kingdoms have not only been moved, but shaken to pieces. Great
With what longing hearts do we desire the arrival of that kingdom, so unlike what this troubled earth has yet known from the beginning hitherto. Each new sorrow stirs the longing. Each new conflict makes us glad at the thought that there is such a kingdom in reserve. Were it not for this, how we should "fret because of evildoers;" and how soon should our patience give way! But with our eye upon this kingdom of peace, we can "glory in tribulation," we can drink the bitterest cup, we can face the thickest storm, we can endure the rudest clamour; and when the world's uproar waxes loudest we can "lift up our heads, knowing that our redemption draweth nigh."
6. It is a kingdom that cannot be moved (Heb 12:28 ). All other kingdoms have not only been moved, but shaken to pieces. Great Babylon , "the glory of kingdoms," has been a sand-wreath, raised by one tide, and levelled by the next. So have all others been, greater or lesser. One by one they have been overthrown and crushed, or they have crumbled down and become like the chaff of the summer threshing-floor. But the kingdom that we look for is "the everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ" (2 Pet 1:11 ). It abides for ever. Neither force nor age can affect it. It rises out of the ruins of earth's present empires, though unlike them all. The things that can decay or moulder are "shaken," in order that they may be shaken off, and that those things that cannot be shaken may remain. And thus there comes forth the immovable kingdom,—the kingdom into which sin comes not; in which change has no place; into which the curse eats not; of which wisdom and holiness are the strong pillars; where misrule is unknown; where order triumphs; and of which the glory never dims. It is joy to us in such a world of instability and convulsion, to think of such a kingdom. Driven to and fro with the changes of the kingdoms we inhabit here; wearied with the falling and the rising, the casting down and the building up, we long for a kingdom that shall give us rest, a kingdom that cannot be moved. From this uncertainty and fickleness, how many of our griefs have come! For what is there so saddening, so sickening, as the thought that every inch of ground beneath us is shifting,—that
every prop on which we lean is breaking, that every twig to which we cling is snapping? As we draw our curtains around us, we know not what change, what loss, what sorrow shall greet us on the morrow. Or though going forth light-hearted and unburdened in the morning, we tremble to think what clouds may have gathered over our dwelling ere the evening has fallen. Such is the perishableness, the changeableness of earth and its kingdoms! What joy to look beyond them all, and see through their shadows the everlasting kingdom! Nay, to be assured that this kingdom is at hand, and that ere long He "who is without variableness or shadow of turning," shall bid us welcome to its unchanging rest; and He who is "the same yesterday, today and for ever," shall seat us upon the eternal throne.
"Heaven," says an old writer, "is a company of noble venturers for Christ;" and we may add, of "noble sufferers too."—Of such is the kingdom of heaven! It is in that kingdom that we shall rest from our labours, and find the end of all our sufferings. We shall find that we have not ventured too much, nor laboured too much, nor suffered too much. The glory of the kingdom will make up for all.
"Fear not, little flock, it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom." Along with "the King of glory," we shall take our place upon the throne, in that day when, after "raising the poor out of the dust, he shall set them among princes, and make them to inherit the throne of glory;" when the wicked shall be silent in darkness and the adversaries of the Lord shall be broken in pieces;" when "the Lord shall judge the ends of the earth, giving strength unto his king, and exalting the horn of his anointed" (1 Sam 2:8-10).
"Thy kingdom come!" This is the burden of our cries. Weary of man's rule, we long for God's. Sick at heart with this world's scenes of evil,—man spoiling man; man enslaving man; man wounding man; man defrauding man; man treading upon man;—we long for the setting up of the righteous throne. Oh, what a world will this be, when man's will as well as man's rule shall be exchanged for
Christ's rule and will; when God's "will shall be done on earth even as it is done in heaven"!
It is our joy to think that this kingdom is near; and that there are no centuries of sin and wrong still in reserve either for the church or for the earth. Its nearness is our consolation. The hope that it will come cheers us; but the thought that itis coming soon cheers us more. For both faith and hope are fed by the thought of nearness. We do not fret at delay, nor grow faint and disconsolate. Yet in some respects our feelings are not unlike those thus described by one of other days,
. . .So tedious is this day,
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes,
And may not wear them. . .
Our bridal robes are ready, and we long to put them on. Our priestly royal raiment is also ready, and we desire to exchange for it these weeds of poverty, and shame, and widowhood. Yet "in patience we possess our souls."
We are on the daily out-look for a kingdom, lifting up our heads knowing that our redemption draweth nigh. It will not tarry. The signs of its approach are multiplying. The shadows are still passing and repassing along the grey cliffs, but their increasing rapidity of movement shows a momentous change at hand. Kingdoms are still rising as well as falling, but the deep force of the vibrations—the brevity as well as the abruptness of oscillation—betoken a crisis. At this crisis the world's movements are brought to a stand. Then, touched by a Divine hand, they recommence. A better order of rule begins. Satan has been bound (Rev 20:1-3). "The oppressor has ceased" (Isa 14:4). He who "smote the people in wrath" is smitten (Isa 14:6). The misgoverned world rejoices. "The whole earth is at
rest and is quiet; they that dwell in it break forth into singing" (Isa 14:7). The anointed King has appeared. The great kingdom has come!
