul. Never can he forgive his folly, nor weep tears, enough to express his sorrow for the fault.

Would to Heaven we might all thus feel our guilt, and haste to the shelter of the divine mercy! Sinners—great sinners—are we all. Is there one of us that has not sinned more deeply than David ever did? And, instead of being an exceptional act, our sin has been the habit of our lives. Justice, with double-flaming sword, is hard upon our heels. What shall we do, or whither turn, for safety? To thee, O Crucified Love! we come; and, with broken hearts, cast ourselves down at thy feet. All other saviours we renounce: all other merits we disclaim; all other sacrifices we abjure. Thou of God art made unto us wisdom, righteousness, sanctification, and redemption. Perishing, we implore thy mercy. Take us to the arms that were stretched upon the cross. Hide us in the heart that was opened by the soldier's spear. When we faint in the valley of the shadow of death, let us feel the assuring pressure of the nail-pierced hand. When the heavens are flaming above and the earth is dissolving beneath, "be thou our strong rock, for a house of defence to save us"!

V.

PARENTAL DISCIPLINE.[1]

His sons made themselves vile, and he restrained them not.—1 Sam. iii. 13.

Few things in the Bible are more beautiful than the child-life of Samuel. A gift of the loving God to a devout but sorrowful woman, his mother gladly gave him back to the Giver, and he ministered before the Lord in the sanctuary at Shiloh. At that time Eli was both high-priest and magistrate in Israel. As a man of God, and to him much more than a father, Samuel seems to have loved him very tenderly and honored him very highly. To ease himself somewhat of his onerous duties, perhaps, Eli had raised his two sons, Hophni and Phinehas, to the dignity of the priesthood. In the exercise of their sacred trust, the young men had committed great excesses and abuses. From all sides the fact came to the ears of their father. Sweetly and gently he remonstrated with the offenders, but neglected to hold them back with the strong hand of parental authority. Probably from the first there had been some radical defect in the moral discipline of the family. An amiable and indulgent father, Eli had neglected the severer duty which his sacred office, even more than his paternal relation, imposed upon him. To make him sensible of his great delinquency, the guilt of his sons must be brought home upon his hoary head.

Samuel is commissioned to announce to him the heavy tidings, that God will judge his house forever, because "his sons made themselves vile, and he restrained them not."

In the outset, we cannot help observing the difference between the sons of Eli and his little ward. Samuel received his first lessons from the lips of a godly mother in the quiet home at Ramah. From his earliest consciousness he knew that he was to be a Nazarite, consecrated wholly to the service of Jehovah. His special training afterward in the house of the Lord was well adapted to fit him for the grand career before him. The gross misconduct of some who ought to have set him the best example must have wounded deeply his innocent heart, while it impressed him strongly with the deadly evil of sin and the mischief resulting inevitably from the relaxation of morals among the rulers of the people and the ministers of religion. Growing up in daily contact with the mysteries and symbols of the divine service, the sacred ritual which was to Hophni and Phinehas merely an empty form was to him replete with the spirit and power of holiness, elevating his thoughts, purifying his feelings, and moulding his whole character to its noble design. The names and things with which he was constantly occupied conformed him gradually but unalterably to God's gracious purpose, and made him the steadfast and uncompromising servant of the Most High—the man to reprove, rebuke, exhort, instruct the people—to retrieve losses, restore justice, reform abuses, assuage excitements, reduce chaos to order, establish the schools of the prophets, and wield a controlling power over the throne. Such a ministry required a character of steady growth, and the personal influence of a consistent and holy life. None of your modern revivals could ever have made a Samuel.

