the dishonoured head of your Saviour, crowned with thorns! behold his hands and his feet! consider with deep astonishment those angry wounds! mark well the last death-struggle of the slaughtered Lamb of God; and then say-Is there nothing in all this? Is Christ to be considered merely the victim of popular fury and unjust condemnation? Ah! conclude not so unworthily concerning the Divine Martyr! The suffering Lord of glory dies in your cause and mine. "He was wounded for our transgressions; he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed."

O thou King of sufferings, Son of the Blessed, we have done all this; our sins have wrought Thee all this indignity. That reproach, which belonged eternally to us, has broken thy benevolent heart. They, who thus furiously rushed against thy condemned person, were only, with all their guilt, were only accomplices with us; or rather, they were the immediate instruments, but our sins dealt out to Thee those daring, those insulting blows! Yes, my readers, your sins and mine. Then what have we to do any more with sin? shall we cherish that seed of the serpent? Nay, with the help of our sinless Saviour's grace, we will henceforth and utterly renounce it; we will labour to escape from its most distant approaches; we will avoid to the uttermost all its occasions; we will keep no terms with sin; we will know neither end nor moderation in our abhorence of it; we would never more seek excuses and allowances for its entertainment in any wise; we would slay so vile a murderer; and straightway by the power of the Holy Ghost, sin shall lose its dominion, shall weaken more and more every day in its very existence; and in respect of all wilful indulgence, shall perish like a detested felon under the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. What chief use then shall we make of this grand and leading doctrine of Christ dying for our sins?" Shall we join the outcry of the Jewish people, and say, "His blood be on us and on our children ?" Yes, we would, though with a far different meaning; we would not indeed offer ourselves as advocating the most guilty circumstances of the

death of Christ; we would not stand directly answerable for that deed of blood: with reference to the simple fact of the Crucifixion, we would rather have persuaded ourselves (according to the well-known advice of the wife of the Judean governor) to have nothing to do with that just person.

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But in respect of the saving doctrine, which springs from the Saviour's death as from a fountain newly opened, in respect of God's eternal design of mercy, substantially accomplished in Christ crucified, we would join that outcry, with deep repentance, with utmost detestation of sin, with infinite desires to inherit, through grace, the full blessedness of its best interpretation: "His blood be on us, and on our children." His blood upon us as the only price of our redemption from sin and death. His blood be upon us, applied by the Spirit of his grace, to purify our consciences from dead works to serve the living God. His blood be upon us to mark us for his own, to preserve us from the world's destruction, and to seal us for the life to come, as ransomed from among the men of this present evil world. Yes, O Thou just One, in these respects, we would have much to do with Thee; yea, we would do nothing without Thee, for without Thee we can do nothing! we would ever therefore be drawn into closest union with Thee, who art our life; we would find our only all-sufficient refuge under the sure protection of thine uplifted Cross; we would hide in thy wounds; we would seek to place ourselves under the constant efficacy of thy streaming blood; yea, more, we would share with Thee in our measure, thy sufferings, death, burial, and resurrection; we would crucify every vile affection; we would die unto sin; we would be buried with Thee in the deepest prostration of abasement and repentance, and with Thee we would rise now to universal newness of life, that we may hereafter be planted with Thee in the likeness of thy glorious resurrection. S. B.

RELEASE FROM CHURCH.

Ir chanced one Sunday afternoon that the steps of the writer were led to a village church-yard. It was a spot

of no remarkable beauty, but pleasing and retired. The church, a simple building, was mantled over with ivy, and on the tower was a large wooden clock, more useful than ornamental, not of very modern construction. Service was going on at the time: the hand of the old clock stood at twenty-five minutes after four, and though two or three hundred human beings were close by, all was hushed as still as if no one had been near. No voice or footstep but my own disturbed the silence of the hour of prayer. Better inside the church than out at such an hour, it may be said; very true,-had I not been returning from a neighbouring village, where service commenced at an earlier hour. As I approached the door the minister's voice became audible. He was just delivering the blessing, so I stepped aside into a quiet nook to be out of the way of the congregation, and to make my observations. A buzz and an opening of the door announced that the assembly had broken up. "First," cried a rude boy, as he leapt upon the porch step, and scampered down the church walk. "Second," cried another following close at his heels. "Third," squeaked a small shrill voice from a little urchin, scarce five years old, as he patted his cap to his head, and all went racing down the path, well-pleased to escape from confinement. The people soon followed; simple first, gentle afterwards; then came the minister, behind him the clerk, last of all an aged sexton; as he closed the door the ivied walls echoed to the sound, and in five minutes, the place was still and empty.

