known the riches of divine grace, and invited the sinner to draw near.
Abel took the blood and stood before God on the spot where it was flowing. The Holy Spirit had taught him its meaning. It is the blood that gives him peace, that cleanses, that heals, that emboldens him to come to God, without a sense of guilt upon his soul. It is the blood that purges his conscience from dead works to serve the living God; for it is this that tells him of wrath laid on a substitute and for ever passed away from himself.*
*Perhaps some of our readers may here call to mind the well-known hymn which thus begins :—
" I will praise thee every day,
Now thine anger's turn'd away:
Comfortable thoughts arise
From the bleeding sacrifice."
He sees that this is God's way of saving him ; and he is content with it. He desires no other. He finds the stream of free love pouring itself along this crimson channel, and he pitches his tent upon its banks. He asks no other dwelling save that, beside which this " river of God" is flowing.
4. Abel comes resting on the promise,—— the promise which made known the riches of divine grace, and invited the sinner to draw near. He could not venture without a promise; but that which God had given was enough. It revealed enough of God to quiet every fear. Had it not been for that promise he could not have come ; nay, he would have fled away: but with words of grace such as these, he can come " with boldness ;" he can
"draw near with a true heart, and in the full assurance of faith." Viewing that promise in connection with the sacrifice on his altar, he gets a glimpse of the coming Deliverer, and of the love which he is to bring fully into view. His eye passes along the ages till it rests on the true seed of the woman, the better sacrifice. He recognises the bruised heel; and in it the conqueror of Satan. In the promise he discerns the grace ; in the sacrifices, the way in which the dispensing of that grace be comes an act of righteousness. And keeping his eye on these two things thus placed side by side, he is confident before God, and can lift up trustful hands, even to the Holy One who hates iniquity.
To Cain the promise is nought. He acts as one that needs no promise and no grace. He comes without any thought of an invitation; nay, such a thing is an encumbrances in his estimation, for it takes for granted what he is by no means willing to admit, that he needs a promise and must be a debtor to grace alone. He acts as if he could invite himself; nay, as if he could be his own Saviour ; or, rather, as if he did not need a Saviour at all.
What is this promise in our eyes? What is the value we put upon it? DO we see it as that in which the free love of God is wrapt up, and on which it is inscribed in glowing characters ? Is it this that attracts us, that assures us, that gladdens us? Does it rebuke all fear and awaken all confidence? Is it to us like the Lord's own gracious voice, "Come unto me and I will give you rest"—"Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise east out"? Is this the staff on which we lean, as we pass in through the veil into the holiest?
What, then, was the chief difference between these two brothers? It was just this. The one believed the story of grace, and the other disbelieved it. We have seen several shades of difference, but they all
involve this. Abel's whole religion rested upon this grace, and not one of his religious acts has any meaning apart from this. Cain's religion was totally unconnected with grace; nay, it denied it, and proceeded independently of it. Such was the chief feature of difference. It seems a small one; yet in God's sight it was every thing. It was simply on account of this, that the one was cast off and the other welcomed as a beloved son.
It was the same story of grace which was made known to both. The same pa rental lips had told it, the same scenes had announced it. There was no difference in the grace or in the mode of telling it. Both brothers had heard the tale of love; per haps too from God himself: for it is plain, from what follows in the narrative, that Cain was no stranger to the voice of God. Yet the one brother listens to it and welcomes it, the other closes his ear against it and turns away. It was the belief of this story that made Abel what he was—a child of God; it was Cain's unbelief that made God reject both his offering and himself.
There is the same division still among the children of men. At the head of the one class is seen "righteous Abel;" at the head of the other is Cain the murderer. The one class consists of those who, believing this story of grace as now made known so fully in the cross of the Lord Jesus Christ, have gone to God and taken their joyful place among his sons, living meanwhile the life of pilgrims and strangers here. The other is made up of those who, not believing this story, nor heeding the cross, nor prizing the blood, are still remaining aliens, nay, fugitives,-—'men with out a portion here, or an inheritance here after.