True it is, indeed, that some of God's most eminent servants—as St. Paul and St. Augustine—were converted in manhood, after a wasted youth of sin and crime; yet such instances are no real exceptions to the rule, that God directs the training of his servants from childhood, shaping his instruments by every act of his providence. St. Paul was thoroughly educated in the rabbinical learning of his day, and well acquainted with Greek literature and Greek philosophy, and so far prepared for his Christian apostleship to both Jews and Gentiles; and the logical and rhetorical studies of St. Augustine unconsciously made him the great Christian dialectician that he was, while the sensual indulgences of his earlier years intensified his knowledge both of the power of sin and the efficacy of divine grace which he was to preach to others. Generally, the Lord's most honored servants, like Samuel, have been chosen from their childhood, and nourished up for their special ministry under the hallowed influence of his truth and worship. Some of them, it is true, were afterward for a while occupied in other callings, before they went to their divinely appointed labor. Moses was a shepherd in the very wilderness through which he was to lead the Lord's beloved, and on the very mountain where he was to receive for them a law from the lips of God. David also was a shepherd, and a musician, and a warrior, and a fugitive, and an outcast from his country; and by all these conditions and experiences was he trained for his future pre-eminence, as the king of Israel, and the psalmist of the sanctuary, and the man after God's own heart. And Chrysostom was a lawyer, and Ambrose was a civilian and a prefect, and Cyprian was a professor of rhetoric, before they entered upon their nobler life-work for Christ and the Church. In all these cases, to which many others might be added, God's good providence wisely ordered the discipline of his servants, through knowledge, and sorrow, and conflict, and a great variety of experiences, out of which were developed those characters and qualities which were essential to their success in the high calling for which they were designed. And so with the holy Baptist, chosen to be the immediate harbinger of the Messiah; and the Galilæan fishermen, whom he afterward ordained as his apostles; and Timothy, appointed the first bishop of Ephesus; and Luther, the destined sword of Heaven to Papal Rome. And so it was with Samuel, from his very birth consecrated to God, growing up in the house of the Lord, becoming the prophet and judge of his people, the invincible champion of truth and righteousness; with such heroic energy maintaining the authority of the divine law, rebuking iniquity in high places, withstanding the current of the national degeneracy, and like an angel of God pronouncing the doom of a fallen monarch, that "all Israel even from Dan to Beersheba knew that Samuel was established to be a prophet of the Lord."

To return to Eli and his sons. The father's fault seems to have been too much indulgence, too much tenderness, perhaps too much timidity, to restrain his consecrated lads from their wicked practices. The power he had, but would not assert it. The father's authority in his family at that age of the world was absolute and unquestionable. This fact leaves Eli's conduct without excuse. He remonstrated with the offenders, but far too feebly. Their crimes were of the very worst character, and aggravated by their sacred profession and holy environments; yet he had for them but a few soft and gentle words, scarcely strong enough to be called a reproof, without any assertion of authority as father, high-priest, or judge. One of our best biblical critics renders the text: "His sons made themselves accursed, and he frowned not upon them."

But while we animadvert upon the guilty negligence of Eli, let no parent plead the different customs of our day, the higher civilization of the race, or the diminished degree of parental authority, as an excuse for his own delinquency. Every father and mother are responsible for the moral restraint of the children that God has given them, and fearful beyond all estimate must be the consequences of disregarding the duty. Such is the tendency of human nature to evil, that it begins to show itself ordinarily at a very early period of life, and the utmost care should be taken to check it in its first manifestations. For this purpose it may be necessary to interpose the strength of the parental will in curbing the will of the child. Those who are taught from their infancy to submit their own will to the will of father or mother are more likely in later life to yield themselves to the will of God. The wise mother of the Wesleys has left on record these words for our guidance in this important matter: "In order to form the mind of the child, the first thing to be done is to conquer the will and bring it into an obedient temper. This is the only strong and rational foundation of a religious education, without which both precept and example will be ineffectual. As self-will is the root of all sin and misery, so whatever cherishes this in children insures their after wretchedness and irreligion, and whatever checks and mortifies it promotes their future happiness and piety." Who will presume to question this statement? And if correct, is not Robert Hall's remark equally true—that "indulgent parents are cruel to their children and to posterity"?

