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love only that can carry us through. Love only can understand love. This only can enable us to say, we have known and believed the love that God hath to us.' We profess to believe in God, to believe in the divine perfection. But I say, my brethren, that we do not properly know what we believe in, without love to it. Love only can understand love. Love only can give to faith in divine love its proper character; and especially that character of assurance and strength which will enable us to meet, unshaken and unfaltering, the temptations and trials of life.

The principle that is to meet exigencies like these; that is to hold the long conflict with sin and sorrow; that is to sustain triumphantly the burthen of this mortal experience; must be intelligent, active, penetrating, and powerful. For the problem of this life, my brethren, is not readily nor easily to be solved. I know that there is light upon it-welcome light. But it cannot be carried into the mazes of human experience; it cannot illuminate what is dark, nor clear up what is difficult, without much reflection-and reflection upon what, if not upon the character of the ordainer of this lot?-without much reflection, I repeat, and care, every way, to the direction and posture of our own minds. It was not intended that our faith should be a passive principle; that all should be plain and easy to it; that moral light should fall upon our path, as clear, obvious, and bright as sunshine. It pleases God to try the religion of his earthly children. He would have their trust in him to be a nobler act than mere vision could be. He would have their faith grow and strengthen by severe exercise. He would say to them at last, not only "well done, good!"-but, "well done, faithful !—enter ye into the joys of your Lord: enter into joys, made dear by sorrow, made bright by the darkness you have experienced, made noble and glorious by the trying of your faith, which is more precious than gold."

I said, that the problem of this life is not readily nor easily to be solved. I can conceive that this may be an unmeaning declaration to those who have not thought much of life, to those whose lot has been easy, and whose minds have partaken of the easiness of their lot. But there are those to whom the visitation of life, to whom the visitation of thought and feeling, has been a different thing. I can believe that there are some to whom I speak, whose minds have been haunted, from their very childhood, with that mournful and touching enquiry which we used to read in our early lessons, "Child of mortality! whence comest thou?" Man is, indeed, the child of a frail, changing, mortal lot; and yet the creature of an immortal hope. We are ready to ask such a being, at whom we must wonder as it seems to me, whence camest thou, and for what end? Didst thou come, frail being! from the source of strength, and wisdom, and goodness? Why then so feeble, so unwise, so unworthy? Why art thou here, and such as thou art-so strong in grief, and so weak in fortitude! so boundless in aspiration, so poor in possession! Why art thou here?-with this strangely mingled being; so glad and so sorrowful; so earthly and so heavenly; so in love with life, and so weary of it; so eagerly clinging to life, and yet borne away by a sighing breath of the evening air! Whence, and wherefore, frail man! art thou such an one? All else is well; but with thee all is not well. The world is fair around theo; the bright and blessed sun shineth on

thee; the green and flowing fields spread far, and cheer thine eye, and invite thy footstep; the groves are full of melody; ten thousand happy creatures range freely through all the paths of nature; but thou art not satisfied as they are thou art not happy-thou art not provided for as they are; earth hath no coverts for thy sheltering; thou must toil, thou must build houses, and gather defences for thy frailty; and in the sweat of thy brow must thou eat thy bread. And when all is done, thou must die; and thou knowest it. Death, strange visitant, is ever approaching to meet thee; death, dark gate of mystery, is ever the termination of thy path!

But, my brethren, is this all? To live, to toil, to struggle, to suffer, to sorrow, to die-is this all? No, it is not all; but it is God's love, and the revelation of God's love in the promise of immortality only, that can assure us that there is more. And so necessary do these seem to me, to bear up the thinking, feeling, suffering, hoping, enquiring mind; so necessary is it that a voice of God should speak to the creatures of this earthly discipline,-necessary as that a parental voice should be ready and near to hush the cry of infancy,-that, instead of stumbling at marvels and miracles, at interpositions and teachings, I confess I have sometimes wondered that there were not more of them. I have wondered that the manifestations of God did not oftener appear in the blazing bush and the cloud-capt mountain. I have wondered that the curtain of mystery that hides the other world were not sometimes lifted up; that the cherubim of mercy and of hope were not sometimes throned on the clouds of the eventide; that the bright and silent stars did not sometimes break the deep stillness that reigns among them, with the scarcely fabled music of their spheres; that the rich flood of morning light, as it bathes the earth in love, did not utter voices from its throne of heavenly splendour, to proclaim the goodness of God. No; I wonder not at marvels and miracles. That scene on the mount of transfiguration-Moses and Elias talking with our Saviour-seems to me, so far from being strange and incredible, to meet a want of the mind; and I only wonder, if I may venture to say so, that it is not sometimes repeated.