11 The Grace
Our fountain-head of blessing here is grace. It was to this grace or free love of God that we came when first the consciousness of want and sin awoke within us. This grace of God we found to be large enough for us, and altogether suitable; so that while we felt ourselves unfit objects for any thing else, we were just the more, on that account, fit objects for grace. Either for wrath or for grace we were fit, but for nothing else—for nothing between. We shrank from the wrath, and we took refuge in the grace. Between the one and the other, the blood of the accepted sacrifice has made a way, "a way of holiness;" we saw that way, we saw it to be free and unchallenged, we fled along that way, and soon found ourselves beyond the reach of wrath, under the broad covering of grace, nay, under the very wing of the gracious One, of him who is "full of grace and truth."
It was the knowledge of this grace that rooted up our doubts, that quieted our fears, and made us blush for our unbelief and suspicious mistrust. It is the knowledge of this grace that still keeps our souls in peace, in spite of weakness, and sin, and conflict. Being permitted to draw upon it without limit and without restriction, we feel that no circumstances can arise, in which we shall not be at liberty to use it, nay, in which it is not our chief sin to stand aloof from it, as if it had become less wide and free. With all this large grace placed at our disposal, to draw upon continually, what folly to be afraid of enemies, and evils, and days of trouble! For thus saith the prophet, "Blessed is the man that trusteth in the Lord, and whose hope the Lord is. For he shall be as a tree planted by the
waters, and that spreadeth out her roots by the river, and shall not see when heat cometh, but her leaf shall be green; and shall not be careful in the year of drought, neither shall cease from yielding fruit" (Jer 17:7, 8).
It is in this grace that we "continue" (Acts 13:43 ). It is in this grace that we "stand" (Rom 5:2). It is in this grace that we are to "be strong" (2 Tim 2:1). It is this grace that we are to "hold fast" (Heb 12:28 , margin). It is this grace that is "sufficient for us" (2 Cor 12:9). It is this grace that we desire for others, saying, "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you" (Eph 6:24 ). All is grace, from the beginning to the end, unmingled grace, in which no respect is had to aught of good done, felt, thought, spoken by us. So that the history of our life is wrapt up in these blessed words, "Where sin abounded, grace did much more abound" (Rom 5:20 ). We have found that the new sins of each hour, so far from closing the fountain of grace against us, opened new springs of grace for us— springs of grace which we should never otherwise have known, nor thought it possible to exist. Not as if sin were less vile on this account. David's horrid sins were the occasions of opening up new depth of grace, unimagined before; yet his iniquity lost none of its hatefulness thereby. So grace is ever gushing forth upon us to sweep away each new sin, yet in doing so it makes the sin thus swept away to appear more hideous and inexcusable. The brighter the sun, the darker and sharper are the shadows, so the fuller the grace, the viler the sin appears.
And as our personal history, as saved men, is the history of abounding sin met by more abounding grace, so is the history at large of all things in this fallen world. What is all Israel's history, every step of it, but the history of man's boundless sin drawing out the more boundless grace of God? What is the church's history but the same, so that each of the chosen and called ones who make up its mighty multitude, can say with him of old, whose name was chief of sinners, "The grace of our Lord was exceeding abundant with faith and love which is in Christ Jesus" (1 Tim 1:14). And what is
even the history of this material creation, on which the curse has pressed so long and heavily, but the history of grace abounding over sin and rescuing from the devouring fire this polluted soil?
All has been of grace hitherto. And all shall be of grace hereafter. In this respect there shall be no change.
Yet this is not the whole truth. For the brightest disclosures are yet to come. The first coming of the Lord opened up to us heights and depths of most wondrous grace, but his second coming is to bring with it discoveries of grace as marvellous, and as yet unrevealed. That promise, "The Lord will give grace and glory" (Psa 84:11). seems specially to refer to the time, when, after days of sad longing (verse 2), and weary journeying through the valley of Baca (verse 6), we appear in Zion before God, and standing with the New Jerusalem we sing the song of blessed contrast, "A day in thy courts is better than a thousand," as if this new outburst of grace, which meets us as we enter the gates of pearl, overpasses all that we had tasted before. The apostle Peter also points forward to the same period for the full display of grace, when he speaks of "the grace that is to be brought unto us at the revelation of Jesus Christ" (1 Peter 1:13); indicating this to us, that in that day, new and larger circles of grace shall open out, just as the horizon widens when the sun ascends. To this same day the prophet Zechariah points when he says, "He shall bring forth the headstone with shootings, crying, grace, grace unto it" (Zech 4:7). But especially is this truth taught us by the apostle Paul when he tells us, that God's object in quickening us together with Christ, in raising us up together and making us sit together in heavenly places, is, that "in the ages to come he might show the exceeding riches of his grace in his kindness towards us through Christ Jesus." Here he heaps word upon word, as if he could find none strong enough for his purpose; it is not merely grace, but it is riches of grace; nay, it is not this only, it is exceeding riches of grace; riches of grace not only excelling all other riches, but excelling all those riches of grace that have hitherto been known, as
if past grace were to be forgotten in the plenteousness of that which is to come.
