the sin of the angels it had been proved how unstead-fast the

the sin of the angels it had been proved how unstead-fast the

BABBAGE :

Bridgewater Treatise, pp. 108—114.

He could not be seen as the Healer till some were sick. He could not be known as the Helper till there were some to help. He could not be known as the renewer of the world unless it were seen how far that world could go into decay. Therefore it was his purpose, neither to arrest sin at once, so that it might not be committed again, nor to destroy that earth where sin had arisen, that no trace of pollution might remain, but to suffer it to prolong its existence, and thus afford the occasion of his unfolding the fullness of his infinite mind and heart.

6. He wished to make creation more immovable. By man's sin and by the sin of the angels it had been proved how unstead-fast the creature was. If a third race had been created instead of man, there would just have been another fall. God had shown how frail the creature is, even in the most favourable circumstances. Therefore God proceeds no further in creation till he has laid a far deeper foundation for it to rest upon.

This he proceeds to do. By the incarnation of his Son he links creation to himself in ties that cannot be broken.

"0, THE DEPTH OF THE RICHES, BOTH OF THE WISDOM AND THE KNOWLEDGE

OF GOD! HOW UNSEARCHABLE ARE HIS JUDGMENTS, AND HIS WAYS PAST

FINDING OUT!"

Perhaps, reader, you are one of those who in this age are setting their hearts on knowledge. It is well. But here is knowledge, the deepest and the fullest of all. You are aspiring after science—longing to scale its heights. Here is the first of sciences—science truly divine. The knowledge of creation in all its parts and proportions, and substances and laws, is counted science, and eagerly sought after. Nor is it an unworthy knowledge, or one which an immortal spirit might not delight in. But if the laws of the universe be worthy of your studious inquiry, what must the great Framer of these laws be? If the wondrous composition of this earth and its substances be meet for your most earnest search, what must He be who created and arranged them all? If the motions of the heavenly orbs be so wonderful, what must the great Mover be? Have you studied HIM? It is an infinite study; and oh! what a recompense of joy does it bring along with it; what marvels and what mysteries does it disclose! To know the wonders of earth is good; to know the wonders of heaven is better and nobler still; but to know HIM who made, and who fills both earth and heaven, is more blessed, more excellent, more glorious, by far.

God's Purpose Unfolding Itself

It was the story of His goodness that God had hitherto been telling. It was this that man had interrupted; and by so doing had exchanged life for death, becoming heir to the threatened curse of God, and subject to his immediate wrath. What, after this, could be looked for, but the departure of God from earth, and the entire cessation of his goodness towards man?

But God had another purpose,—deeper and more marvellous than this. It now came up into view.

God's full character had never yet been known. Its breadth and length had never been brought to light. It was but a small portion of God that had hitherto been revealed. He had, indeed, displayed as much of himself as could be done in a world where all is sinless. But this was not enough. It needed a new state of things to bring out the rest. This new state God did not introduce, for no sin takes origin with him. But man introduced it.

He committed the trespass, and so altered the condition of the world as well as his own. It was in connection with this state of evil that God's purpose now began to develop itself.

A state of evil does not seem to man the likeliest for unfolding the heart of God. A world where all is light without any dark ness, union without any jar, holiness with out any sin, appears to us the likeliest world for calling forth into manifestation the whole fulness of the divine nature. There love would be met with no coldness, no rude challenge of its sincerity; but with the full response of sympathy from every eye and heart. Fellowship would' be unbroken, joy would be unmingled, and in this flowing and re-flowing between heaven and earth there would be a continual in crease of all that is good and blessed. Were this to go on eternally, surely there would be room enough, and occasion enough, for God to bring forth his largest treasures?

So we might reason. But we forget ourselves when thus attempting to sketch plans for God. A perfect world like that would certainly answer the question, Does God love those that are like himself? But it would not solve the far deeper and more difficult problem, Has he love for those that are unlike himself? He loves the loving and the loveable; can he love the unloving and the unloveable? He can punish sin, as was seen in the angels that left their first estate; but

can he pardon it? He can banish the sinner from his presence; but can he receive him back again? And if there be such forgiving love in him, how far will it go ? Will it embrace only a few of the best and the least unloveable, or even the worst, even the chief of sinners ? And if so, is it love that is ready to make sacrifices for the beloved object, to grudge no cost, however vast, in order to compass its designs ? These are questions which can only be answered in a fallen world, and among a race of sinners.

A perfect world can give us no information respecting them ; not so much as one slender hint. It is utterly silent ; for its experience only ranges within a certain limit. It testifies only of the holy, and of their mutual fellowship and joy.

Yet it is the solution of these problems, the answer to these questions, that can alone bring out the depths of the divine character. One half, at least, of that character must otherwise have been concealed. One half of love's true nature, and that the deeper and the more marvellous, would have remained unknown. Its upper surface would have shone in eternal loveliness, but its depths could never have been sounded; its unfathomable mines of gold and silver would never have been explored; its treasures would never have been imagined. The outer chambers of the heart would have been open and accessible, but its inner chambers, its deep and infinite recesses, would have been unseen and unentered.

Has it not been so even with the natural world, over which the fall has drawn its melancholy shadow ? Has not that dark event been the means of opening up the resources of the earth and heavens, of drawing out of them new objects for admiring gaze? It has spread over us the cloud, but in it, it has given us the rainbow. It has seared the verdure of the earth, but it has given us the matchless tints of

autumn's yellow leaf. It has raised the winds, but it hath brought the white foam of the billow from the transparent blue beneath; it has called up, in all its vastness, the storm's " magnificently stern array."

And has it not been thus also with man's heart? Have not strange discoveries been made in it, as if new strings had been added to the harp, carrying its notes far deeper on the one side, and far higher on the other?

When is it that the mother's heart comes out in all its fulness ? Not in prosperous days of health, when her face beams glad ness over each member of the happy circle. It is in the hour of sorrow, when one of her budding roses has been early blighted, and death seems about to rob her of the joy of her heart. Look at that sick-bed over which she bends with such intensity of sadness. Till now she did not herself know what love was in her. Each wan smile of the dying countenance, each contortion of the features, each wistful upturning of the bright eye, seem to open up new fountains of love. But look again. The disease seems passing off. Health is regaining its dominion in that dying one. What a revulsion of joy !—joy which can only get vent to itself by unlocking another region of her heart, and letting forth new streams of love upon the recovering child. In the one case, what depth of sorrowing love, and in the other, what heights of rejoicing love, were opened up! The human heart is discovered to be a thing of far wider compass and capacities than could otherwise have been conceived. It is by means of the objects and scenes of a fallen world that this discovery has been made. They introduce us into new regions of being and of feeling such as could not have been entered on through any other avenue, or made visible from any other point of observation.

Just so has it been with God, and such is the method he has taken for making known to us this same discovery with regard to himself. Nothing but a world of sin and suffering could have afforded such an opportunity. And it is here, accordingly, that God is opening up the full extent of his love. I do not thus speak of the fall as if it were an unexpected event, and as if God were merely taking advantage of an unforeseen occurrence in order to forward his own ends. Far be this from Jehovah, the God only wise, whose plans are all from eternity. Yet we may thus speak after the manner of men, as he himself has taught us to do: ever remembering, however, that redemption is no mere expedient to remedy a sudden and unlooked-for evil, but the very design of God, whereby from everlasting he meant to glorify himself by the full revelation of his whole character to the universe which he had made.

A world unfallen reveals but half of God. The deep recesses of his character only come out in connection with a world fallen. The heights and depths of his infinite nature were not manifested, till that which is opposed to them occurred to bring them forth. To learn what holiness is, and how holy God is, we need not merely to see his feelings towards the holy but towards the unholy. In order to discover the extent of his goodness, we must not merely see its connection with what it loves but with what it hates. In the sinless world we see how the loving meets with the loving, the blessed with the blessed; but we have still to learn how the loving meets with the unloving, how the blessed meets with the accursed. Does the heart of God yearn over the lost ? Does it pity the suffering and the sorrowful? Has it pleasure in the death of the sinner, or, would it rather that he should return and live? Does it remain uncooled by the sinner's coldness? Does it, when grieved, still suffer long? Does it, when rejection thrusts it away, and hatred opposes it, still cast its eye of unextinguished tenderness towards the poor outcast that refuses

to be blest? God's dealings with a fallen world were the full answer to all these questions. And what an answer !

Thus God overruled man's interruption of his story of goodness. We shall see more specially how he did so in the next chapter. Meanwhile, it is blessed to notice how very different were the results flowing from the introduction of sin, from what we could have imagined. God's thoughts are not as our thoughts, nor his ways as our ways. He purposed not to arrest or annihilate the evil, but to bring good out of it; to make it the mirror in which his own Eternal Godhead should reflect itself in all its manifold glories.