Yet why should I say this? The love of God to us is sure; and it is a sufficient assurance. Trust in him is a sustaining principle; and it is sufficient strength. There is another state of being for us-perish all reason and all faith if it is not so!-there is another state of being for us; and though the eye hath not seen it, and the ear hath caught no sound from its wide realm, the great promise and hope are. sufficient.

I say, the love of God is sure. He does love the moral beings whom he has made in his image; loves them, I doubt not, in their fears and doubtings, and struggles, and sorrows; loves them, I believe, even in their sins, nay, and has commended his love to them in this very character has commended his love to them, in that, while they were yet sinners, Christ died for them.

Can you doubt whether man is the object of God's love? Look at the feeble insect tribes, sporting in the beams of life, happy in their hour, perishing but to give life to others. Is he not a kind Being who made even these? Is it not the breath of love in which even they live? Look at all the ranks and orders of irrational creatures that in

habit the fields, the groves, the mountains, the uving streams of ocean. Look at the free and fleet rangers of the forest. Go thou, and unfold the inward frame of such an one; trace every part of the wonderful mechanism; mark every sinew; follow the courses of its life-blood; see every skilful and exquisite adaptation for sustenance, for strength, for speed, for beauty. Is not this the workmanship of goodness? Could any but a kind and gracious Being have done this? Ask now of the beasts," says Job, "and they shall teach thee; and the fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee; or speak to the earth, and it shall teach thee; and the fishes of the sea shall declare unto thee."

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But turn, now, from all these, and look-yes, look at one human heart. How infinite the difference! The human heart-say what we will of it, let the cynic or the sceptic say what he will-but what a concentration of energies, what a gathering up of mighty thoughts, what a home of dear and gentle affections, what a deep fountain of tears and sorrows, is there! What strugglings are pent up within its narrow enclosure; what mighty powers sleep within its folding bosom; what images of the grand, the godlike, the indefinite, the eternal, lie in its unfathomable depths! Doth not the Maker of that heart regard it with kindness? Doth he not pity a being that can sorrow? Doth he not love a being whom he hath made capable of love-of all its yearning, of all its tenderness? Doth he not care for a being whom he hath made capable of improving for ever?

Assuredly, if nature speaks truth, if revelation utters wisdom, he does love his rational offspring. How strong is the language of that revelation! "Can a mother forget her child? Yea, she may forget, yet will not I forget thee."

Let this, then, be settled in every heart as one of the great convictions of life; let it be taken to the soul as a part of the armour of God, to defend it against this world's temptations and calamities. We may not all, or we may not always, feel the need of it; but we do all need it, and we need it always,-always, I say; for we are always exposed to sin, and we are always exposed to sorrow. Let us look at these conditions of life for a few moments, to see how the apprehension of God's love to us is fitted to restrain us in the one case, and to comfort us in the other.

Nothing would be so effectual to restrain us from sin, if we felt it, as the love of God to us; nothing would be so effectual to recall us from our wanderings. It is a lofty conviction of which I speak, my brethren, and not the ordinary and dull acknowledgment, the mere theological inference, that God is good. Let any one feel that God is as truly good to him, as truly loves him, is as really interested for his welfare, as his father, or his most devoted friend; that even when he is rebellious and disobedient, the good and blessed God pities him, and pleads with him to return, pleads with him even through the sufferings of Christ, his Son. Let him feel that the kind and gracious Creator has fashioned that wonderful, but abused mind within him; called forth those sweet, but neglected affections; provided dear objects for them; given him home, given him friends, showered mercies upon him; let him thus feel how ungenerous and ungrateful is the course of sin and vice; and surely all this, if anything can, will touch him with conviction, and move him to repentance. Let it be so, that all other motives have

failed; but who of us, if he rightly saw it, could lift his hand against that which is all love? Who of us, if he felt that love to him, and to all around him-who could be selfish, contemptuous, haughty, or hardhearted towards his brother? Who of us, if he saw all the gifts of life to be the sacred gifts of that love, could abuse them to purposes of selfish ambition, or vicious indulgence? The spirit of the sinner,-the spirit of sin, I mean, so far as it goes, is a reckless spirit. The offender cares not, very much in proportion as he feels that nobody cares for him. He hardens himself against everything the more, because he supposes that everything is hardened against him. And when he goes to the worst excesses in vice, the manifest scorn of his fellow-creatures is the last influence that steels his heart against every better feeling. And yet even then there is sometimes left one thought that moves him to tears it is the thought of his mother, dwelling alone, perhaps, in his far distant and forsaken home; it is the thought of his mother, who sighs in secret places for him; who still mingles his outcast name with every evening prayer, saying, "Oh! restore my poor child!" But let him remember, that even if his mother should forget, God does not forget him, does not forsake him, does not withdraw all his mercies from him. His friends may withdraw themselves; he may have no earthly bosom to lean upon! but the elements embosom him around; the air breathes upon him a breath of kindness; the sun shines beneficently upon him; the page of mercy is spread for him, and it is written over with invitations and promises; it says, in accents that might break a heart of stone, "Turn thou! turn, thou forsaken one! for why wilt thou die?"