How often in Israel 's past days, when sin abounded, has grace come pouring in, obliterating it all as if it had never been! But in the day when "the Redeemer shall come to Zion and turn away ungodliness from Jacob,"—at the moment when their cry of despair may be, "Hath God forgotten to be gracious?" shall grace come in upon them like a flood, fuller and richer than any thing that they or their fathers knew, bearing down mightier obstacles, and levelling higher mountains of iniquity. For it is written, in reference to this time, "Therefore will the Lord wait, that he may be gracious to you. . . he will be very gracious to thee at the voice of thy cry" (lsa 30:18, 19). In that day shall "grace" not merely bring forgiveness to Israel , but raise her to a height of glory in the earth and eminence among the nations; so that the past shall not be remembered nor come into mind.
How often in the church's past history has grace been magnified! Each age has brought out to view new wonders of grace, because of which she has praised the God of all grace. But the abundance of the past is not all that is in store for her. Her returning Lord shall bring with him all the "exceeding riches of his grace," and upon her shall these riches be expended. When caught up into the clouds to meet her Lord in the air and to be for ever with him, she shall be led into the treasure-house of grace and get a glimpse of its vastness. Each step in her past course has drawn forth a fresh outflow of abounding grace. Grace found her in the desert land and in the waste howling wilderness. Grace drew her out of the horrible pit and out of the miry clay. Grace washed her, and "clothed" her, and "shod" her, and "girded" her, and "decked her with ornaments" (Eze 16:9-11), giving her beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garments of praise for the spirit of heaviness. Grace strengthened her for warfare, and hardship, and labour, making her more than conqueror through him that loved her. Grace comforted her in the evil day, wiped away tears, poured in fresh joys, and threw round
her the everlasting arms. Grace taught her to pray, and praise, and love, and trust, and serve, in spite of the ever-revolting heart within. Grace kept her as a stranger and a pilgrim here, without a city and without a resting-place on earth, looking for the city of foundations, watching for her Lord's appearing, amid all the heart-sickenings of hope deferred, and wearying for the Bridegroom's embrace, undazzled and undistracted by the false splendour of a present evil world. But the grace that has brought her thus far is not exhausted. For it is absolutely boundless, like the heart of Him out of whom it comes; and as it raises the church from one level to another, its own circle is ever enlarging.
The resurrection-dawn, the morning of joy, brings with it new stores of grace. We had thought that grace could go no further than it had gone here, in forgiving so many sins, in saving us with so complete a salvation; but we then shall find that grace had only begun to display itself.
It was but the first draught from the deep well that we tasted here. Grace meets us as we come up from the tomb to load us with new blessings, such as eye hath not seen nor ear heard. It clothes us with the royal raiment. It seats us upon the throne. It gives us the "crown of life" ( Rev 2:10 ); the "crown of righteousness" (2 Tim 4:8). It makes us pillars in the temple of our God. It writes upon us the name of our God, and the name of the city of our God. It gives us "the morningstar." It gives us the white stone, and in the stone a new name written which no man knoweth, saving he that receiveth it. It makes us to eat of the hidden manna. It leads us back to the tree of life which is in the midst of the paradise of God. It brings us into the bridal chamber; it sets us down at the marriage table, teaching us to sing, "Let us be glad and rejoice, and give honour to him, for the marriage of the Lamb is come, and his wife hath made herself ready." It carries us into the midst of that city which has no need of the sun, neither of the moon to shine in it; whose wall is of jasper, whose foundations gems, whose gates pearls, whose streets translucent gold. It gives us to drink of the pure river of the water of
life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.
All these things grace is yet to do for us in that morning which is to dawn when this night of weeping is at an end. All this glory—this exceeding and eternal weight of glory—we shall owe to the exceeding riches of that grace which is then so marvellously to unfold itself, heaping honour upon honour, and gift upon gift, and joy upon joy, without end for ever.
In this let us mark the difference between Christ and his church, the Bridegroom and the bride. The same glory invests both; but the way of receiving it is widely different. To him it is a reward of righteousness, to her of grace. Righteousness crowns him, grace crowns her. These marvellous honours are in his case the claim of righteousness, in hers the mere award of grace. Of him it is written, "Thou hast loved righteousness and hated iniquity, therefore God, even thy God, hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows" (Psa 45:7); while of her it is said, "Who hath saved us and called us with an holy calling, not according to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace, given us in Christ Jesus before the world began" (2 Tim 1:9). What righteousness does for him, grace does for her. And oh how boundless must that grace be, when it can do for her all that righteousness can do for him!