But who can calculate the consequences? The fallow ground left unsown is soon sown by the winds with every vagrant seed of evil. One sin leads to another, the less generally to the greater; and by the inception of a single wrong principle in childhood, the young man who might have been a model of virtue becomes a curse to society, and the young woman who ought to have proved a priceless jewel turns out a mere package of dry goods if not something worse. True, these moral wrecks may possibly be recovered by converting grace; but such cases are extremely uncommon, and when they do occur they are regarded as miracles of mercy; and often, alas! the effect is as evanescent as the morning cloud and early dew. Generally, those who have grown up without religious restraint go on still in their trespasses, living without God and dying without hope.

"As in individuals, so in nations," writes the Rev. Charles Kingsley, "unbridled indulgence of the passions must produce, and does produce, frivolity, effeminacy, slavery to the appetite of the moment, a brutalized and reckless temper, before which prudence, energy, national feeling, any and every feeling which is not centred in self, perishes utterly. The old French noblesse gave a proof of this law which will last as a warning beacon to the end of time.... It must be so. The national life is grounded on the life of the family, is the development of it; and where the root is corrupt, the tree must be corrupt also." A fearful truth for the contemplation of Christian patriotism! Imagine an utter indifference to the morals of the rising generation all at once to prevail throughout the country, and all efforts for the spiritual culture of the young suddenly to cease; would not the frightful ruin rush over the land with the rapidity of an avalanche and the ubiquity of a deluge, instant and everywhere, in your highways and your byways, at your altars and your hearths, sweeping before it every thing pure and lovely—every thing valuable to existence, precious to recollection, or cheering in the visions of hope?

This side of the subject is not pleasing; let us look at the obverse. No moral maxim is sounder than that of the royal sage: "Train up a child in the way that he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." The principles of virtue early implanted insure the future saint and hero. A thoroughly good character impressed upon youth cleaves to the man forever.

Exceptions, indeed, there may be—very saddening and disheartening exceptions. It does sometimes happen that those who seem at least to have been brought up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord subsequently decline from the way of wisdom and become vicious in their lives. But such cases are too rare to affect the rule. And in these instances, is it not likely that we are deceived often by appearances? May not the religious culture have been radically defective in its principle or culpably incomplete in its process? Was not the child committed to incompetent hands, that marred the character they should have made; or abandoned to the influence of an evil world, and exposed to the contagion of bad example, before his virtuous principles were sufficiently confirmed and fortified? An accurate knowledge of all the facts would no doubt develop some capital defect in the education; would show something essential omitted, or something of evil mingled with the good, some base alloy blended with the pure metal, some infant viper coiled unseen among the buddings and bloomings of spring.

But I have the confidence to affirm that apostasy from the principles of a good Christian education very seldom occurs—so seldom, indeed, that the instances might almost be pronounced anomalous. It is a maxim attested by general if not universal experience, that upon the qualities acquired in childhood depends the character of manhood and old age. Childhood is the period of docility and impressibility, when habits of thought and feeling are formed with the greatest facility; and such habits, once formed, are extremely difficult to destroy; and the good wrought in the soul at that tender age, growing with its growth and strengthening with its strength, is almost invariably retained to the latest hour of life.

Ordinarily, no doubt, we are guided more by habit than by reason. To walk in the old way is much easier than to strike out a new. In this respect, taste follows the same law as thought and action. If the child has formed a taste for virtue, the potent law of habit insures its perpetuity. The virtuous taste prompts to virtuous deeds, and the virtuous deeds confirm the virtuous taste. Thus, by a reflex action, virtue proves its own conservator. Daily the habit grows stronger and the motive more efficacious. Daily the heart is more and more fortified against the assaults of temptation. Daily the world loses something of its fascination, its false maxims something of their plausibility, its apologies and solicitations something of their persuasive power.

