and give ourselves up to the mercy of the current. Now, who shall assure us that all these things shall not be of permanent injury to us? We look back upon the past; we see that much of it was blameworthy, and much more, perhaps, was unfortunate. Now who shall insure to us that these sins and misfortunes shall not work us evil and only evil, for ever and for ever? that our life, in all these particulars, has not been worse than thrown away? that so far as these matters affect us, our case is not hopeless, utterly and for everlasting? Who shall assure us of this? You have been greatly prospered, it may be. Now we all know that prosperity is dangerous; more dangerous to most than adversity. It is the voice of all time-Beware of success! When you triumph, fear! when you are at ease, be watchful! when exalted, humble yourself! You have been greatly prospered. Answer now to your own soul, and tell unto it what shall be the final result of this prosperity upon its character and its state. Are you able to say whether it shall be good or bad?

Sorrows have

You have been broken down with adversity. come upon you like a flood. They smote you, they stunned your senses, they broke your spirit. What shall be the result of this on your eternal state? Or, a silent, incurable, secret grief has been gnawing, half your days, in your heart's core. No one has known it; you have even sought to deny it to yourself. Still there it has been, there it is. It saps your strength; it aggravates your troubles; it takes off the edge from all your joys, enfeebles your hope, and tinges remembrance with gloom. Your life has been without bloom and fragrance. It has no glow, no bounding energy, no deep and full content; it is a song in the minor key, with discords in the harmony. Now answer unto your soul, and tell unto it whether all this faintness, this pallor and gloom shall at last be for its benefit. Shall the soul be any the richer for this long impoverishment? any the stronger for this protracted debility any the more serene and glad for this long eclipse of trouble and sadness? Is this life YOURS? Every reflective mind must have been troubled at times with such questionings as these. It makes the heart sink to recall the disadvantages with which we have had to contend here, and to feel that they may never be compensated for; to review all the follies which have stained our lives, and to think that, perhaps, these follies have made an indelible impression on our life. Above all, it fills us with anguish to remember our wilful transgressions, to see all our faults, to know, to acknowledge even to the very depth of our souls, that we were blame worthy, and then to have the dreadful thought come over us-Is it possible that these stains, these scars, this deep dishonor, this self-inflicted curse can ever be taken away; and that we shall be as good, and as happy, and as strong, and as fair, as though we had never sinned? Is it POSSIBLE

that our life, being such as it undeniably is, can be OURS FOR GOODand only good! Is it our property? or is it not rather our debt? Is it our friend? or not rather our enemy? Oh the misery of a lost life! Oh the despair of feeling that IT IS GONE! all GÒNE!—in vain! worse than in vain!-that this blessed mortal life, given that it might be such a joy, and the seed of so much greater joy, the fountain of an immortal river, full of blessing-that it is all squandered! gone! beyond recall-gone! and no hope! Is this life yours, for your good, or is it not? Answer to your own soul.

Saith the apostle to his fellow Christians: "All things are yours; whether the church or the world, or life." My Christian friends, "LIFE" IS YOURS; life in all its experiences of misfortune and success, of affliction and joy, of sin and holiness; all is yours, for your good. The very wrath of man shall sing an anthem to the praise of God. The very sins of the Christian soul, repented of, shall prove a new bulwark of strength, a new foundation for beauty, and honor, and blessing for evermore. These present afflictions "shall work out for you a far more exceeding, even an eternal weight of glory." For consider, trouble and grief are essential elements of your necessary spiritual food. They are strong meat, indeed, and unfit therefore for weak and sickly constitutions; and accordingly it is only the healthful heart, the Christian heart, which is fitted to bear them, and is able to get new strength from them. Unto all others, affliction is an evil, except it prove the means of turning them to God. But the Christian is able to say, "It is good for me that I have been afflictcd." He finds that his soul had been drugged by opiates, and that its senses were not awake to the most glorious realities of his state; that its vision of spiritual truths had been exceedingly obscure; that its estimate of the value of worldly objects had been false. But he feels now that a new sense is opening within him; that the veil which conceals realities-and every thing in this life wears its veil-is growing thinner; that the countenance of his Father, God, bends over him with clearer light, with a new tenderness of love. Having had one of the bonds that attach his heart to earth rudely snapped, and having been made to feel, as never before, the extreme uncertainty of earthly hopes. and his own utter helplessness, he has cast himself with greater fulness of surrender into the arms of God, and he trusts with a warmer, more confiding, freer love. Sorrowful but strong, dejected and yet glad, hopeless and full of hope, weary in spirit from sore struggles, yet more fearless and more firm of heart than ever before, he returns to the conflicts of life, with a new harness on, a stronger and broader shield, and a sword of better temper. can say, even with heart ready to burst, "It is good for me that I have been afflicted." Till we can gauge the fulness of joy which is at the right hand of God, till we discover an arithmetic by which