Reader! these are things that unspeak ably concern you. God's purpose is to make more of himself known to you, a sinner, than was made known to Adam in his sinlessness. He neither shuts himself out from you, nor you from himself. He is willing to be known of you ; willing to take you into his hidden chambers and reveal himself to you, as just such a God as a wretched sinner needs. His dealings with you already, in not executing sentence against you, might have taught you this. They contain a story of forbearance A and longsuffering, against which it seems strange indeed that you should so madly close your ear. Adam's interruption of the story of God's goodness was nothing to your long-continued refusal to listen to the story of his wondrous patience. To despise goodness is much, but to slight grace is more. To throw away love when once possessed is strangely perverse and ungrateful; but to resolve not to re-admit it is more perverse and ungrateful still.

How the Story Of Grace Began

God's end in overruling Adam's sin embraced many objects, as we have seen. It was a manifold purpose, full of mighty and most varied

issues, all of them tending to bring out his whole character in new effulgence.

Yet there was one part of this purpose more prominent than the rest, —that which bore more directly upon man's deliverance. It was grace that was specially to be brought into view. No doubt there were to be new depths of holiness, power, and wisdom, discovered; but it was "His grace" that was to be the chief object of this new manifestation of God. This, in all its "exceeding riches," was now to be revealed. And for this, man's sin afforded the occasion.

But what is grace? Let us understand this fully; for in many ways has this word been mistaken and perverted. It is often in our lips, but how little is its simple reality comprehended!

God loves the angels; he gladdens them with his smiles and blessings as they wait around his throne, or run at his bidding on their divine errands: but this is not grace. They are obedient and holy; as such, love is their natural inheritance. What else could be expected? A holy God must love the holy. God's favor towards the angels proceeds upon the fact that they have no sin. But grace is very different from this. It is still the love of a Holy Being; but its object is the unholy. The lost, the wretched, the guilty, the worthless, are its sole objects. Under these aspects of sin and ruin alone it contemplates them. Nay, these are the very things which call it forth. It does not go out to the lost, in spite of his being lost, but especially because he is lost. It does not say to the worthless, "Ah, you are worthless indeed, but I have discovered some fragment of better things about you, and I will show you favor on account of these, notwithstanding your being so worthless." No, its language is widely different. It is, "I see you are guilty, wretched, worthless, with nothing in you or about you of what

is good but these are just the very things that I fix upon; they unfit you for every thing else, but they do not unfit you for grace."

It is over the coffin or the tomb of the beloved, that our hearts pour forth the hidden depths of gushing love. So is it over a lost world that the heart of God has gone forth pouring itself out in all its unutterable tenderness of compassion. It is towards his poor wandering prodigal that the father's heart goes out. Over him he sighs and weeps. He sees him without a home, without a friend, selfexiled from the paternal roof. He thinks of him in poverty, in rags, in filth, in famine, ready to lie down and die. He fancies him drinking the cup of the drunken, sitting among the unclean, joining in the mirth of the profane, guiltiest among the guilty. And as he broods over these things, his whole heart is turned within him. He almost forgets the happy circle round him in the intensity of his yearnings over his outcast boy. So is it with God in his compassion for this forlorn, this self-banished world. The outgoings of his heart towards it are infinitely beyond that of a father's affection, or a mother's deepest tenderness. This is grace,—that feeling which is called forth, not by the worth, but by the worthlessness of the object, which awakens at the sight of want, and misery, and guilt.

Before man sinned, it was only goodness that could show itself,—love to the good and worthy. But goodness could no longer find any objects upon earth for its exercise after sin had entered. Then it was, that when goodness had retired, grace came down, and the story of grace began to be told to man fallen, just as the story of goodness had been told to man unfallen.

When, then, did grace begin? Was it a new feeling that now for the first time arose in the bosom of God? No; grace is from eternity. It is like every thing else in God, without a beginning. The fall did not

produce some new feeling in him; it only called forth what had been in him for everlasting. It supplied new objects,—objects of sin and wretchedness; and these brought forth grace into action. But grace is eternal. The story of grace has a beginning: but grace itself has none. We cannot love a friend till we have a friend to love; but the heart which loves has throbbed within us ever since we breathed. We cannot weep over the dead till there are the dead to weep over; but the soul that feels and the eye that weeps were not created by the sight of death. It was the sight of the multitude that awoke the compassion of Jesus; it was the sight of the city that broke up the fountain of his tears, but the tender spirit that commiserates suffering was his always. So it was the sight of sinning, suffering man, that called forth in Eden the grace of God; but the grace itself had been there during all the infinite past. It was only waiting for an object towards which it might flow out; and now, like a long-pent-up river, it burst forth in strength to overflow the earth.

This, then, is the marvel, that man's sin, instead of shutting up the heart of God, and sealing it against the sinner, should be the very thing which unlocks new chambers of its love, and draws forth new stores of its undiscovered and unimagined fulness. It is upon the rain-cloud that light spreads out its sevenfold brilliance; so it was upon man's sin that God began to open out the hidden riches of his infinitely gracious Being. It is not the cloudless sky that brings out the whole beauty of earth and heaven; it needs the cloud to open out the treasures of the sunbeam, and to let men see what is contained even in a single ray; so that that which seems to intercept the sunshine, is the means of revealing it. And so with the sin of man. It threatened to banish God and goodness from the earth, yet it was the means of bringing him far nearer than before, and of displaying far more of his goodness, something deeper and more wonderful—grace. Thus it was just "where sin abounded" that "grace did much more

abound." Abounding sin drew forth more abounding grace. This was, indeed, a new aspect of God's character, and it implied a new way of dealing with sin. It was with swift vengeance that he had visited it, when it first showed itself in the revolt of the angels. He swept the sin and the sinner clean away. Nor could man expect any other treatment. But God had other thoughts. His purpose was, indeed, still to remove sin, but in another and more glorious way, a way which would exhibit himself more fully, and, while it condemned sin even more terribly than before, would enable him to set free the sinner. Formerly, sin and the sinner were dealt with as if inseparable. Wrath unmingled came forth against both. Now they were to be separated. The sin was still to be the object of fiercest wrath, but the sinner was to be the object of grace.

Adam could have no idea of being treated differently from the sinning angels; he knew not that sin and the sinner could be separated, or that there could be wrath for the one, and grace for the other. The very idea of grace or free love to the sinner was new to the universe. Angels could not know it. Their own experience seemed to bear witness against the possibility of such a thing, if, indeed, even the idea of it could arise in their minds.

But God's purpose was to make known this grace to man without delay; the sinner was not long to remain ignorant that there was such a thing as free love in God. The story of grace was begun, and man was called on to listen to it, and learn from it how God could forgive the sinner, and yet be the righteous God.

Reader, there is sin upon thee; that sin brings thee under condemnation. It makes thee an heir of hell. Thy rightful portion is the same as that of devils in the lake that burneth. But God has revealed his way of separating between the sin and the sinner, a way

by which thy sin is punished and thou art pardoned. Dost thou know that way? It is the way of grace. If thou dost not know that way, sin, with its eternal burden, still lies upon thy soul. If thou knowest it, and art walking in it, then thou hast everlasting life, and shalt never come into condemnation, but hast passed from death to life. It was the knowledge of this grace that soothed the troubled soul of Adam; and it is the knowledge of this same grace that alone can keep your soul in perfect peace. Many a struggle, many a snare, may lie before you; but the knowledge of this free love will sustain you in all. Through many a sunny, many a stormy hour, you may have to pass; but here is grace suitable for all. "Be strong in this grace;" keep fast hold of it: it is all to you. Understand it well in all its precious simplicity; mingle nothing with it, else it ceases to be grace: neither add to nor take from it. Receive it just as God has made it known to you. It is sufficient for you to live on, and contains all that is needed to keep your soul in perfect peace. It is a tried spell against the tempter; it is the scatterer of all doubt, the soother of all fear.

Where the Story of Grace Was First Told

IT was first told in Eden, in the very place where man had broken in upon the story of goodness. It was, indeed, afterwards to be told out of Eden: for man was to be driven forth and the gate closed against him. It was to be told over all the earth, " to every creature that is under heaven." But still it was first to be told in Eden. There man had sinned, and there he was to be forgiven; there he had provoked God, and there he was to learn how God could be gracious even to such a rebel.

It was not till he had finished this story of grace that " he drove out the man." This is striking, and full of meaning. It is not after the manner of men. No stroke of punishment is to fall on the sinner, no rod of chastisement is to be laid upon him, till he has learned the gracious character of that God whom he had so strangely disobeyed. This, of itself, is grace. Not only is the message a loving one, but the manner, the tone, the time, the place of its delivery, all concur in testifying to the love that it contains. They heighten and enhance the love to which man is now called on to listen.