So effectual, my brethren, did we rightly consider it, might be the love of God to restrain us from sin, and recall us to virtue and piety.

Equally might it avail, and equally indispensable is it, to comfort us in affliction. I have already spoken of the afflictions of life, and need not repeat what I then said; suffice it, that every heart knows what it has to suffer and to struggle with: but one thing I am sure of, that that heart can find no repose but in a firm trust in the infinite love of God. I speak now for a reasonable mind, for one that is not willing to suffer blindly as a brute suffers, for one that does not find it enough to conclude that it must suffer and cannot help it. I speak for one whom sorrow has aroused to consider the great questions, wherefore he is made, and why he is made to suffer; and I am sure that such an one must behold goodness enthroned and reigning over all the events of time and the destinies of eternity; or for his mind there is no friend nor helper in the universe. Ah! there are questions which nothing can answer but God's love; which nothing can meet but God's promise; which nothing can calm but a perfect trust in his goodness. Speak to the void darkness of affliction," the first dark day of nothingness" after trouble has come; speak to life, through all its stages and fortunes, from oftentimes suffering infancy to trembling age; speak to this crowded world of events, accidents, and vicissitudes; ay, or speak thou to the inward world of the heart, with all its strifes, its sinkings, its misgivings, its remembrances, its strange visitings of long gone thoughts,

"Touching the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound," and none of these can answer us; we call as vainly upon them as the

priests of Baal upon their god. There is shadow and mystery upon all the creation, till we see God in it; there is trouble and fear till we see God's love in it.

But give me that assurance, and though there are many things which I know not, many things which I cannot explain nor understand, yet I can consent not to know them. Enough to know that God is good, and what he does is right. This known, and the works of creation, the changes of life, the destinies of eternity, are all spread before us as the dispensations and counsels of infinite love. This known, and then we know that the love of God is working to issues like itself, beyond all thought and imagination good and glorious; and that the only reason why we understand it not is, that it is too glorious for us to understand. This known, and what then do we say? God's love taketh care for all-nothing is neglected: God's love watcheth over all, provideth for all, maketh wise adaptations for all; for age, for infancy, for maturity, for childhood, in every scene of this or another life; for want, for weakness, for joy, and for sorrow, and even for sin; so that even the wrath of man shall praise the goodness of God. All is good; all is well; all is right; and shall be for ever. This, oh! this is an inheritance, and a refuge, and a rest for the mind, from which the convulsions of worlds cannot shake it.

In what an aspect does this conviction present the scenes of eternity! We are placed here in a state of imperfection and trial, and much that seems like mystery and mischance. But what shall the future be, if the light of God's goodness is to shine through its ages? I answer, it shall be all bright disclosure, full consummation, blessed recompense. We shall doubtless see what we can now only believe. The cloud will be lifted up, and will unveil-eternity! And what an eternity! All brightness; all beatitude; one unclouded vision; one immeasurable progress! The gate of mystery shall be past, and the full light shall shine for ever. Blessed change! That which caused us trial shall yield us triumph. That which was the deeper darkness shall be but the brighter light. That which made the heart ache shall fill it with gladness. Tears shall be wiped away, and beamings of joy shall come in their place. He who tried the soul that he loved, shall more abundantly comfort the soul that he approves. That God, who has walked in the mysterious way, with clouds and darkness around about him, will then appear as the great Revealer, and he will reveal what the eye hath not seen, nor the ear heard, nor the heart conceived.

Let me insist, in close, as I did in the beginning, upon the necessity of this affectionate trust in God. We cannot live as reasonable beings upon any conviction less lofty, less divine, less heartfelt than this. This is not a matter of will; it is a matter of necessity. Our minds cannot have a full, and, at the same time, safe development; reflection and feeling cannot safely grow in us, unless they are guided, relieved, and sustained by the contemplations of piety. The fresh and unworn sensibility of youth may hold on for awhile, and may keep its fountain clear and bright; but, by and bye, changes will come on; affliction will lay its chastening hand upon us; disappointment will settle, like a chilling damp, upon the spirits; the mind will be discouraged, if there is nothing but earthly hope to cheer it on; the reasonings of misanthropy and the misgivings of scepticism will steal into it, and blight its gene