That coming day of grace sheds light upon the present, by showing us how vast and inexhaustible that grace is which is pouring itself out from the bosom of the Father through the blood of the Son. If these riches of grace be so exceeding great, then how is it possible for us to entertain the suspicion that so often haunts us now, "Is there grace enough for the pardon of sins like mine,—grace enough to secure welcome and acceptance to a sinner like me?" What! is there grace enough to receive myriads, washing them clean and presenting them blameless in the day of the Lord with exceeding joy, and is there not enough for one? Is there grace enough to pour out such wondrous glory upon the multitudes of the undeserving
hereafter, and is there not enough to bring forgiveness to one undeserving soul just now? So that in thus telling of the grace which the ages to come are to unroll, we are proclaiming good news to the chief of sinners—good news concerning the infinite largeness of grace,—good news concerning Him out of whom this blessed stream is flowing. Oh, what a rebuke to fear, to doubt, to suspicion, to unbelief, is the truth concerning these exceeding riches of grace yet to be developed! Is it possible that we can go on, fearing, doubting, suspecting, misbelieving, with the assured knowledge that grace is so free and large, so sufficient to embrace the whole circumstances of our case, so suitable to each special want, each special burden, each special sin? Shall we dare to make more of the sin than of the grace, of the want than of the supply, of the burden than of the relief? Shall we not be ashamed to magnify our sin beyond the grace of God, and to reason as if the grace that can confer on us the kingdom and the crown of Christ were not large enough in compass to cover our sins? Oh the folly of unbelief!— folly without a name and without an equal, to believe in a grace willing to place us on the throne of the universe by the side of the everlasting Son, yet not willing to pardon us,—a grace large enough to say, "Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you before the foundation of the world," yet not large enough to say, "Be of good cheer, thy sins are forgiven thee!"
"It doth not indeed yet appear what we shall be." Yet, as the womb of grace knows no abortions, we know "that he who has begun the good work in us will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ." The grace has not had full room to expand itself and show all the vastness of its compass. Our life is hid; our glory is hid; our inheritance is hid, our city has not yet come down out of heaven from God. In the pit of Dothan it did not appear what Joseph was to be. His strange dreams did betoken something, yet who could have thought that he was to sit upon Pharaoh's throne? It did not appear what Ruth was to be when she lived in Moab , a stranger to the true God, or even when she left home and kindred to cast in her lot with Israel . That blessed scene of love and faith when "Orpah kissed"
and "Ruth clave," giving forth a heart of no common mould, did intimate something, but who could have thought that she was to be a mother in Israel , from whom Messiah was to spring?
So we do not now wear the aspect of that which we shall be. We do not look like kings. And though at times, when we get a glimpse of the promised crown, and when a vision of its nearness passes before us, our face flushes, our eye kindles, our gait unconsciously assumes unusual dignity, yet in general we look very unlike that which we shall be. Sometimes the star of nobility—the badge of our order— flashes out from the sordid covering and glitters on our breast, yet this is seldom; more seldom now in these last days than formerly. For religion, even the best, has sunk down from its primitive loftiness into a tame, second-rate, inferior thing, and the still-clinging garments of the old man cover in or quench every rising ray of anticipated glory.
What different beings grace would make us would we but allow it! Yet, instead of allowing it, we put it from us, content with just as much of it as will save us from the wrath to come. We shrink from its fullness, as if we should thereby stand committed to a far holier walk and higher style of living than we are prepared for. For "the grace of God that bringeth salvation teacheth us to deny ungodliness and worldly lusts, and to live soberly, righteously, and godly in this present world, looking for that blessed hope, even the glorious appearing of the great God, and our Saviour Jesus Christ, who gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity, and purify unto himself a peculiar people zealous of good works."
The grace that flowed in upon us during our long night has been large and manifold; but it is not ended with the night. The morning brings with it new stores of grace. When that grace unfolds itself, then shall it appear what we really are. Our present guise will fall from us, we shall stand forth as "heirs of God," and he who hath given us grace shall also give us glory; he who led us through the night shall bring us forth to the joy of the morning.
12 The Glory
Not only a man's true life, but a man's true history begins with his conversion. Up till that time, he is a being without a history He has no story to tell. He is but part of a world lying in wickedness, having nothing about him worthy of a record.
But from the moment that he is born again, and thus taken out of the mass, he receives a personality as well as a dignity which fit him for having a history,—a history which God can own as such, and which God himself will record. From that time he has a story to tell, wondrous and divine, such as angels listen to, and over which there is joy in heaven.
In that broad ocean, there are millions of drops; yet they are one mingled mass of fluid; no one of them has a history. There may be a history of the ocean, but not of its individual drops. But, see, your drop is beginning to part from the mass. It takes hold of a sunbeam and rises into the firmament. There it gleams in the rainbow or brightens in the hues of sun-set. It has now a history. From the moment that it came out of the mass and obtained a personality, it had a story to tell, a story of its own, a story of splendour and beauty.
In those vast blocks of unquarried rock what various forms are lying concealed! What shapes of statuary or architecture are there! Yet they have no history. They can have none. They are but parts of a hideous block, in which not one line or curve of beauty is visible. But the noise of hammers is heard. Man lifts up his tool. A single block is severed. Again he lifts up his tool, and it begins to assume a form; till, as stroke after stroke falls on it, and touch after touch smoothes and shapes it, the perfect image of the human form is seen, and it seems as if the hand of the artist had only been
employed in unwrapping the stony folds from that fair form, and awakening it from the slumber of its marble tomb. From the moment that the chisel touched that piece of rock its history began.
