bright thoughts, the movements of kind and blessed affections, in which life has flowed on, bearing us almost unconsciously upon its bosom because it has borne us calmly and gently! Sweet moments of quietness and affection! glad hours of joy and hope! days, ye many days begun and ended in health and happiness! times and seasons of heaven's gracious beneficence! stand before us yet again, in the light of memory, and command us to be thankful, and to prize as we ought the gift of life.

But, my brethren, I must not content myself with a bare defence of life as against a sceptical or cynical spirit, or as against the errors and mistakes of religion. I must not content myself with a view of the palpable and acknowledged blessings of life. Life is more than what is palpable, or often acknowledged. I contend against the cynical and the superstitious disparagement of life, not alone as wrong and as fatal indeed to all religion; but I contend against it as fatal to the highest improvement of life. I say that life is not only good, but that it was made to be glorious. Ay, and it has been glorious in the experience of millions. The glory of all human virtue arrays it. The glory of sanctity and beneficence and heroism is upon it. thousand martyrdoms is upon its brow.

The crown of a

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 connexion with its infinite source. It may derive an inexpressible sublimity from that connexion. 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 it 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-it is written-thou crownest it with loving-kindness and tender mercy; 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 connexion with infinite goodness, and in its hope of infinite glory beyond it. True, our life is frail in its earthly state, and it is often bowed down with earthly burthens; but still it endures, and revives, and flourishes; still it is

redeemed from destruction, and crowned with lovingkindness 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 wonderful 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 honourcraving life-so art thou. Be thou lofty-minded, pure, and holyand life shall be to thee the beginning of heaven-the threshold of immortality.

LIFE'S CONSOLATION IN VIEW OF DEATH.

JOHN xi. 25: "Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life."

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 anything 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 troubled, sent a message to their chief comforter and friend, saying, Behold, he whom thou lovest is sick." Jesus, for reasons perhaps beyond our knowledge, does not immediately answer the call of distress. He remains two days in the same place. Then the dreaded event had taken place; all was over; and he calmly says to his disciples, " Our friend, Lazarus, sleepeth." So does he contemplate death; not as a dread catastrophe, but as a quiet sleep, a sacred repose, succeeding the weary and troubled day of life. Beautifully says our great dramatist,

"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well."

But so does it not appear to the bereaved and sorrowing sisters. They are plunged into the deepest distress. It is a time of mourning in that still and desolate house at Bethany. The dead is buried; but grief lives, and the hours pass in silent agony. The sympathizing neighbours from the village are still there, and many friends from Jerusalem are with the afflicted sisters, to comfort them concerning their brother. At length, the Master approaches. Martha, evermore alert and attentive to what is passing, first hearing of it, goes forth to meet him.

Soon however she returns, and says to Mary, her sister, secretly-gives her a private intimation-how much passes in the dumb show, in whispers, where deep grief is!-she says, in a low tone, "The Master is come, and calleth for thee. And as soon as she heard that, she arose quickly and came unto him." The language of both when they meet him is the same-turns upon the same point-" Lord, if thou hadst been here, our brother had not died." What natural and living truth is there, in this simple trial of feeling! Ilow natural is it for the bereaved to think that if this or that had been done-if this or that physician had been called-if some other course had been adopted, or some other plan or clime had favoured, the blow might have been averted. The thoughts all shrink from the awful certainty-revert to the possibility of its having been avoided; and catch at all possible suppositions to find relief. But the awful certainty nevertheless overwhelmed the mourning sisters; "the end had come; their brother was dead-was dead!-no help now-no change to come over that still sleep"- -so mourned they; and Jesus, beholding their distress, groaned in spirit and was troubled. "Jesus wept.' He was not one who, with cold philosophy, or misplaced rapture in his countenance, looked on bereavement and agony-looked on death. He was not one who forbade tears and sorrow. He was not one who approached the grave with an air of triumph, though he had gained a victory over it; but it is written, that" again groaning within himself, he came to the grave.” No: humanity shudders, and trembles, and groans when it comes there, and may not, by any true religion, be denied these testimonies to its frailty.

But still there were words of soothing and comfort uttered by our Saviour on this occasion; and let us now turn to them and consider their import: "Martha said to Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. But I know that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee. Jesus saith unto her, thy brother shall rise again. Martha saith unto him, I know he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day." She had probably heard the doctrine of a future life from himself; but alas! that life seems far off; dim shadows spread themselves over the everlasting fields; they seem unreal to a person of Martha's turn of mind; she wants her brother again as he was but now, by her side; she entertains some hope that Jesus will restore him; she says, even now, I know that whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee." Jesus does not reply to this suggestion; he does not tell her whether her brother shall immediately come back to her; but utters himself in a more general and grander truth. "I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die; believest thou this?" As if he had said, be not too curious nor anxious in your thoughts, but confide, Martha, in me. You believe in a future resurrection, or renewal of life; you hope for the immediate resurrection of your brother; but be satisfied with this," I am the resurrection:" all that resurrection, renewal of life, heavenly happiness means, is embodied, consummated, fulfilled in me. Nay, it is not some future return to being of which I speak; he that liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Already be hath begun to live immortally. Death is for the body; but for