He

to calculate the value of holiness, we may not attempt to say how good it is to us that we have been afflicted. "Blessed are they that mourn," said our Saviour, " for they shall be comforted." Yes! "they shall be COMFORTED!" What significance in these words! Those who mourn shall HAVE COMFORT. We do not all have comfort. Some of us know what it is for the spirit never to be at peace, never at rest. Some of us know what it is for the soul always to have some disquiet, some fear, some anguish, secret perhaps, and not violent, yet enough to spoil our rest. "These shall have comfort." It is not said that they shall have no discomfort. That were altogether too much to promise for this life. But there shall be moments when, with a full consciousness of their whole state, looking before, and looking after, they shall be at peace-they shall have comfort. Calmly searching the whole chequered scene of their visible existence, with an eye for sins, with a recollection of misfortune and of suffering; surveying with an impartial glance the present, with its uncertainties and its dangers; peering forward into the future with frank gaze, discerning there shadowy for ms of evil, as well as the brightness of prosperity and gladness; thus the soul, sitting in its chamber, and looking round about itself, seeing, feeling all, is nevertheless at peace. It has found "comfort""comfort." Having been in the midst of the furnace, and having escaped therefrom without the smell of fire upon its garments, neither the remembrance nor the anticipation of such scenes is able to do more than to fill it with solemnity and tearful, joyful stillness of faith. IT IS "COMFORTED." It has seen God, and caught immortal peace from the sight. Behold, "All things are yours; whether the Church, or the world, or life, or death."

IV. DEATH is yours.

My hearers, I proclaim but what is written. The apostle said to the Corinthian Christians, " Death is yours." He undeniably said this to them on the ground that they were Christians. On this same ground, then, I repeat it to-day in your hearing. The privilege is allowed me of saying to every Christian soul. Soul! thou art acknowledged of the Father, as a child of heaven; Soul! thou art an heir of the inheritance of the sons of God. All things are yours-whether the church or the world, whether life or death. Thou hast entered the company of those for whose good the universe was made; and its whole plan and every detail of structure, and the entire method of its management in all its particulars, shall in some way conduce to your good. All is yours-for blessing. This universe of God is a great animated being, and God is the life of it. Every part of this being that partakes of this eternal life, every part that is in union with God, partakes in the good of the whole: "all things work together for good unto them that love God." What is death? 'Tis a change! yes, death is a change! Now this change, for those who love God, is a change for the better.

Christians, death is yours. What is death? I stood by the bedside of a pale sufferer who had been wasted by protracted illness. His cheek has grown wrinkled, and his look, full of affection, was tinged with anxiery. "Good-bye, good-bye!" said he; "God bless you!" and a cloud passed over his countenance. He turned his head away, and covered his face, while for an instant his frame trembled. What was it? It was the faint distant shadow of death. It was a thought of the passing away of life. In that instant of time, there entered his mind rapidly the images of all the dear joys of life--home, wife, child, brother, sister, gentle, faithful friends--a great and noble company of them. He joyed in their joy, they in his. His life had not reached its meridian. His spring-time was but lately over, and now the rich summer-time, and the quiet autumn to which he might without presumption have looked forward, are clouded over. The shadow of deathit did not yet rest upon him. It came from afar, and momentarily cast a faint shade upon his heart.