Such is the case of a saint. From the moment that the hand of the Spirit is laid on him to begin the process of separation, from that moment his history begins. He then receives a conscious, outstanding personality, that fits him for having a history—a history entirely marvellous; a history whose pages are both written and read in heaven; a history which in its divine brightness spreads over eternity His true dignity now commences. He is fit to take a place in story. Each event in his life becomes worthy of a record. "The righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance."
On earth this history is one of suffering and dishonour, even as was that of the Master; but hereafter, in the kingdom, it is one of glory and honour. "All the time," says Howe, "from the soul's first conversion God has been at work upon it, labouring, shaping it, polishing it, spreading his own glory on it, inlaying, enamelling it with glory; now at last the whole work is revealed, the curtain is drawn aside, and the blessed soul awakes." Then a new epoch in its history begins.
What that history is to be, we know not now. That it will be wondrous, we know; how wondrous we cannot conceive. That it will be very unlike our present one, we know; yet still not severed from it, but linked to it, nay, springing out of it as its root or seed. Our present life is the underground state of the plant; our future life, the shooting, and blossoming, and fruitbearing; but the plant is the same, and the future depends for all its excellency and beauty upon the present. Night is not the shutting up of day, but day is the opening out of night. Day is but the night in blossom,—the expanded petals of some dark, unsightly bud, containing within it glories of which no glimpses have yet reached us here. It is moody sentiment, as well as false philosophy, to say as one in our day has done, "Night is nobler than day; day is but a motley-coloured veil,
spread transiently over the infinite bosom of night, hiding from us its purely transparent, eternal deeps." Night is at best but the beauty of death; day, of life. And it is life, not death, that is beautiful. And if life on earth, in all its various forms and unfoldings, be so very beautiful, what will it not be hereafter, when it unfolds itself to the full, transfused throughout all being, with an intensity now unknown, as if almost becoming visible by means of the new glory which it then shall spread over all creation.
"The wise shall inherit glory" (Prov 3:35 ). "The saints shall be joyful in glory" (Psa 149:5). They are "vessels of mercy, afore prepared unto glory" (Rom 9:23 ). That to which we are called is "eternal glory" (1 Peter 5:10 ). That which we obtain is "salvation in Christ Jesus with eternal glory" (2 Tim 2:10 ). It is to glory that God is "bringing many sons" (Heb 2:10 ); so that as he, through whom we are brought to it, is "crowned with glory and honour," so shall we be (Heb 2:9). We are "to rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory" (1 Peter 1:8). We are not only "witnesses of the sufferings of Christ, but partakers of the glory that shall be revealed" (1 Peter 5:1). So that the word of exhortation runs thus: "Rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of Christ's sufferings; that when his glory shall be revealed, ye may be glad also with exceeding joy" (1 Peter 4:13 ). And the promise is not only, "if we suffer we shall also reign with him;" but, "if we suffer with him. We shall be also glorified together" (Rom 8:17 ).
This glory, then, is our portion. It is the "better thing" that God has provided for us, and because of which he is not ashamed to be called our God. This is the glory that throws all present suffering into the shade, making it to be eternally forgotten.
Glory is the concentrated essence of all that is holy, excellent, and beautiful. For all being has its more and its less perfect parts. And its glory is that which is most perfect about it, to which of course that which is less perfect has, according to its measure, contributed. Light is the glory of the sun. Transparency is the glory of the stream.
The flower is the glory of the plant. The soul is the glory of the man. The face is the glory of the body. And this glory is strangely manifold: "There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars, for star differeth from star in glory."
What is really glorious is so hidden, so blighted, so intermixed with deformity and corruption here, that Scripture always speaks as if the whole glory were yet in reserve, —none of it yet revealed. So that when He came to earth who was "the brightness of Jehovah's glory," he was not recognized as the possessor of such glory; it was hidden; it shone not. Few eyes saw any glory at all in him; none saw the extent or greatness of it. Even in his case it did not appear what he was and what he shall be, when he comes "to be glorified in his saints."
All that is glorious, whether visible or invisible, material or immaterial, natural or spiritual, must have its birth-place in God. "Of him, and through him, and to him are all things, to whom be glory for ever" (Rom 11:36 ). All glorious things come forth out of him, and have their seeds, or gems, or patterns in himself. We say of that flower, "how beautiful;" but the type of its beauty,—the beauty of which it is the faint expression, is in God. We say of the star, "how bright;" "but the brightness which it represents or declares, is in God. So of every object above and beneath. And so especially shall it be seen in the objects of glory which shall surround us in the kingdom of God . Of each thing there, as of the city itself, it shall be said, "it has the glory of God" ( Rev 21:11 ).
Glory, then, is our inheritance. The best, the richest, the brightest, the most beautiful of all that is in God, of good, and rich, and bright, and beautiful, shall be ours. The glory that fills heaven above, the glory that spreads over the earth beneath, shall be ours. But while "the glory of the terrestrial" shall be ours, yet in a truer sense "the glory of the celestial shall be ours." Already by faith we have taken our place amid things celestial, "being quickened together with
Christ, and raised up with him, and made to sit with him in heavenly places" (Eph 2:6). Thus we have already claimed the celestial as our own; and having risen with Christ, we "set our affection upon things above, not on things on the earth" ( Col 3:2). Far-ranging dominion shall be ours; with all varying shades and kinds of glory shall we be encompassed, circle beyond circle stretching over the universe; but it is the celestial glory that is so truly ours, as the redeemed and the risen; and in the midst of that celestial glory shall be the family mansion, the church's dwellingplace and palace,—our true home for eternity.