It would, indeed, have been grace anywhere; though spoken in a dungeon or in a desert, it would still have been grace— grace such as man could not have looked for, yet beyond measure precious and suit able. Still, when meeting him upon the very spot where the deed of evil had been done, it wore an aspect of yet deeper mercy. The whole

scene bore witness to man's guilt and to the provocation God had received. God could appeal to each object that stood in view, and say, " What could have been done more to my vine yard that I have not done in it?" (Isa. v. 4.) Yet it was here that God revealed forgiveness to the sinner. In the place where all the evidences of his guilt hung around, there mercy overtook him, and made known itself to him. ' What tenderness is here! '

But, besides, thus man's mouth was closed. He could not palliate his guilt by pleading unsupplied wants or unkindly circumstances. He did, indeed, try to throw the blame upon the woman, and through her upon God; but he could go no farther. He could not say, "Thou hast been to me a wilderness, and a land of darkness" (Jer. ii. 31). He could not say, "Thou hast placed me in most adverse circumstances, thou hast given me nought but a desert to dwell in, and a cold sky for my covering." He had no ground for such excuses; and the place where he stood, listening to the voice of God, pre vented him from making the attempt. "What iniquity hast thou found in me, that thou hast gone far from me?" (Jer.

ii. 5), might have been God's words to him. "What have I done to deserve all this at thy hands ? is this thy kindness to thy friend ?"

Thus grace meets him on the very spot where he stood as a sinner; it takes him just as it finds him, not only a sinner, but trying to cover his sin, and hastening away from God in order to be beyond the reach of his eye. It comes up to him as he stands; it does not wait, but hastens to meet him; it does not proclaim itself afar off, but places itself at his very side; it does not require him to come so much of the way to meet it; it goes the whole way to meet him.*

*An Eastern proverb says, "If man draws near to God an inch, God will draw near to him an ell." This is an approach to the truth, yet a

poor one ; for where should we be if God waited for our "inch" ?

It does not call upon him to move one step till it has first taken hold of him; it does not insist upon his obtaining some qualification, some fitness, by throwing off as much of his guilt as he can. It asks for no qualification; it offers to take the whole mass of his guilt at once into its own hand, and to dispose of it in its own way. Such was the fulness, such the absolute freeness, of that grace which was now announced to him in Eden.

Thus has it been ever since. In the place of our sin grace meets us, nay, only there. It was in the land of the Chaldees, the place of his idolatry, that the grace of God met Abraham.

He did not come out of Chaldea in order that he might meet with God afterwards in Haran. " The God of glory appeared unto our father Abraham when he was in Mesopotamia, before he dwelt in Charran " (Acts vii. 2). It was on the way to Damascus, out slaughter against the saints, that the grace of God met with Saul. It was to the woman caught in the act of sin, that the Lord spoke in words of such marvellous grace, "Neither do I condemn thee; go and sin no more." In the prison of Philippi, the scene of his hard-heartedness and cruelty to the saints, the grace of God found the poor heathen gaoler, and made him to rejoice in God that very night with all his house. It was to the sinners of Jerusalem that the Gospel was to be first proclaimed; that, on the very spot where the deed of infinite guilt had been done, there grace might find the doers and tell its glad story in their ears.

Grace does not stand upon the distant mountain-top and call on the sinner to climb up the steep heights, that he may obtain its treasures; it comes down into the valley in quest of him; nay, it stretches - down its hand into the very lowest depths of the horrible pit, to pluck him

thence out of the miry clay. It does not offer to pay the ninety and nine talents, if he will pay the remaining one; it provides payment for the whole, whatever the sum may be. It does not offer to complete the work, if he will only begin it by doing what he can. It takes the whole work in hand, from first to last, presupposing his total helplessness. It does not bargain with the sinner, that if he will throw off a few sins, and put forth some efforts after better things, it will step in and relieve him of the rest by forgiving and cleansing him. It comes up to him at once, with nothing short of complete forgiveness as the starting-point of all his efforts to be holy. It does not say, " Go and sin no more, and I will not condemn thee; " it says at once, " Neither do I condemn thee ; go and sin no more."

Indeed, otherwise it would not be grace, but a miserable mixture of grace and merit, a compound of God's doings and man's deservings. If grace does not meet the sinner just where he stands, just as he is, in all his helplessness and guilt, it is no grace to him; for it still leaves an impassable gulf between, a gulf which he has no means to fill up or to cross.

If grace wait for anything to be done or felt by man, before it will go forth to him, it will wait for ever. If it had waited till Adam came out of the thicket and began to seek after God again, it would never have revealed itself at all. If it had waited till Saul had ceased to hate the Master and persecute the disciple, it would never have reached him. If it had waited till Jerusalem had some what purged itself from the innocent blood which it had shed, no Gospel would ever have been heard within its walls.

Grace of this kind would have been but a mockery to man. If it hang upon some condition to be previously fulfilled, if it insist upon some qualification to be previously obtained, it comes in vain to the sinner;

nay, it gives him a stone instead of bread. It points to an ark whose door is shut against him; it tells him of a city of refuge to which he can have no access.

But the grace of God that met Adam in Eden was not such as this. It met him as a sinner, and only as such; it dealt with him as a sinner, and not after he had become something better. This was the only grace that could suit the case of man ; it was the only grace that was worthy of God. "If there be any pardon with God," says one of another age, " it is such as becomes him to give. When he pardons, he will abundantly pardon. Go with your half-forgiveness, limited, conditional pardons, with reserves and limitations, unto the sons of men. It may become them ; it is like themselves. That of God is absolute and perfect, before which our sins are as a cloud before the east wind and the rising sun.

Hence he is said to do this work with his whole heart and with his whole soul" (Owen on the 130th Psalm).

Such is the grace that is still going forth to us. It is absolutely and unconditionally free; it comes up to us where we stand; it finds us " in a desert land, and in a waste howling wilderness." And there it does its work with us. How little is this under stood, especially by the anxious and inquiring! They try to get away from the spot where the guilt was contracted, and where its dark memorials lie thickly scattered on every side. They shrink from dealing with God about forgiveness upon such a spot. They think that God cannot there deal with them in grace, and that to speak of immediate forgiveness to him in the midst of such a scene would only provoke a repulse, if not his hottest vengeance. Yet it is just there that God meets with them, just there that he calls on them to listen to the story of his grace. The effort to escape from that spot, and the wish to deal with God in

some less gloomy, less guilty place, are the struggles of self righteousness. The sense of shame arising from being compassed about with such memorials of sin, and the desire not to appear in the sight of God totally unworthy, are our true reasons for standing aloof from his free grace.

And is not this just the essence of all unbelief—the refusal to own one's self wholly a criminal, and to submit to owe all to grace? And is it not here, at the very outset, that the Holy Spirit's power is so absolutely needful? First, to keep the sinner in the place of guilt, and then to prevent his attempts to shift his ground and to deal with God on some other spot and on some other footing? And then to shew him, that though his case be the very worst that God ever dealt with, grace is altogether sufficient and exactly suitable?

How often is this the stumbling-point with many, whom God is visiting with conviction!

They have plunged deep into sin; they have lived as strangers to God, perhaps blasphemers of his name; their life has been one eager chase of pleasure. And when conscience summons them to return from these paths, then they sit down desponding.

Their whole course of sin rises up between them and God. They think that the retracing of their steps will be a long, weary process; they do not see it possible that they can deal with God about forgiveness just as they are and just where they stand. They think that they must set about undoing as much as they can of the evil of their former ways before they can transact with God. And hence they too often return in sullen desperation to their former ways.

But is it so, thou weary, half-persuaded one, that God will not deal with thee as thou art?

Did he not deal with Adam in the very place of guilt? Did not grace find him there? And is not grace the same? And is not the God of grace the same? You may shrink from his eye; you may say, " I dare not look upon God as I stand here, in the midst of my sins ; I must seek some other less polluted spot where I may meet with him." But God does not think as you do ; he is willing to meet you at this moment, just where you are. And if he is willing, why should you refuse? If he shrinks not from you, why should you shrink from him? It is your turning away from him, in whose favour is life, that has embittered your days. And will you not now take his offered hand of welcome, and end all your sorrows in the joy of his end less love?

He is willing to deal with you just now—to have the whole controversy adjusted between you and him. I do not say he is willing " to come to terms." He has come to terms already, when he bruised his Son upon the cross and made him our peace. These terms, already made, he is now exhibiting to you in the " Gospel of his grace," that is, the good news about his gracious character as "the Lord, the Lord God,' merciful and gracious, longsuffering, and abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin" (Exod. xxxiv. 6). The sum of these terms is, "

Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely." Or, in John Bunyan's words, "The Lord, the governor of the country, hath recorded it in His Book, that if we be truly willing to have it, he will bestow it upon us freely."

By Whom This Story Was Told

IT is God himself who comes down to tell it. He entrusts it to no one else, till he has first announced it. It was too strange a story to be credited from any other messenger. It seemed so incredible, that it must come direct from God, else man might have some ground for giving way to suspicion regarding it. Besides, God wished to be the first to tell his own tale of love.