Dear, dear are the ties of earth. Why should they not be? They are the only ones that we have known. In experience they are our all. Our all! Do you know what that word means-all? It may be something very small and very poor; yet if it is your all, then for you it is neither poor nor small. The poor widow cast her mite into the treasury. It was all that she had; and Jesus said that she had cast in more than any of the rich. A rude hut in a miserable suburb is burned to the ground with all its contents. Why such lamentations? Why such sobs and tears? And the poor woman, with her half-clad children clinging to her, replies, "It was all I had." You go into a house of mourning. It is in twilight at noonday; in stillness and gloom unbroken, save by the moans of one who refuses to be comforted. Wherefore this depth of anguish; this unavailing, dreary, hopeless, desperate grief? Ah! it was an only child; it was "her all!" Draw nigh now unto the dying bed. Death has not come, and is not very near; but he casts his shadow, and the hovering of his wing is seen in the distance. Wherefore this inflexible, unearthly solemnity, as if the face had forgotton to smile, and was cut in thin marble? Wherefore the wild flush and the quick convulsion? Is it not his all that he is leaving? Home, friends, hopes, all which he has, or has desired, all wonted occupations, all dear associations, all sweet communions, all pleasant imaginings, all substantial blessings within the range of experience? Dear, dear are the ties that unite us to this world. They began to twine round the tender heart of childhood; even so early, they penetrated its sensitive texture, and laid firm hold of the substance of the soul; and ever since they have been enlarging their cords, and strengthening their fibres, and pushing their tendrils in, till every heart

string is a tie that fastens upon some earthly object, some friend, some possession, some memory or some hope.

Now then, one day, after weeks, perhaps months, of sickness, with the utmost consideration and sympathy, a loved friend seems yet to be talking very strangely! His words seem to imply that you are not to expect to recover! you" cannot live," he says. "Not live!" How terrible and triumphant leaps that dreadful vision upon the faint and startled heart of him who is not prepared to die! It's all gone-his all! Nearer, nearer, nearer, in imagination, he sees the day coming; the day of utter darkness; the day of the final separation; dreadful hour of the last change!

The natural heart, with only natural lights, with the conviction of sin, and without the knowledge of God, has no strength to bear such a reality as this. The shadow of it, distant and faint, makes the soul shake, chills the heart's core. Not so is it with the Christian heart. Death comes to him, not, as a horrid phantasm, nor even as a stranger. Though he has never met the solemn angel before, he has often seen his shadow, and heard the rustling of his wings. He hath oft in the mind's eye beheld him, has communed with him in his heart, and has known him long as a friend; a serious friend indeed, and yet a gentle friend, with serene and godlike look, awful in loveliness. Death is the Christian's friend. They have held sweet converse together; and they will meet as equals, both the servants of God, loving to do his will. Death is not terrible to those who love the will of God, and who prefer the Divine wisdom to the wishes of their own foolish heart. Death is not terrible to him who has walked with God here, and who has known Jesus. He may come unexpectedly, and his cold hand may be laid suddenly upon the brow, and it may be very hard to part so from the loved ones here; yet the difference of time is not of so much consequence. It would have been pleasant to have had a few years more in the earthly home, to have watched over the welfare of children a little longer, to have wrought out a few more long-cherished plans; but still there would be loved ones to leave at any time, and plans unaccomplished, dear hopes unattained. "If it be the will

of the Father, then," says the Christian in his heart, "not my will, but thine, O God, be done." Tenderly, solemnly, tearfully, with holy peace and unfaltering faith, the light of blessed memories and of more blessed hopes playing upon his brow, wreathing his lips, he bids adieu to the dear ones who gather around his bedside, folds his hands, and breathes his last breath on earth.

Christians! "All things are yours: whether Paul, or Apollos, or Cephas, or the world, or life, or death, or things present, or things to come." They are all a part of your Father's estate; they all are a part of your inheritance. "All things shall work together for your good." Time, with its labor, its sorrow, its sin,