All that awaits us is glorious. There is an inheritance in reversion; and it is "an inheritance incorruptible, and undefiled, and that fadeth not away" (1 Peter 1:4). There is a rest, a sabbath-keeping in store for us (Heb 4:9); and this "rest shall be glorious" (Isa 11:10 ). The kingdom which we claim is a glorious kingdom. The crown which we are to wear is a glorious crown. The city of our habitation is a glorious city. The garments which shall clothe us are garments "for glory and for beauty." Our bodies shall be glorious bodies, fashioned after the likeness of Christ's "glorious body" (Phil 3:21 ). Our society shall be that of the glorified. Our songs shall be songs of glory. And of the region which we are to inhabit it is said, that "the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof" ( Rev 21:23 ).
The hope of this glory cheers us. From under a canopy of night we look out upon these promised scenes of blessedness, and we are comforted. Our dark thoughts are softened down, even when they are not wholly brightened. For day is near, and joy is near, and the warfare is ending, and the tear shall be dried up, and the shame be lost in the glory, and "we shall be presented faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy."
Then the fruit of patience and of faith shall appear, and the hope we have so long been clinging to shall not put us to shame. Then shall we triumph and praise. Then shall we be avenged on death, and
pain, and sickness. Then shall every wound be more than healed. Egypt enslaves us no more. Babylon leads us captive no more. The Red Sea is crossed, the wilderness is passed, Jordan lies behind us, and we are in Jerusalem ! There is no more curse—there is no more night. The tabernacle of God is with us; in that tabernacle he dwells, and we dwell with him.
It is "the God of all grace" who "has called us to his eternal glory by Christ Jesus." It is "when the chief Shepherd shall appear, that we shall receive the crown of glory that fadeth not away" (1 Peter 5:4, 10). And this "after we have suffered a while," and by suffering have been "made perfect, stablished, strengthened, settled." So that suffering is not lost upon us. It prepares us for the glory. And the hope of that glory, as well as the knowledge of the discipline through which we are passing, and of the process of preparation going on in us, sustains us, nay, teaches us to "glory in tribulation." This comfort, nay, it is happiness. Strange in the world's eye, but not strange in ours! All that the world has is but a poor imitation of happiness and consolation; ours is real, even now; how much more hereafter! Nor will a brief delay and a sore conflict lessen the weight of coming glory. Nay, they will add to it; and it is worth waiting for, it is worth suffering for, it is worth fighting for. It is so sure of coming, and so blessed when it comes.
"The mass of glory," says Howe, "is yet in reserve; we are not yet so high as the highest heavens." All this is hanging over us, inviting us on, stirring us up, loosening us from things present, so that the pain of loss, or sickness, or bereavement, falls more gently on us, and tends but to make us less vain and light,—more thoroughly in earnest.
"That they may behold my glory," the Lord pleaded for his own. This is the sum of all. Other glories there will be, as we have seen; but this is the sum of all. It is the very utmost that even "the Lord of glory" could ask for them. Having sought this he could seek no more; he could go no further. And our response to this is, "Let me
see thy glory;" yes, and the glad confidence in which we rest is this, "As for me, I will behold thy face in righteousness; I shall be satisfied when I awake with thy likeness." This is our ambition. Divine and blessed ambition, in which there is no pride, no presumption, and no excess! Nothing less can satisfy than the directest, fullest vision of incarnate glory. Self-emptied before the Infinite Majesty, and conscious of being wholly unworthy even of a servant's place, we yet feel as if drawn irresistibly into the innermost circle and centre, satisfied with nothing less than the fullness of Him that filleth all in all.
"The glory that thou gavest me I have given them" (John 17:22 ). No less than this, both in kind and amount, is the glory in reserve, according to the promise of the Lord. The glory given to him he makes over to them! They "are made partakers of Christ," and all that he has is theirs. Nay, and he says, "I have given;" as if it were already theirs by his gift, just as truly as it was his by the Father's gift. He receives it from the Father only for the purpose of immediately handing it over to them! So that even here they can say. "This glory is already mine, and I must live as one to whom such infinite glory belongs." "Beholding, as in a glass, this glory of the Lord, they are changed into the same image from glory to glory" (2 Cor 3:18 ). To fret or despond is sad inconsistency in one who can say, even under sorest pressures, "I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed in us." Look at them by themselves, and they do seem at times most overwhelming; place them side by side with the eternal glory, and they disappear.
"The riches of his glory," says the apostle in one place (Rom 9:23 ); "the riches of the glory of his inheritance in the saints," writes he in another (Eph 1:18 ). Strange expressions these! They carry us up to a height of such infinite glory and joy, that we feel bewildered and overwhelmed. Just as there are "riches of grace," and "riches of mercy," and "riches of love," and "riches of wisdom," so there are "riches of glory;" glory in abundance,—such as shall make us rich
indeed; glory spreads over our whole inheritance, so that we shall "have all and abound." Nay, this glory is that which God counts his riches, that which he reckons the perfection of his inheritance,—the very essence of its beauty and its blessedness.