As with the body, so with the spirit. Habitual inaction enfeebles the faculties, and renders their occasional operation inefficient and fruitless. On the contrary, by habitual exercise one becomes capable of performing with ease what were otherwise laborious and difficult, if not quite impossible. Thus the young, accustomed to resist their evil passions, will afterward keep them in due control without any very strenuous struggle; and the seeds of a pure morality, sown in early life, will strike their roots deep into the soil, and spring up in perpetual blossom and fruitage. The person is thenceforth virtuous, not without effort, but certainly with less effort than if he had never accustomed himself to virtue. The habit of virtue has made virtue amiable, and her service becomes a labor of love, her yoke easy and her burden light.

In speaking thus of the power of habit, which has been called "a second nature," I would not exclude from the process of education the agency of divine grace, nor lose sight of it as a necessary factor to the best results. Divine grace, indeed, has much to do with the formation of the habit, and must co-operate with every agency employed in the work. Without divine grace, there is nothing wise, nothing strong, nothing holy; and after all the efforts of parents, pastors, teachers—however great or however small the measure of success attained—we lift our hands to Heaven and sing:—

An infidel objected to sending his little daughter to the Sunday school, "because," said he, "they learn things there which they never forget." The infidel was a philosopher. Knowledge is indestructible. The fact or the principle once acquired is never lost. The soul's past thoughts, feelings, impressions, and operations, are its inalienable property. They are engraven upon an imperishable tablet, and no power can efface the record. Though some parts of our experience may be but dimly and vaguely remembered, and much that we have learned may seem to be irrevocably forgotten, yet the mind is in possession of a law which, when brought into action, will completely restore the entire train of its former phenomena. They are not dead, but sleeping; and we know not what event at some future day may be the trump of their resurrection. The seed that lies buried in the earth through the long and dreary winter will germinate in spring-time and fructify in summer. Therefore let us not be weary in well-doing, for in due season we shall reap if we faint not.

Christian parents! it is yours to begin at the cradle a work whose blessed influence shall extend beyond the tomb. By the principles you impart to your little ones, you insure the virtue and the Christianity of generations to come; you kindle lights to burn amidst the world's darkness when the faint glimmering of your own is gone; you adorn the living temple of the Lord with pillars of strength and beauty which shall challenge angelic admiration when all the colonnaded glories of earth's capitals are calcined by the fires of doom. To such an achievement, what are all the treasures of monarchs, and all the splendors of empire, and all the applause of heroism, and all the renown of authorship, and all the fascination of eloquence, and all the entrancing power of song?

Who has any fear of God, any love of country, any affection for his children, any regard for the welfare of posterity? By all these I implore you, and by every other consideration that ought to move the heart of man, awake to the work which Heaven enjoins and every instinct of nature urges upon you! Your time, money, knowledge, influence—how can they be better employed than in the Christian culture of the young immortals committed to your care? In the beautiful form you cherish, there is something far more beautiful—a jewel worth immeasurably more than the casket which contains it—a spirit that must live and think and feel when this planet shall have become a chaos, when out of that chaos shall have arisen the new cosmos over which Christ is to rule in righteousness forever. Shall this precious thing perish through your faithlessness to so sublime a trust? Shall harps be wanting in heaven, and white-robed ministrants before the throne, through the recreancy of any bearing the Christian name and honored with the title of father or mother? What is reason's estimate of the parental tenderness which provides so laboriously for the body, but totally neglects the soul—which regards so sedulously the interests of time, but utterly overlooks the concerns of eternity? To see your little ones wandering unrestrained in the broad way to ruin, or trained for this world only, as if there were not another beyond—oh! is it not enough to make their guardian angels turn away their faces and weep beneath their wings?

