departing, and the tide of joyous life was fast ebbing into the sea of eternity? Or who hath not seen her sun in its rising beauty, or noonday glory, as the last sand of earthly existence fell? And who that witnessed it, hath not felt for the moment an added pang, through the contrast between the brightness of the world without, and the gloom of the clouded mind. Yet why should not the sun shine brightly still, and nature put on her garments of beauty? For a deeper reflec.. tion tells us no law can be violated; that is to say, no blessed design of providence can be hindered, when these early graves are filled. Why should not the unclouded light of heaven fall upon the tomb, where the early dead are resting? For it is a fitting expression of the true lesson of the providence we are witnessing. Nature smiles over the grave, as around the unbroken circles of human affection. No star is lost from the sky. No ray of light fails. The song of birds doth not cease. All the works of God are the same. Every thing blooms as before, though we are fallen from peace. Whatever is passive to the will of God remains unchanged. Only in man's soul, it is dark. Is it not a sweet expression of the lesson of an equal trust to the human heart, descending from the Heavens, ascending from the Earth, in unnumbered forms? Does it not seem to say, God designs to besiege the soul by this all-encom

passing host of His ministering spirits, until it should surrender its every thought of gloom?

And the voice of Christianity comes interpreting and confirming these bright lessons of nature. It comes a thousand fold more blessedly, in its words of sympathy; mingling with our griefs as no voice of nature mingles with them, in that Divine Sufferer, whose experience pierced the depths of human trial, so that we verily feel "he knew what was in man." And yet it causes a sun to rise upon the soul more glorious than the sun in the heaven, which may grow dim with age; a sun to which there can be no more light. Here is the teaching which meets us, and deifies us too; which stoops to us, in whatever depth of sadness or unworthiness we may be, with an equal love, and woos us to repose in the Father's bosom; which lifts its voice forever over all the troubled scenes of human life, to say, "Come unto me, ye heavy laden, and I will give you rest." It comes, weeping indeed with those who weep, yet hushing every expression of unmingled sadness, and telling us to sing only the song of victorious trust over the graves of the early departed!

The lesson is ever the same, and ever dear. The only, but alas, the greater difficulty is, to make the bright thoughts that may gleam over us transiently, in the moments of most trustful medi

tation, profound sentiments, abiding undisturbed in the deep places of the heart. The difficulty remains, to make these occasional recognitions of brighter truths, a perpetual sunlight. And we are sometimes tempted to regard that difficulty with a kind of despondency. Christianity has been proclaiming its bright revelations through long centuries, yet the deep gloom once resting upon the grave before the Redeemer rolled the stone from its door, seems still to settle deep and heavily upon the general feeling of the Christian world. Even the law of death itself, in its general application, we are not yet advanced enough to see in the light of a Christian faith. Ah, much less are we able to explain the special trial its operation occasionally brings, through our abiding confidence in its universal, and unspeakable benignity. It is not in these poor shadowy convictions we often dignify by the name of faith, to help us. They can dry no tears. They have no voice of power to calm the troubled waves of the agitated heart. The lesson we say is one, and the exhortation is also one. Trust not in such convictions to aid you.

Live in the thought

of God's love until that faith come, which is an anchor to the soul, sure and steadfast."

11

The Duty of the Hour.

JOHN XVII: 4. "I have finished the work, Thou gavest

me to do."

ONE qualification of this declaration must be made, even when it is heard from the lips of Jesus. The work given him to do was not accomplished, in any sense implying a complete fulfilment of the Father's redeeming purpose. Gethsemane, with its agony, then close at hand-the cross and its sacrifice, where Jesus said again, "It is finished." These were the commencement, not the end of the great ministry of mercy. That life and death of the Son of God simply laid the corner stone of the great temple of truth and holiness, one day to be built on sure foundations, even in this misguided and sinful world. It was not raised at that hour, in a christianised and regenerated earth, the abode of good will and peace. Ah! not yet is it seen, charming all nations by its beauty, constraining mankind to come there and worship. The spiritual kingdom was not established, nor the spiritual King acknowledged then. For instead of being hailed as Messiah, and anointed by the outpouring of gratitude from a redeemed world, he was robed in purple, only in mockery; he was only crowned with thorns.

It was not the accomplishment of his redeeming purpose that led Jesus to say, "the work given me to do is finished." His holy truth, that new-born child of heaven, was left in its infancy when he ascended. It could only be cradled as in a manger then, because there was no room for it yet in the heart of the world. It was in prophecy, and not in actual fact, the work was said to be finished. Ah! the great work itself was not accomplished when the words of the text fell upon the ear of the disciples, nor was the direct agency of Jesus in its promotion, ended then. "He ever liveth to make intercession for us," is the declaration of Holy Scripture. It is the conviction of the believing heart; the sweet assurance of the soul. For a love like that in Jesus could no more change its nature when it crossed the narrow sea of death, than when it passed into new and varied scenes during its earthly ministry. It became more intense as it ascended into heaven, to sit on the right hand of the Father. Jesus did not breathe his last prayer for sinning men, when he implored forgiveness for the crucifiers. His intercedings did not cease, when his voice of love was heard no more on earth. His ministry was not closed when he vanished from the disciples' sight. As he told them in the conversation whence the text is taken, he went away, to enter upon a mightier agency; to pour out the all-sustaining, the all-illuminating Comforter upon their souls.