Are we living Abel's life of faith? Is the blood of the sacrifice that which speaks to us the
"better things," so that each misgiving of our troubled hearts forthwith passes off, when it_ appears, like mist before the risen sun? Is the sight of that blood all we need to call us back to peace, when sin or doubt has come between us and God? Is the knowledge of its infinite value enough to give us at all times the complete assurance that there is no sin of ours, however great, which it cannot at once wash away, so that, "being once purged, we have no more conscience of sin " ? (Heb. x. 2.) Does one look at that blood re assure our hearts when the cloud of guilt spreads darkly over us? And does that one look comfort us unspeakably more than the whole sum of our evidences, the whole register of our graces?
Does it so entirely satisfy us, as that while on the one hand it makes us no longer afraid to look down into the depths of our guilt, so on the other it frees us from every wish to know our selves, or to be known of God, as any thing but the "chief of sinners"? Does the security, which that blood is designed to give us, of acceptance with God, appear to us so certain and so strong, that, with nothing else to recommend us or answer for us, but the blood alone, we can go to God as trustfully and simply as Adam did, ere sin had broken his confidences and cast him out from the presence of the Lord?
As those on whom this blood is sprinkled, are we separating ourselves from a present evil world, feeling that this blood, in re moving the veil which hung between us and God, has done so, only to draw it between us and the world? We look before us, to the place where Jehovah is, and, behold, the veil has vanished! God and we have come together, face to face, meeting in peace and communing in love. But we cast our eye behind us, to the
"tents of wickedness," where we dwelt so long,—and, lo, the veil has come between them and us! We feel that, just as formerly it
separated us from a holy God, so now it separates us from an unholy world. Are we then walking apart from all which that world contains of vanity, or lust, or pleasure, or companionship, like men who have bidden them no unwilling adieu?
As those whose " life is hid with Christ in God," are we looking for his arrival, knowing that, " when he who is our life shall appear, then shall we also appear with him in glory"?
(Col. iii. 4.) As those who have no city here, but, like Abel or like Abraham, are content to be strangers on earth, are we expecting " the city of habitations," and anticipating the promise, "Blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life (from which Adam was shut out), and may enter in through the gates into the city"? (Rev. xxii. 14.) And as those who are dwelling, for a while, outside of Eden, because of the first Adam's sin, are we holding fast our hope of en trance into the better Eden, of which we have been made the heirs, through the righteousness of the second Adam, who is the Lord from heaven?
Or, reader, is your life that of Cain,— like those of whom it is written, " Woe unto them !
for they have gone in the way of Cain"? (Jude 11.) His " way" was "according to the course of this world." His portion was here. He builded a city and dwelt in it, as one who was resolved to make the earth his home, and whose object was to be happy and prosperous without God. The life of the pilgrim did not suit his taste. A present home, not a future one, is what he seeks. It matters not to him though that home be in the land of the brier and the thorn. He prefers that to the hope of the incorruptible inheritance. This world is the vessel in which all his joys are freighted. Out of it, or beyond it,
he has no hope. It is the treasure-house in which he has laid up his gold and silver.
Cain's world was one in which God was not; nay, in which it was impossible that God could be: for the friendship of that world was enmity with God, and friendship with God was enmity with that world. Thoughts of God would be unwelcome visitors, like drops of wormwood in the cup, or clouds drawn across the sun. Cain's object would be to multiply his occupations and enjoyments, so as to prevent God, and the things of God, from having any place in his soul. Thus would he try to steep his conscience in forgetfulness,— forgetfulness of his sins, forgetful ness of God. Cares, burdens, toils, would be nought to him, if they could only assist him in shutting out God.
Cain's religion would be like all his other occupations, an instrument for keeping God at a distance and preventing him from getting access to the soul. This is, perhaps, strange and almost incredible; yet we see it exemplified every day. What is the religion of most men?