The Church is here to help you, but she requires your co-operation. The Sunday school is here to second your endeavors, but little can that do without your countenance and contribution. Men of Israel, help! Christ calls upon you from his cross to help. Juvenile vice and blasphemy through all your streets seem imploring you to help. Will you respond to the appeal? The result may be a blessing to your own house. The recollection will warm your heart amidst the chills of death. Sweet little minstrels with crowns shall rehearse the story to you when the cemetery and the sea are delivering up their dead. Not less, perhaps, than the eloquent preacher in the great congregation, the humble teacher of an infant-class may be shedding light into the dark places of the earth—may be scattering flower-seeds and raindrops over the face of the desert. Even more, it may be, than the consecrated minister at the altar of God, the liberal contributor to this beneficent agency is kindling a holy fire which shall burn when the stars have gone out—is touching the strings of a harp that shall send its melodies through eternity. O merciful God! when the seventh trump is sounding, and the quickened dead are gathering before thy throne, let it not be said of any in this assembly—"His sons made themselves vile, and he restrained them not"!

VI.

JOY OF THE LAW.[1]

In the last day, that great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried, saying—If any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink.—John vii. 37.

At three great annual festivals all the men of all the tribes of Israel were required to appear before the Lord in Jerusalem. One of these was the Feast of Tabernacles, kept in commemoration of the sojourn of their fathers in the wilderness, and as a special thanksgiving to God after the ingathering of the autumnal harvest. Its duration was strictly seven days, from the 15th to the 22d of the month Tisri; but it was followed by a day of holy convocation, distinguished by sacrifices and peculiar observances of its own, which was sometimes called the eighth day. During the seven days the people dwelt in booths formed of the branches of the palm, the pine, the olive, the myrtle, and other trees of thick foliage; and these temporary huts lined every street of the city, and covered all the surrounding hills. The public burnt-offerings, and the private peace-offerings as well, were more numerous than those of any other of the great national festivals. The bullocks sacrificed were seventy; but besides these were offered every day two rams, fourteen lambs, and a kid for a sin-offering. The long lines of booths everywhere, and the sacrificial solemnities and processions, must have furnished a grand spectacle by day; and the lamps, the torches, the music, the joyful gatherings in the temple-courts, must have given a still more festive character to the night. No other feast of the Hebrews was half so joyous as the Feast of Tabernacles; and therefore it was eminently fitting that it should be observed, as it was, with much more than its ordinary interest at the dedication of Solomon's Temple, again by Ezra after the restoration of the sacred structure, and a third time by Judas Maccabæus when he had expelled the Syrians and re-established the true worship of Jehovah.

The seven days accomplished, the eighth was ushered in with the glad sound of trumpets, summoning the multitudes to the holy convocation. During the seven days they had offered sacrifices for the seventy nations of the earth, as well as for themselves; the eighth was Israel's own day, and the sacrifices offered were exclusively for the people of the covenant, adding to the daily offerings already mentioned a bullock, a ram, seven lambs, and a goat for a sin-offering. As soon as the morning trumpets sounded, the booths were all dismantled, and the thronging thousands from every quarter hastened to the temple. The sacrifice was already on the altar, and the high-priest stood by in his more than regal array, with his numerous white-robed ministers. A priestly procession entered at the Water-gate, bringing water in a golden vessel from the neighboring Pool of Siloam. Approaching the altar, the bearer ascended the sacred slope, and delivered his burden into the hands of the high-priest; while the trumpets sent forth a joyous peal, to which the people responded with a shout that shook the city. Part of the water, mingled with wine, was then poured into the grooves of the altar around the morning sacrifice, and the rest was distributed among the attendant priests, who drank it amidst the grateful acclamations of the multitude; and finally the great choir, chanting to every instrument of music, poured forth the song of Isaiah—"With joy shall ye draw water from the wells of salvation!" This was called "the Joy of the Law;" and there is a rabbinical proverb to the effect, that he who has never witnessed it has never seen rejoicing. It was intended as a commemoration of the miracle of the smitten rock in Horeb, which the apostle tells us prefigured Christ; and it must have been just after this grand solemnity, or in connection with its impressive evening compline, that "Jesus stood and cried, saying—If any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink."