"The liberty of the glory of the children of God," writes the apostle (Rom 8:21).—thereby telling us that there is a glory which is the peculiar property of the saints,—a glory of which they can say, it is our own, thereby marking it out from the glory of all other creatures. This glory contains liberty. It sets free those who possess it. Corruption had brought with it chains and bondage; glory brings with it divine liberty! It is not the liberty that brings the glory; it is the glory that brings the liberty. Blessed liberty! Freedom from every bondage! Not only the bondage of corruption and sin and death, but the bondage of sorrow! For is not sorrow a bondage? Are not it chains sharp and heavy? From this bondage of tribulation the glory sets us eternally free. It is the last fetter, save that of the grave, that is struck from our bruised limbs, but when it is broken, it is broken for ever!
And this liberty which the glory brings to us is one which shall extend to the unconscious creation around us. We brought that creation into bondage, covering it with dishonour, and making it the prey of corruption. It now groans and travails under this sore bondage. But as it has shared our bondage, it is also to share our liberty; and that same glory which brings liberty to us shall introduce the oppressed and dishonoured creation into the same blessed freedom! O longed-for consummation! O joyful hope! O welcome day, when the Bringer of this glory shall arrive, and the voice be heard from heaven, "Behold, I make all things new."
Nor is it liberty only which this glory contains in it, but power also, as it is written, "strengthened with all might according to the power of his glory" ( Col 1:11 ). This glory has, even now, a power giving energy, whereby we are strengthened "to all patience and longsuffering with joyfulness." Thus "rejoicing in hope of the glory
of God" (Rom 5:2), we are fitted for all manner of tribulation and endurance. Though still among the things "not seen," it not only flings forward a radiance which brightens our path, but sheds down a strength which enables us to "run with patience the race that is set before us." And so, in an unholy world, we "walk worthy of Him who hath called us unto his kingdom and glory" (1 Thess 2:12), having that prayer fulfilled in us, "The God of all grace, who hath called us unto his eternal glory by Jesus Christ, after that ye have suffered a while, make you perfect, stablish, strengthen, settle you" (1 Peter 5:10).
"Christ in you the hope of glory." An indwelling Christ is our earnest, our pledge, our hope of glory. Having Him, we have all that is his, whether present or to come. He is the link that binds together the here and the hereafter. We died with him, we went down into the tomb with him, we rose with him, and our life is now hid with him in God; but "when he who is our life shall appear, then shall we also appear with him in glory" ( Col 3:4).
The joy with which we rejoice is a joy "unspeakable and full of glory," or more literally, a "glorified joy;" a joy such as Paul had when caught up into paradise; a joy such as John's when placed in vision within sight of the celestial city; a joy into whose very essence the thoughts of glory enter; a joy which makes the soul which possesses it feel as if it were already compassed about with glory, as if it had "come to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, to an innumerable company of angels, to the general assembly and church of the first-born which are written in heaven" (Heb 12:22).
"The glorious gospel of Christ," says the apostle (2 Cor 4:4); and again, "the glorious gospel of the blessed God" (1 Tim 1:11 ); or, more literally, "the gospel of the glory of Christ," that is, "the good news about the glory of Christ," and "the good news about the glory of the blessed God." As it is "the gospel of the kingdom," or good news about "the kingdom," that is preached, so it is good news
about "the glory." These good news God has sent, and is still sending to this world. In believing them, and receiving God's record concerning the glory, we become partakers of it, and continue to be so, "if we hold the beginning of our confidence steadfast unto the end." These good news most fully meet our case, however sad or sinful, and shed light into our souls even in their darkest and most desponding hours.
Our present "light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of GLORY." So that glory is not merely the issue of tribulation, but in some sense its product. Tribulation is the soil, and glory is the blossom and the fruit. The soil is rough and unseemly, but the produce is altogether perfect. It may seem strange that out of such a field there should spring verdure so fresh and fruit so divine. Yet we know that such is the case. How much we owe to that unlikely soil! Not only do all things work together for good to us, but they as truly work together for glory.
Faith lays hold of this and prizes tribulation, nay, glories in it; so realizing the joy as to lose sight of the sorrow, save as contributing to the joy; so absorbed in the glory as to forget the shame, excepting in so far as it is the parent and precursor of the glory.
Most needful is it that we should realize these prospects, these glimpses which God has given us of what we are yet to be. It is not merely lawful to do so for the relief of the laden spirit, but it is most vitally important to do so for the health of our soul, for our growth in grace, and for enabling us to press on with cheerful energy in the path of service towards God and usefulness to our brother saints or fellow men.
The man of sorrows had joy set before him. And it was for this that he endured the cross, despising the shame (Heb 12:2). He needed it, and so do we; for He who sanctifieth and they who are sanctified are all of one. He found in it strength for the bearing of the cross and
the endurance of the shame. So may we, for as the path he trod is the same that is given us to tread in, so the strength is to be found where our forerunner found it. There is joy in store for us, even as for him; joy not only like his own, but his own very joy (John 11). This makes us willing to bear the cross in all its weight and sharpness; nay, it lightens it so that ofttimes we do not feel its pressure. We can glory both in the cross and the shame. We have less of these than he had, and we have all his consolation, all his joy to the full.