Man's guilty conscience must have suggested hard thoughts of God. Satan had whispered these already, when, with all the malignity of dark insinuation in his tone, he put the question, " Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not cat of every tree of the gar den?" (Gen. iii. 1.) As if he had added, "What then becomes of the story of his goodness that he has been telling you? Strange goodness this!" These hard thoughts would multiply tenfold, after man yielded to the temptation. The consciousness of guilt would call them up in self justification. He would palliate the deed that he had done, by making himself believe that God was severe and unkind.

To remove all such thoughts, God himself comes down. He speaks in person, not through the voice of another. He will leave man without excuse, by letting him hear the story of grace from his own lips. He becomes his own witness, that he may give to man the fullest possible assurance that all this story of grace is really true, and that in his purpose of grace he is entirely sincere. On neither of these points does he afford man any room to doubt. He speaks himself, and he speaks from his inmost heart. His words are the words of love; they come direct from lips that cannot lie; and the tone in which they are spoken carries irresistible conviction that they are not mere words of course, but the full-hearted utterance of affection.

Little as we think about it, the tone of the voice that spoke in the garden must have been most expressive. For it was the voice of God,

—the "melodious, majestic, mighty voice of God." In our world of discord, where the heart and the voice are so little in unison, we know something of the expressive power of sounds: though after all it is but little that we know. Yet when some one arises amongst us to whom God has given a voice of melody, and a heart to pour itself through that voice, what influence do the tones of that gifted one wield over us, moving us at will either to weep or smile! And why? Not merely because the sounds were passing sweet; but because they clothed in language, richer and fuller than that of articulate speech, the deep feelings of the soul. When he, then, who formed these sounds, and can wield at pleasure and in truest perfection all their varied power, takes them up and uses as the vehicle of his own divine feelings, how doubly expressive, doubly vocal, would each word become! Thus was it now with Adam when listening to the very voice of God. The words uttered were gracious in themselves, but the tone —the infinitely perfect and expressive tone—carried in the words with all-subduing power. It took away every possibility of mistake as to their meaning. We hear it said that, some men's voices are more winning and more full of meaning than their words. as not this supremely true of God ? For words must ever be imperfect, seeing they are for the ears and the lips of the finite. But in the varied melody of sound, so ethereal in its very nature, the heart of God can give vent to itself. If anything of God's sincere interest in man's welfare were left unspoken in the words, it would be most fully told by the tones in which these words went forth from the lips of God into the ear of man.

Thus God was his own witness, both by word and by tone. Either of these was enough.

Both of them together were irresistible. Can man any longer doubt when it is the voice of God himself that he hears? How Adam

received the blessed announcement we know not.

In all likelihood, he listened, believed, and rejoiced. In token of his faith, he called his wife's name Eve, the mother of the living, not of the dead. The lost sheep was brought back, the lost piece of silver recovered, the lost son was found! Alas! that it should not be so always with man, when the glad tidings of the grace of God are proclaimed to him!

Strange, that with such a message and with such a. witness he should still treat the grace as if it were insincere, and the tidings concerning it as if they were untrue! And it is just in this strain that God reasons with us, speaking to us by the lips of an Apostle,—" If we receive the witness of men, the witness of God is greater" (1 John v. 9). We are ready enough to believe what man says, especially when it is our interest to do so: how much more ready should we be to believe that which is spoken by God! Man has often deceived us, yet we still treat his testimony with confidence. God has never deceived us nor given us cause to suspect his sincerity : with what far greater confidence should we treat his testimony.

Yet the fact is otherwise. We are much more ready to believe man than God; nay, more ready to believe Satan than God. We have no assurance that man is our friend, yet we believe him; we know that Satan is our enemy, as also the father of lies, yet we believe him. God has never given us any ground to think ill of him, yet we refuse to receive his witness when he testifies to us of the " riches of his grace." Is not this strange and sad? Is it not most unreasonable and perverse? It could not be credited were it not manifested every day before our eyes. If the story of God's grace amazes us, the story of man's unbelief may astonish us far more.

It is with this unreasonableness that God taxes us. He appeals to us respecting the perversity of our conduct. " You listen to your fellowmen, why will you not listen to me?

You transact the daily business of your lives in faith upon your neighbours, why will you not transact the business of eternity in faith upon me? Am I the only one whose word is not to be taken, whose testimony is to be suspected ? " Thus God condescends to reason with us, when he might righteously have thrust us away without a word of entreaty. In so doing, he brings out our treatment of him in its darkest aspect, and, by the way in which he puts it, leaves us inexcusable. For had we not been in the habit of believing any one, we might have had some pretext for our distrust,—some plea of selfjustification in this course of unbelief. But when we so continually and so readily "receive the witness of man," we are without excuse if we refuse or suspect the witness of God, which is so much surer and stronger.

It was with this unbelief that Christ charged Israel,—" If I say the truth, why do ye not believe me?" It is with this unbelief that God charges the world,— " They received not the love of the truth that they might be saved." And it is on this point that he so solemnly warns us,— " Take heed lest there be in any of you an evil heart of unbelief in departing from the living God." It was this evil heart of unbelief that drew Adam away from God. It is this same heart of unbelief that still keeps his children away. It is not the greatness of their sins, for God is willing to bury them all out of sight. It is the evil heart of unbelief! It was this that kept Israel out of Canaan, and made them perish in the wilderness. It is this that keeps men out of the better Canaan, and consigns them to the abyss of woe.

For unbelief is that which most displeases and dishonours God; It is the denial of the story of his grace; nay, it is the belief of something else in its stead— the belief of a lie. It is a defacing of God's image; it is a blackening of God's character; it is a refusal of his friendship; it is a preference of self and the world to Him; it is a deliberate rejection of his Son, and of the gift of life in him; for every moment's delay in receiving this gift implies far more than mere indifference or neutrality; it implies a distinct and positive rejection!

With this dark guilt God charges the world: and with this we now charge every unbelieving soul that reads these pages. I enter here into no question as to the absolute necessity of the Holy Spirit's inward work upon the soul in order to believing. I simply charge you, upon the authority of God, with this wilful unbelief, this deliberate rejection of his infinite gift. It is at your peril that you attempt to excuse yourself for one moment's continuance in unbelief. Your doing so is but adding guilt to guilt; and you cannot really suppose it possible that there is any one to blame for your unbelief but yourself, or that there is any sufficient reason for your remaining in that state another hour.

The line that God draws is between those who receive his witness and those who receive it not. All who receive it have eternal life, and shall never come into condemnation. All who do not receive it are condemned already, and are ripening for the everlasting condemnation hereafter. They who are listening to his story of grace, and receiving it as little children do the story of a mother's love, are members of his heavenly family, and heirs of his kingdom. They who are closing their ears against it, and listening to the world's flatteries, or Satan's falsehoods, are exiles from his favour, and inheritors of a wrath that shall burn unabated for ever.

On which side of this line are you, reader? I do not ask on which side of it you hope to be at death; but on which side of it you are at this moment. There is life on the one side and death on the other. Which of these two is your present portion? Does the line seem a narrow one, and do you think it hard that the abiding on one side of it should be death, and strange that by crossing it you should be landed on the shore of life ? Remember that it is God, not man, who draws the line. And who will attempt to alter the boundary which he marks out?

Nor is it, after all, an arbitrary line. This belief is the belief of all that is gracious and glorious in the character of God, and consequently of all that is fitted to make you truly blessed. This unbelief, on the other hand, is the shutting out of all this wondrous display of God's infinite nature; nay, it is the positive belief of, that which is opposed to this. Do you still wonder, then, why such momentous consequences should hang on your belief or your unbelief? How can it be otherwise, in the very nature of things? Do you ever ask why the enjoyment or deprivation of day's refreshing light should depend upon the opening or the closing of these slender eyelids of yours? Do you ask why the churchyard or the charnel house is so gloomy and saddening, and why summer-fields are so joyous to the heart? Do you ask why there should be such gladness in meeting and such pain in parting with, those we love? Do you ask why it is so sweet to love and to be loved, and so terrible to hate and to be hated ? No. You do not call these things arbitrary. Yet you know them simply as facts of your nature—nothing more. Their how and why are beyond your stretch. They belong to the deep and undiscovered harmonies of being. He only can follow them out who has seen the plan of the universe, and, having seen it, has mastered all its details, looking round upon the whole from the same centre from which the Eternal Architect beheld them when he first planned the vast design.

Or does all this seem to make the blessings too free? Do you say, " If it be all of grace, and if we are to get life on such easy terms, what then becomes of morality, and of the law, and of a holy life ? " The answer is, these are all provided for: and far more fully provided for in the way of grace than in any other plan they could have been.*

* " He turned to the woman—turned with a look of pardoning mercy-' Thy sins are forgiven thee.' Observe, the Divine Redeemer says not one word of a new life, of self-government, of moral restraint. And why? Because he knew that she loved much; and he knew that love knows of no sorrow for sin, which does not lead to forsaking of sin ; and though man might think that the pardoned sinner would never again bestow one thought upon his past sins, he knew that it is after pardon that the sinner begins to see them as they really are—begins to know them in all their enormity—

begins to weep for them, because committed against a God so ready to pardon and so slow to anger."—From the Italian of Girolamo Fornielli

Nay, this the only way in which the ends of holiness can be served, and the fulfilment of the law secured. For the law is the law of love, not of fear. The only true keeping of it is the keeping of it in love. The motives for keeping it must be ad dressed to our hearts as well as to our con sciences. They must be motives appealing to what is loving and generous in the soul ; not grounded on constraint or terror, or the suspense of a doubtful forgiveness. If a man is made to wait and work for pardon, there cannot but be constraint, and terror, and uncertainty. Thus the affections are frozen—the heart has no room to play.

