Through this visible and sometimes darkened life, it was intended that the brightness of the soul should shine; and that it should shine through all its surrounding cares and labours. The humblest life which any one of us leads may be what has been expressively denominated "the life of God in the soul." It may hold a felt connection with its infinite source. It may derive an inexpressible sublimity from that connection. Yes, my Brethren, there may be something of God in our daily life; something of might in this frail inner man; something of immortality in this momentary and transient being.

This mind-I survey it with awe, with wonder— encompassed with flesh, fenced around with barriers of sense; yet it breaks every bound, and stretches away, on every side, into infinity. It is not upon the line only of its eternal duration, that it goes forth, forth from this day of its new annual period, through the periods of immortality; but its thoughts, like diverging rays, spread themselves abroad and far, far into the boundless, the immeasurable, the infinite. And these diverging rays may be like cords to lift up to heaven. What a glorious thing, then, is this life! To know its wonderful Author; to bring down wisdom from the eternal stars; to bear upward its homage, its gratitude, its love to the Ruler of all worlds; what glory in the created universe is there, surpassing this? "Thou crownest it, says the Psalmist, thou crownest it with glory and honour; thou hast made it a little lower than the angelic life."

Am I asked, then, what is life? I say, in answer, that it is good. God saw and pronounced that it was good, when he made it. Man feels that it is good when he preserves it. It is good in the unnumbered sources of happiness around it. It is good in the ten

thousand buoyant and happy affections within it. It is good in its connection with infinite goodness, and in its hope of infinite glory beyond it. True, our life is frail in its earthly state, and it has often bowed down with earthly burthens; but still it endures and revives and flourishes; still it is redeemed from destruction, and crowned with loving kindness and tender mercy. Frail too, and yet strong is it, in its heavenly nature. The immortal is clothed with mortality; and the incorruptible with corruption. It is like an instrument formed for heavenly melody; whose materials were taken indeed, from the mouldering and unsightly forest; but lo! the hand of the artificer has been upon it; it is curiously wrought; it is fearfully and wonderfully made; it is fashioned for every tone of gladness and triumph. It may be relaxed, but it can be strung again. It may send forth a mournful strain; but it is formed also for the music of heavenly joy. Even its sadness is "pleasing and mournful to the soul." Even suffering is hallowed and dear. Life has that value, that even misery cannot destroy it. It neutralizes grief, and makes it a source of deep and sacred interest. Ah! holy hours of suffering and sorrow; hours of communion with the great and triumphant Sufferer; who that has passed through your silent moments of prayer and resignation and trust, would give you up, for all the brightness of prosperity ?

Am I still asked what is life? I answer, that it is a great and sublime gift. Those felicitations with which this renewed season of it is welcomed, are but a fit tribute to its value, and to the gladness which belongs to it. "Happy," says the general voice, “happy New-Year!" to all who live to see it. Life is felt to be a great and gracious boon, by all who enjoy its light; and this is not too much felt. It is the wonder

ful creation of God; and it cannot be too much admired. It is light sprung from void darkness; it is power waked from inertness and impotence; it is being created from nothing; well may the contrast enkindle wonder and delight. It is a stream from the infinite and overflowing goodness; and from its first gushing forth to its mingling with the ocean of eternity, that goodness attends it. Yes: life, despite of all that cynics or sentimentalists say, is a great and glorious gift. There is gladness in its infant voices. There is joy in the buoyant step of its youth. There is deep satisfaction in its strong maturity. There is holy peace in its quiet age. There is good for the good; there is virtue for the faithful; there is victory for the valiant. There is spirituality for the spiritual; and, there is, even in this humble life, an infinity for the boundless in desire. There are blessings upon its birth; there is hope in its death; and there is-to consummate all-there is eternity in its prospect.

As I have discoursed upon this theme, it is possible that some may have thought that it has nothing to do with religion; that it is a subject merely for fine sentiments and for nothing more. Let me tell such a thinker that this subject has not only much to do with religion every way, but that it furnishes, in fact, a test of our religion. To the low-minded, debased and sensual, this life must, doubtless, be something very poor, indifferent and common-place; it must be a beaten path, a dull scene, shut in on every side, by the earthly, palpable, and gross. But break down the barriers of sense; open the windows of faith; fling wide the gates that darken the sensual world, and let the light of heaven pour in upon it; and then what is this life? How changed is it! how new! a new heavens, indeed, and a new earth. Yes, this earth which binds one

man in chains, is to the other, the starting place, the goal of immortality. This earth which buries one man in the rubbish of dull cares and wearying vanities, is to the other, the lofty mount of meditation, where heaven and infinity and eternity are spread before him and around him. Yes, my friend, the life thou leadest, the life thou thinkest of, is the interpreter of thine inward being. Such as life is to thee, such thou art. If it is low and mean, and base, if it is a mere money-getting or pleasure-seeking or honour-craving life, so art thou. Be thou lofty-minded, pure and holy; and life shall be to thee the beginning of heaven, the threshold of immortality.

XVI.

LIFE'S CONSOLATIONS IN VIEW OF DEATH.

JESUS SAID UNTO HER, I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE.-John xi. 25

THESE words, my brethren, so stupendous in their import, so majestic in their tone; when and where were they uttered? They were uttered in a world of the dying; in a world which is the tomb of all past generations; in a world from whose dreary caverns, from whose dark catacombs, and alike from whose proud mausoleums and towering pyramids, no word ever issued that spake of any thing but death. They were uttered in an hour, when bereavement, dimmed with tears and fainting with sorrow, was sighing for help more than human.

It was at Bethany. You remember the affecting story of Mary, and Martha her sister, and of Lazarus their brother. So simply and truly is it told, that it seems as if it were the relation of what had taken place in any village around us. "Now a certain man, named Lazarus of Bethany, was sick." How does such an event, when it becomes sufficiently marked with peril to attract attention, spread anxiety and apprehension through a whole neighbourhood. Life pauses, and is suspended on the result. "Lazarus was sick." What fears, watchings, and agonies of solicitude, hover around the sick man's couch; none but the inmates of his dwelling can know. It was in such an emergency that Mary and Martha, fearful and trou