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be the object of a universal and spiritual affection—a Jesus known to the senses rather than to the soul. And so, while God gave us an historical Christ on whom our faith could rest, He made the history but a moment in the heart of His invisible and eternal being, that we might be compelled to love Him, if we loved Him at all, in spirit and in truth.

It is, perhaps, not too much to say that the disciples never loved Christ aright till He became invisible. Their love had much of the intensity and selfishness of passion, co-existed with much self-seeking and jealousy. Perhaps the lying upon the Master's breast at supper had something to do with John's loveperhaps, too, something with the apostasy of Judas; it may have caused in the others heartburning, and a little criticism of the ungenerous sort. There was certainly much of the instinctive in Mary's affection, and possibly it mingled in the love of the other women. But when Jesus ascended all this was changed. Their affections were enlarged and clarified. Jealousy perished for ever; love celestial and serene was born in their hearts, each man feeling that he who loved most was best.

Note, now, how this invisibility enables the mind to glorify, to idealize Jesus, as the object of its love. The senses are very prosaic and tyrannical. They see but a little way into a man, and retain only what of him is superficial and transient. The image of Christ that haunted the disciples would be very unequal, one of blended power and weakness, glory and shame. He would rise in their memories now as a weary man, sitting on Jacob's well, or asleep in the hinder part of the ship, and again as a mighty God, feeding the

hungry multitude, or stilling the tempest. Now, He would be seen amid the glories of the transfiguration, or in the ascension stepping into His cloudy chariot, and anon, in the agonies of the garden, amid the mockeries of the judgment-hall, or the shame of the cross. And this changing, marred image of the Saviour would tyrannize over their hearts; would hinder their love from rising into the most perfect ideal form. But in our case there is no such hindrance. We enjoy the privilege of never having seen Jesus. Ours is the blessedness of those whose eyes have never beheld the marred visage, whose fingers have never felt the wounds. The memory of weakness, or shame, or death, never troubles our love. The Saviour we know is one whose griefs are past, whose glories have come, "whom having not seen we love."

Imagination should often come to the help of love. What is often pictured or imaged to the mind becomes to the mind more real. When the heart looks at its object through the imagination, that object becomes more defined and loveable. Think of the emigrant in an infant colony, suffering hardship, discomfort, isolation does not the old home, when, in the quiet pensive hours, it creeps into the study of his imagination, glow in a soft, sweet light, a glory unknown to common day? Does not the loved, lost mother appear adorned with every grace, and the father apparelled in every virtue? Does not boyhood, too, gleam to the old man, when he recalls the meadows on which he played, the hills over which he roamed, the adventures in which he joined, with a light such as the sun never threw from its burning face? And since imagination can lend a brilliance of hue, a splendour of colour to

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the objects of time, calling forth deeper and tenderer love, why not to the Object at once of sacred memory and eternal hope-the invisible Saviour? Let us imagine Him as the centre of the moral universe, the object of celestial praise, the orb round which all the hosts of heaven cluster and circle and sing, and then think, "We too can love Jesus, our hearts have as good a right to love Him as the heart of the highest angel, or the oldest saint;" or let us imagine how many human beings have loved Him, and what that love has enabled them to do, how it has strengthened, almost transfigured, the martyr at the stake and the prisoner in his dungeon; how it has moved the tempted man to do right, the afflicted to bear suffering, the dying to die in peace, and then think, "We can feel the same love, and all that it has done for others it can do for us." Imagination thus picturing all the excellencies of Jesus, His character, achievements, and glory, will fill the mind with His image, bring Him nearer to the heart, and make Him a more real, loveable, Divine-human Person, round whom our affections can gather, He whom, not having seen, we yet love.

The love of the invisible Jesus may thus be developed in us like any other normal affection, and our growth in grace will be commensurate with this development. Here we may note God's wisdom and goodness in thus enlisting our natural capacities on the side of our own eternal interests. In his own wise way, old Archbishop Leighton saith, "Grace doth not pluck up by the roots, and wholly destroy the natural passions of the mind, because they are distempered by sin; that were an extreme remedy, to cure by killing, and heal by cutting off. No, but it corrects the dis

temper in them; it dries not up this main stream of love, but purifies it from the mud it is full of in its wrong course, or calls it to its right channel, by which it may run into happiness, and empty itself into the ocean of goodness." It is little wonder that weak human love should grow to something excellent and sublime when its object is the invisible Christ.

3. But can we define this love? What are its constituent elements? Love, like light, seems simple, but is in truth compound. In a simple beam of white light there are varied colours. Pass the beam through a prism and it breaks into those bright and dark hues that blend so beautifully in the rainbow. The beam is one, yet several, each constituent colour being necessary to its very existence. The sombre softens and tones the light that it may not be a fierce glare, painful to the eye, withering to nature; the brilliant intensify and brighten the light that it may extinguish darkness, and be the glorious robe that envelops our earth, and makes it beautiful with the green of spring, or the glories of summer, or the mellow hues of autumn. So love has its essential elements, each complementary to the other, and all combining to give it real and ample being-goodwill, approbation, delight, desire, and trust. Where any of these is not, love cannot be. There must be goodwill, the desire to promote the happiness of the object loved. Hate strives to injure, love to benefit-the one bans, the other blesses. Hate is wretched when the person hated is happy, but love rejoices in its object's joy. It is like the sun shining upon the earth, and charming it into fertility and beauty, fruits and flowers. Then there must be approbation. Affection directed to one whose cha

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racter can only merit our disapproval may be mercy, or pity, or sympathy, or instinct, or fancy, but is not love. Approbation is simply moral admiration, and what we cannot admire our spirit cannot love. Then there is delight-delight in the society and favour of the person loved. Love and fear are incompatible. There is no love in fear, as there is no fear in love. Where the society of a person is not enjoyed, his favour not desired, his influence not welcomed, affection after a sort may be possible, but love is impossible. Another essential element is desire-the desire of possession. We long for what delights us. We desire what pleases. Love stretches out its hand to grasp its object, extends its arms to embrace. And finally, to crown and complete the emotion, there must be trust. Suspicion begets dislike-trust fosters love, where suspicion enters love departs; where trust dwells, there love soon enters to abide.

Now these elements are pre-eminently necessary in our love of Christ. Where they are not, it cannot be. He who loves Christ must have the goodwill to Him which seeks every opportunity to further His cause, extend His influence, and enlarge His kingdom ; the approbation which admires His character as "the chief among ten thousand," and "the altogether lovely;" the delight that rejoices in the Lord always, and waiteth for Him "more than they that watch for the morning"; the desire that cries, "As the hart panteth after the waterbrooks, so pants my soul after Thee, O God"; the trust in His Word, in Himself, which says, Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him." Do all these elements live in our affection for Him? Alas! how often do we love, as we know, only in part.