In other words, the law cannot be kept at all. The feet may move in the direction to which terror impels, but that is the utmost.

The only way to have this law of love kept by the sinner, is to send him a free forgiveness, to assure him of free love, to put him in possession of the free favour of God,—to do all this at once, Without delay, without waiting, without working, without uncertainty, without suspending wrath over him.

And how can this be done save in believing? If working be necessary, it cannot be done. "

It is of faith that it might be of grace." A sin-bearer is made known to us,—the good news concerning his sin-bearing are proclaimed to us ; and, in believing these, we have immediate pardon. We are not kept in suspense ; " we have peace with God." The reconciliation is at once effected. What, then, flows from this? Love to God, and a desire to do his will: love to the law, and a delight in keeping it,—a longing after entire conformity to God him self. How simple and how blessed ! Surely He who framed the Gospel knew our nature well. He knew the hearts which he had made, and how to touch their springs.

And, therefore, in order that we may keep the law of love, he introduces love at the very outset. Terror could not do this. Suspense could not make a man holy. An uncertain forgiveness could not unlock our fetters. '

Thus the Gospel is no arbitrary thing, but most natural as well as most simple, the only thing which can furnish sufficient motives to a holy life,—the only thing that can call forth in us the response of happy confidence and childlike love. They who revile a free Gospel as the inlet to licentiousness, shew that they understand neither the Gospel nor the Law.

They know not man's nature, nor how to touch the springs of the heart. Holiness with them is the fruit of compulsion, and terror, and

dreary suspense. They would secure it by making pardon a blessing to be strenuously worked for, and only earned after a life time's obedience or penance. Holiness with God is the freed soul pouring itself out in a life of loving obedience?' He secures it by

* " If any man ask me, seeing that faith justifieth me, why I work, I answer, LOVE COMPELLETH ME. For as long as my soul feeleth what love God hath shewed me in Christ, I cannot but love God again, and his will and commandments, and of love do them; nor can they seem hard unto me." TYNDAL's Bible: Preface to Exodus.

" Sin is the disease. What is the remedy? Charity? Nonsense. Charity is the health, the state to be obtained by the use of the remedy, not the sovereign balm itself,—faith of grace, faith in the God-manhood, the cross, the mediation, the perfected righteousness of Jesus, to the utter rejection and abjuration of all righteousness of our own. Faith alone is the restorative. The Romish scheme is preposterous: it puts the rill before the spring. Faith is the source,—charity, that is, the whole Christian life, is the stream from it." —Coleridge: Literary Remains.

the gift of free and entire forgiveness, which becomes ours simply in believing the testimony of his grace as set before us in the cross of his beloved Son.

The Outline of the Story

NOT knowing anything of grace, nor how such a thing could be, Adam fled from God.

He was afraid of God, and of his anger, for the hope of forgiveness could not enter his mind. He was ashamed to meet with God, for the sense of unfitness to stand in his presence would possess him. An evil conscience told him that God must now be his enemy, and that he had no favour to look for at his hands. Free love had not yet been made known, and the idea of it could not originate with the creature. It must originate with God. He alone could tell how such a thing could be, and he alone could suggest it to man.

Accordingly, when man fled, God followed. He was eager to escape from God, and to get as far as possible out of his sight. The presence of God had become as terrible as it had once been blessed. God overtook him among the trees. Search was immediately made for sin. It was found upon the man. God began with Adam, for with him, as the head of creation, he had hitherto been dealing. This same sin was then traced back to the woman, and charged also against her. It was then traced backward further still, to the serpent.

Step by step it was thus tracked out, and laid open to view in all its windings,—a specimen this of God's procedure in the day of judgment, when he shall lay bare all sin, and hold it up to the abhorrence of the universe.

When the fountain-head of the evil had thus been reached, the sentence was pronounced.

The search for sin had begun with Adam, but the sentence against it began with the serpent, as the origin of the whole. It seemed a sentence of wrath, but it was truly one of grace. It spoke of death, but life was in it. It was the first ray of light beginning to dawn upon the

world, over which man's disobedience had drawn so dark a cloud. It was not spoken directly to Adam, but simply in his hearing, that he may feel that this grace and life do not arise from any good thing in him, but from God's mere pity towards him, and from His desire to undo the evil which had been wrought.

The sentence against the serpent assures us that God has taken man's part against the enemy that had ruined him. Thus much of grace could be seen at once in it. God steps in between man and his seducer, expressing his displeasure against that which had been done to man. " Thou hast done this," are his words of condemnation against the adversary. He then lays the curse on Satan, and predicts his final overthrow, notwithstanding his present victory. This was grace. Still further, he promises a seed to the woman, and this was special grace; for it told her that the sentence of death was not immediately to overtake her. She was to live; and, through her, deliverance was to find its way to the race. Through this seed Satan's ruin was to come. Between the woman and the serpent there was to be no longer friendship, but enmity. They had been companions in sin, accomplices in crime, but they were henceforth to be at enmity. Nay, between the two seeds there was to be deadly conflict carried on, ending in victory to the woman's seed, but not without the bruising of his heel; nay, by means of this very bruising. All this was grace; each word was expressive of some gracious design on the part of God, in behalf of the sinner. God's purpose of grace was thus intimated, though not unfolded.

Yet it was grace arising out of, or, at least, founded on God's hatred of sin. The first words God utters in the ears of man are such as to shew him that, whatever that grace might be, it was grace such as could only reach him in a way expressive of this hatred. Sin was to be treated as an infinite evil, not as a thing which God could pass

slightly over, or to which he could be indifferent. Men sometimes speak of grace as if it had its origin in God's indifference to sin. But, at the very outset, God would have us know that this cannot be.

Grace can only come forth in the way of recognising sin's utter hatefulness—a hateful ness so great, that the one way of removing or pardoning sin is by God's taking the treatment of it entirely into his own hands. And thus it is still. Grace can only be understood when taken in connection with the "exceeding sinfulness of sin," and the entire unworthiness of the sinner. If sin be not altogether evil, and if the sinner be not altogether worthless, then grace be comes a word without a meaning. Hence it is that self-righteousness and grace are totally incompatible with each other; so that, the moment we begin to palliate our sin, in order to obtain forgiveness, we are falling from grace. As soon as we begin to look for some good feeling or deed in us, in order to make us less unfit to apply to God for pardon, we are rejecting grace. When we allow doubts to arise in us on account of the greatness or the frequency of our sins, we are losing sight of grace. When we try to get or to regain peace in any way which supposes that we are less than the chief of sinners, we are misunderstanding grace, and refusing to acknowledge what it must always rest upon—that sin's malignity is unspeakable, and God's hatred of it unchangeable. ' And this was evidently in the mind of the Lord when he said, "I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." The grace, which he came to announce, was grace which had nothing to do with man in any other character save that of a sinner.

Thus God's gracious character began to shew itself. It was plain that he had now taken the side of man against his great enemy, and thus manifested his grace as distinctly as he did to Israel when he said, " I willbe an enemy unto thine enemies, and an adversary unto thine

adversaries." as to place himself. between him and his adversary, declaring war against the serpent and its seed for ever, but proclaiming no war against man, nay, implying a restoration to friendship, for it was the seed of the woman that he meant to make the instrument of his victory over Satan.

This was much indeed. It was a reprieve at least, if it was nothing more. It suspended the sentence, if it did not revoke it. But it did more than this. It intimated the grace or free love that his bosom contained--a free love which seemed resolved to proceed onwards in the attainment of its object—that would grudge no cost, nor He had so espoused man's cause, toil, nor sacrifice, in order to its attainment. There was indeed as yet but a dim and partial revelation of grace, but it was enough to shew Adam, that however much God hated the sin that had been done, he had not become the implacable enemy of man, but was willing to befriend and bless him still. Man might still enjoy his friendship, though a sinner,—man might yet taste God's love, though he had made himself so utterly unloveable. He may betake himself to the God that made him, and find shelter beneath the shadow of his wings, nay, gladness in the embrace of his everlasting arms. He need not avoid his Creator, as if there were nought but destruction and terror in his presence.

Man had indeed altered his condition, but there was something in God to meet that altered condition. What God had formerly manifested of himself could not meet it; but now he had come down to intimate that there was that very thing in him which this changed state required, and that this thing was not wrath, but GRACE.