Is it a life of happy fellowship with God, the loving service of a gracious master? Nay, its object is to soothe or stifle an unquiet conscience, which is ever and anon witnessing for God, and for his claims, in the midst of the busiest scenes. It is performed as a sort of bribe, to induce God not to trouble them with his claims. Instead of being delighted in, as that which brings them into the presence of God and keeps them there, it is merely submitted to,—and that for the purpose of excluding God altogether. They seem to go to their knees with this as the burden of their prayers, "Depart from us." This was Cain's religion. This is the world's religion still. Nay, it is man's religion. A world without God, and a religion framed for the purpose
of shutting out God,—these are the two things which man would fain secure for himself.
Is this your lot, reader? Has it long been so; and are you not most thoroughly weary of it?
Or are you content that it should be so? Is this to be your heaven,— your inheritance?
And is it so desirable, that you find it worth while risking your eternity, to retain it for a few swift years? Perhaps you do think it a pleasant lot. But is it durable? And if it be not durable, is it wise to make it your all, so that when it fails you are without a hope? Would it not be well to look beyond it and see what may succeed? For if that which follows be eternal, is it not blind recklessness on your part, to make no provision for it? Before casting yourself headlong into the stream of present joy, have you taken security against the rising flood of unending sorrow? Can you either bribe or brave the Judge? Are you prepared to do battle for life and joy, upon the shores of death and woe?
Is hell a fable, or the second death a picture of the fancy?' That would indeed be good news to millions; for life's weariness would soon be over, and then all the past would lie behind them as a troubled dream. But who has come back from the grave to tell us this ?
Who has gone down into the depths of the earth, or visited each outlying star, or traversed the breadth of space; and then returned to us with these tidings on his lips,
"There is no hell"? Yet, even were hell a fiction, what becomes of sin? Is it to cease? If so, who is to dry up its stream, so that every drop shall evaporate? And if it ceases not, will there not be anguish
enough to make a wretched eternity? Leave but the sinner to sin on for ever, without a fetter to gall him, or a flame to scorch him, or a fiend to mock him, and he will wring his hands in agony, longing for annihilation, and wishing, a thousand times an hour, that he had never been born.
And if the second' death be a fable, are the foretastes of it here but fables too ? Is disease a fable, at which the wise man can smile? Is bodily anguish a fable, devised to "overset the joys of life"? Is there no
reality in tears, in partings, in bereavements, in broken hearts? Ah, if these present sorrows be no fiction, why delude ourselves with the fancy that these, or worse than these, cannot exist hereafter? Rather, are they not the foretastes of what shall be the everlasting portion of the ungodly? Are they not the shadows cast from the " dark mountains" upon the plains of earth? And if the shadows be so sad and gloomy, what must that region itself be, from whose dark heights they fall?
Is heaven a dream? Surely, at least, it is a pleasant one,—the dream of the happy! Whose dream, then, can it be? Can a child of sin and sadness here, dream so fair a dream? How came such images of the beautiful and the infinite into a soul so narrow, so defiled? Are the dreams of a poor mortal, brighter and more blessed than the realities of God? Whence come these "immortal longings," that seem like the reflected sunbeams of a purer firmament, towards which we are moving upwards?
Besides, who of men or angels has gone forth over space, even to its outermost circle, bringing back to us the heavy news, " There is no heaven "? If there had, could we credit the tidings? Should we not say, "Impossible! if there be a God, there must be a heaven; if there
be here on earth that which we call fair, there must be somewhere else that which is fairer far; if there exist around us the beautiful and gladsome, must there not be a fountain-head of gladness and beauty"? For, do not the fair objects with which even this ruined earth is brightened, tell us that there must be, some where, a heaven? From them we get passing gleams of the beautiful and the perfect. Like stray particles of gold, they indicate the treasures of the mine beneath. Like lights gleaming from some palace-window, they make known something of the splendour within. The various objects of sky and earth point to scenes of excellence and blessedness, of which they can only shadow forth the cold outline. The stars above us, as they give forth their never-ceasing radiance, unite in saying, " There is a heaven, —a heaven to which our brightness is as darkness itself." The fields, the flowers, the streams of earth, all tell us "there is a heaven,—a lost Paradise of which we are but the faded relics,—a Paradise yet to be inherited, of which we are the certain pledges."