Here are four things full of instruction for us—the time, the speaker, the manner, and the invitation. In these we shall find the very marrow of the gospel, worth more to our souls than all the revelations of science and all the speculations of philosophy. Let us give them earnest and devout attention, and may God grant us the aid of his grace!

First, the time is to be noticed. "In the last day, that great day of the feast"—when there was present a vast concourse of the people. Three million have been counted in attendance at the Feast of Tabernacles. What an audience, what an inspiration, for an orator! How would Cicero have triumphed before such an assembly! Jesus needed no such impulse. His mind was ever full of light, his heart overflowing with love. He wanted but the opportunity to pour forth his divine speech upon the people, and surely he never had a better than now. How did his doctrine distil as the dew, as the small rain upon the tender herb, and the showers upon the grass! Great lesson for his servants, who ought to make their Master their model, and let no good occasion slip for pouring the light of life into benighted souls!

"In the last day, that great day of the feast"—when they were occupied with the most interesting observances of the national solemnity. Another might have said: "They will not hear me; they are too much absorbed to listen." Jesus was a better philosopher. Conscious of his own power, he knew perfectly the hearts of men. Never could his hearers recall the Joy of the Law, without recollecting the voice, the figure, the beaming countenance, of the strange young rabbi from Galilee, who stood forth in the midst of the great congregation, and dropped such heavenly words into their hearts. "Who was he? What meant he? Could any mere mortal have spoken so? Is the Messiah at length come? Let us seek him again, and hear more from those marvellous lips!" Another grand lesson for his servants, who ought to study to environ their teachings with associations which cannot fail, with every happy hour, by every happy memory, to recall the truths they have uttered and revive the impressions produced by their preaching.

"In the last day, that great day of the feast"—when the pleasant season was drawing to its close, and the people were ready to disperse and return to their respective homes. The last words of a dear departing friend linger long in the memory. The last utterances of a dying father or mother cannot soon be effaced from the mind of the child. The last sermon of a loved and honored pastor, before he leaves us to feed another flock, may impress us more profoundly than any thing he ever said to us before. The mere fact that it is the last time, that we may never see that face again, never again hear that familiar voice, brings home the truth with a vivid power, which can hardly fail to make it effective, even with those who have hitherto heard with indifference. Many who are now listening to our Lord will never listen to him again. Before another Feast of Tabernacles they may be in their graves, or he in heaven. To some present he may have preached many sermons, but will never preach another. It is their last opportunity, which seals up their account to the judgment. How must the thought have wrought upon a mind like his! what earnestness given to every word! what tenderness to every tone! Touching lesson again for us, my brethren! who ought to preach every Lord's Day as if it were our last! as if Death stood beside us saying—"Shoot thou God's arrows, and I will shoot mine!" as if the peal of doom were already ringing in our ears, and the graves around us delivering up their dead!

Next, the speaker is to be observed. It is Jesus, the Saviour, heralded by prophets, escorted by angels, proclaimed by the Eternal Father with an audible voice from heaven. A divine teacher, he comes to preach the acceptable year of the Lord—an incarnation of the Father's love, to unfold the secrets of the Father's heart to sinners, and make known the purpose of his tender mercy in their salvation. Throughout Galilee, and Judæa, and some of the neighboring provinces, he has already gone, preaching the kingdom of heaven and calling the people to repentance. He speaks as one having authority, and not as the scribes. Everywhere miracles attest his mission, and demonstrate his doctrine. The wisdom of his words is too much for the cunning sophistry of his enemies, and an eloquence of sublime simplicity forces conviction upon unwilling minds and takes the hearts of thousands captive. And now, in the temple, on one of the most popular occasions of religious worship and festivity, he is speaking to the people of things pertaining to their eternal peace. Can any who hear him ever forget those gracious utterances? "Happy souls!" methinks I hear you say, "happy souls, to have listened to such a teacher! Could I have been there! Could I have heard but once for half an hour! How eagerly would I have listened! how gladly responded to his invitation!"