This was the first rag of returning light. It was not the sun; that was not to rise for ages.

Neither was it the morn. But it was the first streak of brightness upon the overhanging clouds. It foretold the dawn, it was the sure forerunner of the sun. The clouds did not forthwith depart —the curse did not leave the earth—man's restoration was not complete.

But it was clearly intimated that the process was now begun through which all these would be accomplished. Satan was not to triumph ; sin was not to have its way unhindered; God's favour was now made sure. This was enough,—the rest would follow in due time. And what might man not hope for, if God's favour were restored? That would brighten all darkness, and turn all sorrow into joy.

These were the tidings of grace—the story of free love that Adam heard. And news like these were just what his case required. They arrested him in his flight from God, for they told him how much he had mistaken the character of the God he was fleeing from, and they made him feel that his safety lay not in escaping from God, but in returning to him.

They made his fig-leaves fall from off him, for they told him of a far better clothing, a covering made by the hands of God. They won his heart, they relieved his doubts, they stilled all his alarms, while they at the same time made him thoroughly ashamed of his sin. They gently drew him out of the thick shades in which he had sought to hide himself from the face of God. Terror and threatening could not have done this; they would only have made him clasp his fig-leaves the more firmly, and driven him further away to hide himself in deeper shades. But this unexpected, yet most blessed discovery of grace, spoke peace to his soul. It told him that God was still willing to be his friend —still ready to welcome him back to his paternal bosom.

Nothing is prescribed for him to do in order to secure God's favour, or get the benefit of the good news. "They are made known to him by God. The story of free love is told, or, at least, sketched in outline. He listens,—he sees that it is God himself who is speaking, and that, therefore, there can be no deception. He gives God credit for speaking truly; he believes, and peace re-enters his soul. The story of love thus taught him outwardly by the hearing of the ear, and taught him inwardly, at the same moment, by the Holy Ghost, was all he needed to pacify his conscience and to gladden his heart.

Nor was there any room left for suspicion or doubt. Man seemed shut up to believe and to trust. One would have said that no door for unbelief was left open, and that the difficulty would not be, to believe, but to keep from believing. It was not much, indeed, that was said, but that little was enough to shew Adam that God was altogether such an one as he, a sinner, could trust in. To suspect or to doubt him, then, was to say that there was not enough of grace in him for such a sinner, or that there was not grace of the particular kind he needed. This was, in fact, to cast discredit upon that very revelation of God's character which had just been made.

However briefly the message had been spoken, it left man inexcusable if he persisted in cherishing aught like a doubt. For to whatever extent sin had gone, there was grace made known more than sufficient to meet it. To whatever depth of unworthiness the character of man might be sunk, still there stood God, making himself known in that very character which was fitted to suit even the unworthiest; so that every doubt that might arise from a sense of personal unworthiness was at once answered ; nay, it was so answered as to be shewn to be, not really a sense of unworthiness in himself, but a disbelief or denial that there was sufficient grace in God to meet that unworthiness. Nay, more, it could be nothing else

than pride refusing to owe such a debt to God; and this not so much arising from a feeling of unworthiness, as from the disappointment of not being allowed to present anything of his own goodness to God as a recommendation to favour.

Reader, you have here the commencement of God's story of grace. It is the truest and the most blessed that was ever told. In it there are no exaggerations, no descriptions of fancy.

It is all reality— the reality of immeasurable love. It is spoken as directly and personally to you as it was to Adam. It is not merely a message to your first parent, out of which his children may ingeniously contrive to extract or pilfer something which does not rightly belong to them. It is a message to you, and on the reception which you give to that message your forgiveness and your blessedness depend.

What reception, then, do you mean to give it? It is God who tells this story of love—will you listen to him, and allow his loving words to drop as the rain, and to distil as the dew?

All that he asks is that you would listen. " Hear, and your souls shall live." You have listened to many a speaker, will you not listen to the God that made you? You have listened to many a tale of earthly love; will you not for once, at least, listen to the tale of heavenly love? The tales of earth but vitiate the taste, and enervate the spirit, nay, perhaps, corrupt your whole moral being. This tale has divine healing in its every word. It soothes, it refreshes, it gladdens, and it leaves no sting, no weariness behind. Is it not, then, worth your while to listen? You have heard the outline—it is full of grace. And if the mere outline be so exquisite, what must be the filling up of that wondrous tale which began to be sketched in Eden, which was told more fully by prophets and apostles, which is still continuing to be

told throughout the earth, and yet, with regard to which we may say, that the half remains untold? The "ages to come " must tell it.

The Conqueror

THE question had now been answered, " Is there grace in God to man the sinner?" There is grace, was God's own announcement.

But how is this to be carried out? There maybe free love in God, and a most sincere desire to bless, but what if righteousness forbid these to flow down? How are they to get vent to themselves, so that man may partake of them? Can the separation be so made between sin and the sinner, that the one may be condemned and the other acquitted; the one made the object of the curse, the other of the blessing? God has answered this question also. He has told that there' is a way, a righteous way, of accomplishing this. That way is through the intervention of the woman's seed. It is through him that this righteous adjustment of the claims of law is to be made. He is to give the law its due, and yet let the transgressor go free.

There are three things regarding him of which we get a glimpse in this first promise. 1st, He is to be the seed of the woman. 2nd, He is to be bruised in the heel. 3rd, He is to bruise the head of the serpent. In other words, he is to be a man, a sufferer, a conqueror.

I. He is to be a man; one "born of a woman; " a being of flesh and blood. Yet evidently more than a man, for he is to dc liver man; more also than an angel, for he is to be the destroyer of Satan. A man, and yet more than a man; a man, and yet greater and mightier than man's angelic foe! This is the brief and mysterious, yet most comprehensive description of the Deliverer's person, which God vouchsafed to Adam. A man, and yet more than a man,—this was the

first great idea of the Conqueror which God revealed, and on which he left Adam to meditate, till, having turned it on every side, and sought to fathom the mystery, he was prepared for hearing more.

Still that little was much. It did,--what God throughout all Scripture is doing,—it turned man's eye to a person, not a thing, —to a person, not a truth. How truly, and how powerfully, has one in our own day written of this :—" The prerogative of our Christian faith, the secret of its strength, is, 'that all which it has, and all which it offers, is laid up in a person. This is what has made it strong, when so much else has proved weak, that it has a cross as its middle point; that it is not a circumference without a centre; that it has not merely a deliverance, but a Deliverer; not a redemption only, but a Redeemer as well. This is what makes it fit for wayfaring men; this is what makes it sunlight, and all else compared with it but as moonlight: fair it may be, but cold and chill; while here the Light and the Life are one; the Light is also the Life of men. Oh! how great the difference between submitting ourselves to a complex of rules, and casting ourselves upon a beating heart,—between accepting a system and cleaving to a Person!" *

* Trench's Ilulsean Lectures for l846, p. 122.

II. He is to be a sufferer. He is to be bruised, yet not in any vital part, so as to terminate his being. His bruise is to be in an inferior member. Yet still it is a bruise. He is to suffer.

There was to be enmity, nay, conflict; and in that conflict he was to be wounded. This wounding is evidently a most important point. Adam's eye must have been drawn to this, as some thing wonderful, something mysterious, in this promised seed. If he is to be Satan's Conqueror, why is he bruised? Must not this bruising be necessary? Is it not through this bruising that victory is to come? The words

here, plainly announced that this suffering was to be for our benefit, the sacrifices, which were immediately instituted, told that it was to be in our stead. Deliverance by substitution was thus early revealed, that thus far at least, there might be no mistake. It was the bruised seed of the woman that was to be man's deliverer; and this bruising was to be such as the sacrifices pointed to, and for the same end. The bruising and the sacrifice were to be associated together; and, thus associated, they each cast light upon the other.

And is not this that very truth in which we now rejoice? A Deliverer that has suffered?

One whose suffering avails to avert suffering from us; nay, one whose suffering is to take the place of our suffering? In other words, it is not merely a suffering benefactor that is revealed, but a suffering substitute—one who, possessing all that we are lacking in, changes place with us, that we may get all that belongs to him, he taking all that belongs to us. It was thus that, in 1512, Lefevre spoke from amid the darkness of the University of Paris: "O unutterable exchange! the sinless One is condemned, the guilty goes free; the Blessed bears the curse, the cursed bears the blessing; the Life dies, and the dead live; the Glory is covered with shame, and the shame is covered with glory!"

In the promise itself, these things might be dimly seen ; but when the sacrifice and the promise were placed side by side, what light arose! That lamb upon the altar spoke of the bruised one, foreshadowing his suffering and his work. In looking to the lamb, Adam was looking to this bruised one. And, in looking, his conscience was pacified, his soul was comforted. It was what he saw in that bruised heel that re~ moved his fears, and drew him once more close to the side of God. This man shall be " our peace," was the inscription which his eye

could read upon the altar. This suffering one was he who was to embody all grace, as well as to reveal it; nay, to be the channel through which that grace was to find its way to man, as "the grace that bringeth salvation."