Heaven, then, is real; and, oh! what is that reality to be to you? Is that real heaven, that true blessedness, to be your portion for ever? Or is the world to be your substitute for God? Is the wilderness to be your Eden, evil your good, and earth your only heaven? This cannot satisfy. These souls of yours are made for something more excellent and more enduring.
Refuse this heritage, and where shall you find another? God has but "one heaven, and you treat it as a dream. Who can create one for you, or how shall you be able to do without one, when life, with its glow and dazzle, has faded away? And what shall become of your capacity for containing happiness—a boundless capacity, with which he who made you has endowed you? Can you shake it off, or lessen it, or make it content with the finite and the mortal? It is an appalling thought that there should be in you such a capacity as this! It is this,
—if one may speak after the manner of men, yet with reverence,-it is this that gives God such a fearful, such an indissoluble hold of you. He can make you so blessed, and he can make you so wretched! That capacity for joy or sorrow, you cannot eradicate or alter.
It exists in you, and must remain for ever. That soul of yours is a vessel of amazing dimensions, and it cannot remain empty. It must be filled to the brim. Either joy or sorrow must be pouring into it throughout eternity. What a thought! Does it not startle you in your sins ? Does it not force itself in upon your busiest and most mirthful hours, like a spectre from the realms of death?*
* Has not one of the world's own poets spoken out the world's feelings on this point, in language which men would do well to ponder?-
"But ever and anon, for grief subdued,
There comes a. token like a serpent's sting ;
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ;
And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever. It may be a. sound,
Atone of music, .summer's eve, or spring,
A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall sound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we're darkly bound."
Can you know all this, and still remain heedless ? Do you still cleave to the world as your friend,—a world that knows not God, a world
that is preparing for the devouring fire?
Think how much you lose. The forgiveness of sin, and the life everlasting,—these you lose. The favour of God, the heirship of the kingdom, the lustre of an unfading crown,—
these you lose. The value of these is infinite, and the blessedness of possessing them is what you can neither measure nor conceive. The loss, which you are thus so deliberately incur ring, is one for which there can be no equivalent, one which admits of no repair. The dark morning of your eternity is not one which will gradually brighten, till you find yourself once more in a circle of light and a land of hope. It is but the foretaste of "the blackness of darkness for ever." You may fondly dream, as men do of the things of earth, that better days will come. You may vainly congratulate yourself, as the prince of the fallen is represented as doing,—" this horror will grow mild, this darkness light." But they never will. They are the inheritance which you have been preparing for yourself, the inheritance for which you have sold your immortal spirit, and it shall be yours for ever.
Once shut in within the walls of that region of fire and gloom, you shall go out no more.
And what is your gain? Your loss is infinite, is your gain any recompence ? Alas! what do you gain? A little gold, a little mirth, a little vanity, perhaps a little fame and honour; that is all! And what do these amount to? A handful of withered leaves, which you may gather up in some autumn hollow! A dream of the beautiful, such as visits the cell of the prisoner only to cheat and mock him! This is all your gain on earth, and as for. your gain hereafter, it is chains, and fire, and torment—the death that never dies, the "second death," to which no Saviour comes, as " the resurrection and the life."
Yet why incur a loss so vast and so irretrievable, or why snatch at such wretched gain ? Is there a necessity for this ? Must you lose so much, and must you gain so little? It is not so.
That gain and that loss are alike matters of your own deliberate and eager choice. That choice you have been making, not once, but a thousand times over. Often has God stepped in and expostulated with you, entreating you to re-consider the choice that you had made. But you refused to alter it. Often has he broken your idols, and emptied your storehouse, and withered your blossoms, in order that you might see the vanity of your choice. But you would not be taught. Often has some faithful friend or minister laid his hands upon yours, and remonstrated with you on the folly and the danger of your choice.