As I moved away, I could not help reflecting how disappointed the pious minister, or the pious teacher of those poor disorderly children would have felt to witness, what beyond all doubt was the genuine expression of their feelings. But are there not many grown up persons to whom it is rather a relief than otherwise when the service is over? who, if they spoke the truth, would own that they leave the church with far more alacrity than they enter it, and who think the time long and weary that is spent in the house of prayer? Now to these persons I have a few words to say, which came into my mind as I left the village church-yard that Sun

day afternoon. Picture to yourselves the clock upon the ancient tower. There are two old-fashioned hands upon it. The longer hand travels round and round the great wooden face one hundred and sixty-eight times in a week, and how many of those circles are given to public worship? Scarce four! The great wooden face is at least a yard round, so that you give about four yards of time out of a hundred and sixty-eight to public worship! You spare for God about the same proportion of the week as one farthing bears to a shilling, and you call that too much! You bring Him the widow's mite, and even that grudgingly. He asks you to go a mile, and you go a few yards, and even then are weary of his company. Would you know the reason of this? It is because your heart is not animated by the love of God. "Can two walk together except they be agreed?" If there was any reality in your prayers, if you brought your sins to God to have them forgiven, and spread your wants before Him to have them supplied, and if you followed the words of the sermon with a hearty desire to know the will of God and do it, you would not then find public worship "a weariness." It would become quite another thing. It would seem too short instead of too long; you would feel as David felt when he said, "I was glad when they said unto me, I will go into the house of the Lord;" "A day in thy courts is better than a thousand;" his temple would then be your delight, and his service perfect freedom. E. M.

THE YOUNG PRODIGAL.

O GOD, my God, I come to Thee,
Bidden by Thee I come,

With childhood's prayer on bended knee,
I seek my Father's home.

Behold! the Prodigal returns

From error's downward road,
His base ingratitude he mourns,
And gives his heart to God.

That guilty Prodigal am I,
By sin and Satan led;

Contrite like him to Thee I fly,

With sackcloth on my head.

Make me thy child! O, can it be?

If not, thy servant, Lord;
The meanest of thy family,
Obedient to thy word.

Far better, far, it is that I,

Should take the lowest seat

Within thy house, than reign on high,
With kingdoms at my feet.

EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS FROM PARIS.

S. B.

March 17, 1848.

MR. EDITOR,-I enclose some extracts from one or two letters from Paris, which I think may interest your readers, as they give some account of the sad scenes which have been acted there during these last few weeks. The letters are written by one who is accustomed to watch the workings of God's providence in the various events of life, and to trace his hand as guiding and overruling all. If it be our duty to do this at all times, surely these are days in which we should especially do so; and, warned by the calamities of others, endeavour by timely repentance to avert God's judgments from our own land. -I am, Sir, with much respect, your obedient humble E. A.

servant,

"Paris, February 28, 1848.

"I cannot wonder that you are anxious for our safety, my dear friend. Thank God, we are in a quiet part of this distracted city. I should have written sooner, but the mails have been very irregular. The mischievous people seized the mail-carts one day as they were going round for the letters; and even threw water, and otherwise injured those which had been already collected. Our first wish was to get away from these scenes of riot and bloodshed; but the railroads are torn up, and the people are so angry at the English setting off, that they will allow no more passports to be given. We have, therefore, resolved to wait quietly, if we can, for a few days. We were, indeed, taken by surprise. I knew there were many discontented and wicked spirits in Paris, and that there was much real suffering and distress amongst the poor; but I thought they would know their own interests better, than to think that revolution and