III. He is to be a conqueror. He was to fight our battles, as well as to pay our penalties.

There was a fierce enemy to war with, or rather a thick array of enemies. Against these he was to stand alone. Taking hold of shield and buckler, he was_ to stand up for our help.

For a while the battle was to remain doubtful, but not long. The victory and the triumph were to be his; and, if his, then also ours. Nor were these to be but partial; they were to be complete and final. The head of the enemy was to be bruised.

But why was there even a momentary advantage gained by Satan? Why was there anything like wounds or weakness seen in this mighty Conqueror? Because Righteousness stood up against him, and demanded that, since he had undertaken the cause of the unrighteous, he should allow their penalty to be exacted of him. For it was the cause of the unrighteous he had come to maintain, though not the cause of unrighteousness. With the latter he could have nought to do; the former was the object of his errand. Thus Righteousness fought against him and prevailed, till it was fully satisfied. Then it ceased, and Satan had no longer this upon his side. The law, too, fought against him, and prevailed, till its claims were settled in full. Then it was silent. And Satan was deprived of this ally also. Law and righteousness being thus taken out of Satan's hands, so that they could no longer be used by him against this Mighty One, forthwith His triumph began, and Satan's overthrow was secured. The only hope of victory to the enemy, lay in having righteousness

upon his side in the conflict. This weapon he wielded to the utmost, little knowing that in so doing he was really striking it out of his own hands, nay, turning it in upon his own vitals. At every stroke, this righteousness, which was the only thing that made him strong, was getting itself satisfied, till, when the last stroke was given, and the victim fell prostrate in death, as if Satan had overcome, righteousness, now completely vindicated in all its claims, changed sides. Satan's ally was gone, and he was left helpless to battle with the whole unhindered strength of the Mighty Warrior.

Then the victory was secure. Satan's brief success was the beginning of defeat and shame.

Righteousness was now upon the side of the woman's seed; and if on his, then on ours.

Law now also stood up on his side; and if on his, then on ours. Thus he won the day; and won it for us. Those very things which fought against us were now turned to fight for us.

He has made it entirely according to law, that a sinner should be saved and Satan robbed of his prey. He has made it not only a gracious, but a righteous thing in God to welcome the sinner back, and clasp him in the embrace of love.

But the whole victory is not yet secured. The enemy is not yet driven from the field, nor all his victims wrested from his grasp. The process is going on just now, and every sinner who is willing to take this conquering one for his champion, and enroll himself as his, becomes part of the rescued spoil. Yet the war shall not cease till this Conqueror appear the second time, to bind the enemy, to undo the evil that he has done, to seize the residue of the prey, to deliver the

groaning earth, to bid Eden re-blossom in an atmosphere no longer poisoned by the breath of hell.

Thus has the "horn of salvation been raised up for us," and God's purpose carried out,

"that we should he saved from our enemies, and from the hand of all that hate us" (Luke i. 69—71). The man, the sufferer, the conqueror, has appeared,—the woman's seed, the second Adam, who is the Lord from heaven. Now, then, we know of a truth, that God has so loved the world as to give His only-begotten Son; that Christ Jesus, the seed of the woman and the Son of God, "has appeared to put away sin by the sacrifice of HIMSELF';

" that he has been " once offered to bear the sins of many; and that to them that look for him shall he appear the second time without sin unto salvation " (Heb. ix. 26-28). It is this man, this sufferer, this conqueror, that presents himself to us, " full of grace and truth."

He has done his work; and he asks us to come and share its fruits. He has conquered; and he asks us to partake of his triumph. To each one of us he holds out the friendly hand, offering to lead us into that Paradise which he has reopened, and which now stands before us with unfolded gates.

It is this man, this sufferer, this conqueror, that God is pointing to, as he in whom it has pleased him that all fulness of grace should dwell. The story of grace has not only been told in words, but embodied in a person, the person of the God man, the woman's seed.

In him there is represented and contained "the manifold grace of God"—the "exceeding riches of his grace." It is not words that God has given us; it is far more than this. It is not abstract truth that he

places before us. It is a person, a living person, a man like ourselves, that he sets before us, as the vessel in which all this truth is contained. He clothes his grace in the loving form of manhood; he makes it to beam forth from a loving countenance; he gives it utterance through a loving voice; he sends it to tell its own story to us, in deeds that are without a parallel from the beginning of the world. It is this God-man, in whom all grace is stored, that invites you to enjoy his blessings. All the day long he stretches out his hands. His message is, "Come unto me, and I will give you rest;" and lest you should hesitate or fear, he adds, " Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out."

May he not, then, expect you to regard him, when thus pleading with you to yield to his beckoning hand and allow him to lead you to blessedness? This much at least he might surely count upon, when your own interests for eternity are the matters on which he is so urgent and importunate. Especially when all is a free gift. 'No merit, no money, no prerequisite on your part is asked for. Every thing is already bought, bought by his deservings, and therefore not needing to be bought over again by yours. May he not, then, expect that you should take his gift ;—nay, take it with ready and eager gladness?

May he not wonder at your refusal? What! Refuse eternal life! Reject a kingdom ! and in their stead take death, and shame, and weeping as thy portion? Prefer an eternity of dark ness to an eternity of light! Turn away from an open Paradise, and choose the desolation of the everlasting wilderness! Does not all this seem incredible, impossible ?

Meanwhile the day is wearing on. The shadows of the night, that has no morn beyond it, are falling down upon you. " There is sorrow on the sea, and it cannot be quiet" (Jer. xlix.

23). The world is growing old; and the cry of its transgression is going up, like the cry of Abel's blood, demanding speedy vengeance. That cry must soon be heard. For the sole reason of delay is the longsuffering of God, " not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance" (2 Pet. iii. 9). Had it not been for this long suffering, this marvellous patience of God, the fire would long since have seized upon this rebellious earth.

What, then, are you to do, who are still unsaved and unsheltered? Will pleasure be pleasure then; or will it not be gall and wormwood? Will the world's gay glitter continue then to bewilder you? Where will be the spell of its beauty, the music of its siren song?

They " are not: " and " in one hour thou art made desolate." Its blossoms have gone up as dust; and its joys are forgotten dreams. The freshness of youth has faded ; the ties of kindred are broken; the gladness of companionship is at an end; the greetings of neighbourhood have ceased ; the voices of home are silent; and the old familiar melodies of. earth have died away. All have been " covered with a cloud" in the day of the fierce anger of the Lord! And for thee, unsaved one, there remaineth nought but the everlasting darkness, which no star shall gladden, and on which no hope shall arise. The judgment seemed long in coming; thou wert hoping that it would never arrive. But it has come at last. And its coming is the final quenching of all hope to thee! The Judge that long stood before the door (Jas. v. 9) at length makes his entrance. And is not that entrance the sealing of thy doom? He had long patience with thee; but thou wouldest not give heed; and now his patience is turned into wrath; and that wrath turns all thy hope into despair.

The Banished One

"HE drove out the man." Perhaps man lingered, unwilling to leave so fair a dwelling. But he must abide there no longer. God's purpose is that Eden shall not be his home.

Therefore He drove him out.

He is banished from Eden, the place where God had set his glory. Sin has interposed between him and God. There is distance, not nearness, now. The promise, which he took along with him, assured him that he had not been cast off; that there would be restoration: but meanwhile there was to be distance. There were obstacles which required to be surmounted before the sinner could draw nigh. His expulsion shewed that these had not yet been removed, that the way into the presence of God, " the holiest of all," was not yet laid open. Thus was proclaimed to him the awful truth, "Your iniquities have separated between you and your God; it is sin that has broken up the intercourse; it is sin that has cast you out of Eden: you have done all this with your own hand; it is not God's doing, but your own; you have made yourself a wanderer, and transformed earth into a wilderness."

Yet there was grace, too, in this expulsion. It was not a sentence executed against a criminal; it was chastisement inflicted on a. son. Nay, it was in tender mercy towards him, lest he should put forth his hand and eat the fruit of the tree of life. For as the food plucked from the other trees was intended to nourish the body, so this was designed to nourish the immortal principle. In saying that the principle of immortality required nourishment, I do not mean that

man was created mortal as he now is, any more than I mean this, when I say, that he needed food even in Paradise to sustain his body. But still the eating of the tree of life was to preserve his immortality ; —not to produce it, but to preserve it. Now God's purpose is that it should not be preserved, but that man should die and return to dust. And this was not merely that, in great kindness, he might make a sad life a brief one, but because God had a better life in reserve for him, which could only be reached by passing through death. This was life in resurrection.