But you would not listen. You persisted in following it out, and risking the consequences.
You would not be turned out of the path which you were pursuing; you treated as rudeness the kind entreaties of friendship; you begged to be allowed to follow your own course, without the annoyance of such uncalled-for and needless interference.
But still we interfere. We cannot see you go down to death unhindered and unbesought.
We must again ask you to re view your choice. Is it a wise one? Does it satisfy your own conscience ? Have you not misgivings, not a few, respecting it? And if there be so much as one doubt in the matter, why persist in it?
Is there not a wiser, safer course ? And do you not see the finger of God beckoning you to pursue it? Do you not hear his gracious voice
announcing, "As I live, saith the Lord God, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked; but that the wicked turn from his way and live: turn ye, turn ye, from your evil ways; for why will ye die?" (Ezek. xxxiii. 11.) Is not the God that made you, here pointing out a more excellent way? He speaks of life, and bids you take it freely. He speaks of death, and beseeches you to avoid it. He asks you to return to him who still yearns over you, and waits to shew his grace.
It is thus that a writer of the olden time sets himself to plead with such as you. "Never did Jacob with such joy weep over the neck of his Joseph as thy heavenly Father would rejoice over thee upon thy coming in to him. Look over the story of the prodigal. Methinks I see how the aged father lays aside his state, and forgetteth his years. Behold how he runneth!
Oh, the haste that mercy makes! The sinner makes not half that speed. Methinks I see how his bowels turn, how his compassions yearn. How quick sighted is love! Mercy spies him a great way off, forgets his riotous courses, unnatural rebellion, horrid unthankfulness (not a word of these), receives him with open arms, clasps his neck, forgets his rags, kisses his lips, calls for the fatted calf, the best robe, the ring, the shoes, the best cheer in heaven's store, the best attire in heaven's wardrobe. Yea, the joy cannot be held in one breast. Others must be called in to share. The friends must meet and make merry. Angels must wait, but the prodigal must sit at table, under his father's wing. He is the joy of the feast, the object of the father's delight. The friends sympathise, but none knows the felicity the father takes in his new-born son, whom he hath received from the dead. Methinks I hear the music and the dancing at a distance! Oh, the melody of the heavenly choristers! I cannot learn the song,' but methinks I overhear the burden, at which all the harmonious choir, with one consent, strike sweetly in, for this
goes round at heaven's table, 'This my son _was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.' "*
* Alleine's Alarm to the Unconverted.
It is no toilsome pilgrimage on which he asks you to set out, in order to reach his dwelling. He himself has come to you, nay, sits by your very side, as did Jesus by the side of the woman of Sychar. He does not bid you climb to heaven, in order to find grace there.
Neither does he tell you to go down into the deep, in order to obtain it there. He has opened the fountain at your very side. He takes up the vessel and presses it to your lips. "
The word is nigh thee, even in thy mouth and in thy heart, that is, the word of life which we preach, that if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, THOU SHALT BE SAVED"
(Rom. x. 8, 9).
To thee, thou lover of pleasure, thou dreamer of earth's dreams, God is telling, this day, the story of his free love, that, receiving it, thou mayest not perish, but have everlasting life. That free love thus received into your heart in believing, would fill you with joy unspeakable. It would be like fragrance from the flowers of Eden, like sunshine from the very heaven of heavens. It would be better to you than pleasure, or gold, or lust; better than all the joys of earth poured into one jewelled cup. It would demand no price of you, neither would it call on you to wait till you had made yourself ready for receiving it. It would come into you at once, like sunlight into your lattice, without insisting that your chamber be adorned for its reception. It would cost you nothing, but the giving up of that which
is far better lost, and the gain of which would be a poor recompence for a ruined soul and an eternity of hopeless sorrow.
THE END.
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MONERGISM BOOKS
The Story of Grace by Horatius Bonar, Copyright © 2020
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