When this is lost sight of, selfish melancholy often fastens on us. We brood over our griefs till they engross us entirely, to the shutting out of all else. We magnify them; we spread them out and turn them over on every side in order to find out the gloomiest. We take credit to ourselves for endurance, and thus feed our pride and self-importance. We fret under them, and at the same time grow vain at being the objects of so much sympathy—at having so many eyes upon us, and so many words of comfort addressed to us.
Nothing can be more unhealthy than this state of soul, not more unlike that in which God expects a saint to be. It shuts us into the narrow circle of self. It contracts as well as distorts our vision. It vitiates our spiritual tastes, it lowers our spiritual tone, it withers and shrivels up our spiritual being, unfitting us for all offices of calm and gentle love, nay, hindering the right discharge of plain and common duty. It is in itself a sore disease, and is the source of other diseases without number.
To meet this unhealthy tendency God seeks to draw us out of ourselves. He does so in holding up the cross for us to look upon and be healed: but he also does this by exhibiting the crown and throne. The cross does not annihilate man's natural concern for self, but it loosens our thoughts from this, by showing us, upon the cross, One to whose care we may safely entrust self with all its interests, and in whose pierced hands it will be far better provided for than in our own. So the vision of the glory does not make away
with self, but it absorbs it, and elevates it, by revealing the kingdom in which God has made such blessed and enduring provision for us, as to make it appear worse than folly in us to brood over our case, and make self the object of our sad and anxious care. If we are to have glory as surely and as cheaply as the lilies have their clothing, or the ravens their food, why be so solicitous about self? Or why think about self at all, save to remember and to rejoice that God has taken all our concerns into his own keeping for eternity.
Thus God beguiles us away from our griefs by giving us something else to muse over,—something more worthy of our thoughts. He allures us from the present, where all is dark and uncomely, into the future, where all is bright and fair. He takes us by the hand and leads us, as a father his child, out from the gloomy region which we are sadly pacing, with our eye upon the ground, bent only upon nourishing our sorrows, into fields where all is fresh and Eden-like; so that, ere we are aware, joy, or at least the faint reflection of it, has stolen into our hearts, and lifted up our heavy eyes. He would not have us abiding always in the church-yard, or sitting upon the turf beneath which love is buried, as if the tomb to which we are clinging were our hope, not resurrection beyond it;—he would have us to come forth; and having allured us away from that scene of death, he bids us look upwards, upbraiding us with our unbelief and folly, and saying to us,—"They whom you love are yonder; ere long He who is their life and yours shall appear, and you shall rejoin each other, each of you embracing, not a weeping, sickly fellow mortal, but a glorified saint, set free from pain and sin."
There is nothing more healthy and genial for the soul than these anticipations of the morning, and of morning-glory. They are not visionary, save in the sense in which faith is "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." They transfuse the life of heaven through our frame, either, on the one hand, making our languid pulse to beat more swiftly, or, on the other, our feverish pulse to throb more calmly and evenly. They act as regulators of the soul in its wild and inconstant movements, neither
allowing us to sink too low nor to soar too high. They tend to steady our extreme impulses by acting as a counterpoise to the weight of grief which so crushes us with its pressure.
They withdraw us from self and self-broodings, they widen the circle of our sympathies, and throw back into the distance the fence of exclusiveness, which, in times of suffering, we are apt lo throw up around ourselves. They check mere sentimentality, and forbid us to indulge the flow of grief for its own luxury. They prohibit morbid gloom, which loves to shun out society, and chooses loneliness. They fill us with energy for facing the toils, and with ready courage for braving the dangers of the night. They animate us with the calm but indomitable confidence of hope,—a hope which expands and brightens as its object approaches.
The morning! That is our watchword. Our matin and even song are full of it. It gives the hue to life,—imparting colour to that which is colourless, and freshening that which is faded. It is the sum and term of our hopes. Nothing else will do for us or for our world,—a world over which the darkness gathers thicker as the years run out. Stars may help to make the sky less gloomy; but they are not the sun. And besides, clouds have now wrapped them so that they are no longer visible. The firmament is almost without a star. Torches and beacon-lights avail not. They make no impression upon the darkness; it is so deep, so real, so palpable. We might give up all for lost, were we not assured that there is a sun, and that it is hastening to rise. The church's pilgrimage is nearly done. Yet she is not less a pilgrim as its end draws nigh. Nay, more so. The last stage of the journey is the dreariest for her. Her path lies through the thickest darkness that the world has yet felt. It seems as if it were only by the fitful blaze of conflagrations that we can now shape our way. It is the sound of falling kingdoms that is guiding us onward. It is the fragments of broken thrones lying across our path that assures us that our route is the true one, and that its end is near,—that end, the morning with its songs; and in that morning, a kingdom; and in that
kingdom, glory, and in that glory, the everlasting rest, the sabbath of eternity.
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Morning of Joy by Horatius Bonar, Copyright © 2020
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