God's design was to bring man, through death, to resurrection-life. This was a far superior life,--life upon a higher scale, and endued with higher properties. God was from this time to fix man's eye upon resurrection, not immortality in the present body, as his true hope. He wished to connect all blessings, material and immaterial, with this hope of resurrection. And thus in mercy he withdrew man from the tree of life and sent him forth to die. Every. thing in creation must be taken to pieces—down to the very foundation—

that it may be rebuilt of far nobler materials, and after a far more glorious model. Man might have desired the life without death; but God, in wise compassion, would not suffer it to be so. His desire was to give him a better life—life through death—incorruption coming from corruption, immortality springing from the grave.

Thus man's eye was fixed upon the life beyond death, the life that was to spring out of death, the life of resurrection. Had he not been shut out from the tree of life, had he not been sent forth to die, he would have been contented with the life without death. But God had provided some better thing for him; and to that better thing he now turned his eye when he was driven beyond the reach of the tree of life. Resurrection was now his hope.

Death lay before him, but resurrection lay beyond it. "Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return," was the sentence. But his banishment from Eden would help him in some measure to anticipate, however dimly, the resurrection-promise, " Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust."

Besides this, he was now to be called to a life of faith. God's purpose was to teach him how "blessed they are who have not seen, and yet have believed." All had been sight hitherto; now all was to be faith. Sight had told him much of God; but faith was to tell him far more. He had known the sweetness of walking with God in the day of his unfallen strength; he was now to know the deeper blessedness of leaning upon God, in the day of sorrowing helplessness. The deep waters through which he was to pass would require more of God's resources to be drawn out. These man was to taste in all their fulness. New wants in himself were to be the means of calling out new supplies from God. Grace was now to get a thousand channels through which to pour itself along. The very ills of his lot were to become inlets of heavenly blessing.

He was also to be taught, that hence forth all the intercourse between him and God was to be upon a new footing—that of grace alone. His banishment was the constant memorial of this. Why was he now outside of Eden? Because he was a sinner. But why still preserved and not consigned to wrath? Because there is grace for the sinner. All he tasted now was of grace. God's gifts were not withheld, but they were bestowed in grace. He stood upon a new footing altogether; and every step he took reminded him of this. A lost Eden, but a saved sinner; these two conjoined, were the daily preachers of grace. God was still his God, though not in Eden. And thus, though he felt himself a banished man, he could rejoice in forgiveness. The consciousness that he was a sinner, was not to mar his peace, or to

come between him and his God. Grace had made up the breach ; but it had done so in a way which continued to remind him that nothing but grace could have done it. God had been with him in Eden, and he was still with him when expelled from it. Though God could not meet with him in the spot where they had met before, yet he was willing to meet with him outside these "happy seats."

Yes, God was still his God, though out of Eden. There had been a moment of separation,—after the sin had been committed, and before the promise was given. That moment of suspense must have been terrible to Adam, like a glance into the abyss. But now that was over, grace had been revealed, and God was again his God. He was a banished man, and earth was to be a desert to him ; but God was to be with him, and he could bear the loss of Paradise. I know not if ever this feeling was more truly expressed than in the following lines of the great poet of England. They refer to human love; but we may use them in a nobler sense :

" 'Tis not the land I care for, wert thou hence:

A wilderness is populous enough

So I had but thy heavenly company:

For where thou art, there is the world itself,

With every several pleasure in the world ;

And where thou art not,—desolation."

Thus man was sent' forth as a stranger and a pilgrim. He was not a wanderer, a fugitive, like Cain. Still he was to be a stranger. For the promise had lifted his eye beyond things seen and temporal, to the things unseen and eternal. He looked for the better, the enduring

substance. Whatever the darkness of the way might be, however many might be the centuries of mortal life that lay in sorrow before him, still it was a joy to think that this was not his rest. His home and heritage were not on this side of the tomb. And as it was through death that he was passing to his better life, so it was through exile that he was to pass to the land which was to be his forever'. It might be a second Paradise, or the' same Paradise restored. It might be something far different. That mattered not. It would be a sufficient home for him, if it was the home allotted by his forgiving God. Nay, would it not be worthy of that grace that had already disclosed such wonders to him? Would it not be worthy of the God of grace; so that God should "not be ashamed to be called his God"?

Deep consolation this to one who had "destroyed himself," who had blighted Eden and ruined a world!

And what are we but banished men,— born outside of Eden, and breathing only the air of the wilderness? this is our lot, our birthright, as children of this first banished one.

Perhaps we have become so familiar with the desert, as to look with an easy, it may be, a satisfied eye, upon its rocky barrenness. Still this cannot change the awful truth that we are, by birth, banished ones, exiles, not from Eden merely, but from the God that made us.

Yet God has not forsaken us in the far country of our banishment. He has devised means whereby his banished be not expelled from him (2 Sam. xiv. 14). He pities, nay, yearns over us. Distance has not made him forget us, or cease to care for us. Nay, our exiled condition is one of the things that calls forth his compassion. The Father sees his prodigals in the land of famine. His eye follows them. They may have lost sight of him, but not he of them. He sends out his grace in search of them. The Son of his bosom comes down in quest of them. He

shrinks not from entering the place of exile. He becomes a banished man for them. He lives an exile's life; he endures an exile's shame; he dies an exile's death; he is buried in an exile's tomb. All for us, the outcasts, the exiles! He takes our place of banishment, that we may take his place in his Father's many mansions. He stoops to our place of shame, that we may rise to his place of honour and glory. All that kept us in banishment, and that made it needful for God to banish us, he takes upon himself. And thus it becomes a righteous thing in God to repeal the sentence of exile, and readmit us to his favour and presence,— to put us in the place of children,-nay, even in His place who came to seek that which was lost. For " He was made sin for us, who knew no sin, that we might be made the righteousness of God in him" (2 Cor. v. 21).

Hast thou, reader, consented to this ex change ? Hast thou accepted this substitution? He urges the exchange. He entreats thee to take him as thy substitute. Why shouldest thou.

refuse or hesitate? It is life and home, and the restored fatherhood of the God from whom thou art banished, that he presses on thee. Art thou too rich, too full, too fond of earth, to prize or to heed such blessings? Then think of the eternal banishment which awaits thee.

How wilt thou endure that? A few years outside of Eden and away from God may seem nothing to thee, but how wilt thou bear the everlasting exile? The song, and the dance, and the jest, and the cup may have lulled you into ease, or cheated your soul into forgetfulness: but soon these charms shall cease to blind you. The gay vision shall vanish; the eternal desert shall compass you about; and you will find, that in that place of exile there is nought but " weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth."

But we are not only in the place of exile; we are in the region of death. We are far from the tree of life. The grave lies before us, with its bones and dust and darkness. Is there, then, in us the hope of resurrection and of the better life when death shall be swallowed up in victory? Have we made sure of this blessed hope by believing on Him who died and rose again, and who has said, " 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"? (John xi. 25.) This is our one hope. Have we made sure of it? It is not a far-off uncertainty that is set before us. It is a near, a real, and a blessed certainty: yet free, altogether free: not to be purchased by efforts, and struggles, and penances, and prayers, but by believing on Him who was dead and is alive again. As the Resurrection and the Life the Father hath revealed him. As such he has proclaimed himself. To whom? To the dead in sin. And that word ." whosoever," which he so often uses, is enough to tell every weary sinner on this side of the second death, that there is life freely presented to him through this Living One, so that no one may say, " I must die for ever, because the fountain of life did not contain enough for me."

If, reader, thou knowest this RISEN ONE as thy resting-place, and this promise of resurrection as thy hope and joy, then live like a stranger and a pilgrim here. Lest your desires overleap the grave. Never let this earth be to you better than the outside of Eden.

It may seem fair; it may dazzle you; it may look like an abiding home and a pleasant rest; but it is still a waste; it is still the dwelling of your great enemy, and the place where he spreads his snares. Arise and depart; this is not your rest, for it is polluted. Realise daily the difference between that which is and that which shall be. Let your life

be that of one who is looking for the appearing of Him with whom your better life is hid, and with whom you shall appear in glory.""'

*Since the above was written, I have found a passing remark in Dr Chalmers's " Daily Scripture Readings," confirmatory of the view regarding the tree of life suggested at the beginning of this chapter: "It accords with my whole understanding of what is sacred, whether in Christian or general philosophy, to accept of such information as is here given of the influence of a particular food on the soul of man, —once I am satisfied with the credentials on which the proposed revelation is based."—

Posthumous Works, vol. i. p. 6.

The Monument

BUT Eden does not forthwith pass away. God does not blast it, and sweep it off the earth as soon as Adam is taken out of it. This might have been man's way, for it is thus he deals with what offends his eye; but it is not God's. Patience and longsuffering mark all his doings: he loves to spare; he lingers over his handiwork, loath to destroy it even when vile.

Eden still stands, though man has left it. The temple does not crumble down the moment that the worshipper has departed. In all likelihood, Eden shared the blight that then began to fall; but longevity, like that of the first ages of men, belonged to it. It took centuries to wither; yet it did wither; it was not to stand for ever. Then, when it had decayed, and was waxing old, ready to vanish away, the deluge came and swept it off the earth.*

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