has some association of childhood and of home, awakens feelings of sadness, though the building is old and crazy, and not longer fit to be occupied. But the mind should not live thus in the past, and hug the old stones, and timbers, and nails, as if these were home or had in themselves any life and virtue; it should look forward to the house that is to succeed the time-worn tenement, should study its plan, arrangement, and effect, and transmute the memories of the old into the hopes of the new. It is thus by a beautiful analogy that Chrysostom discourses of the believer's change at death. "When a man is about to rebuild an old and tottering house. he first sends out its occupants, then tears it down, and builds anew a more splendid one. This occasions no grief to the occupants, but rather joy. For they do not think of the demolition which they see, but of the house which is to come, though not yet seen. When God is about to do similar work, he destroys our body and removes the soul that was dwelling in it, as from some house that he may build it anew and more splendidly and again bring the soul with greater glory into it. Let us not, therefore, regard the tearing down, but the splendor which is to succeed." Thus in a higher strain does the Apostle speak of this blessed exchange: "For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." The Christian should familiarize his mind with the thought of dying as one familiarizes himself with the thought of exchanging an old and decayed though still serviceable house or garment, for one new, bright, glorious-of better material, yes, of an imperishable fabric. It is idle to conceal from oneself the fact of his own mortality and of his exceeding frailty. And it is unwise and unnecessary to allow in the mind a secret dread of death. That event should be familiar to the Christian, not as a process of physical decay, but as a process of mysterious and sudden but of certain and glorious transition from the seen to the unseen, from the mor tal to the immortal.

"The Christian, when he leaves the body, is at once with the Lord Jesus. He rushes, as it were, instinctively, to his presence, and casts himself at his feet. He has no other home than where the Saviour is; he thinks of no future joy or glory but that which is to be enjoyed with him. Why then should we fear death? Lay out of view, as we may, the momentary pang, the chillness and the darkness of the grave, and think of that which will be the moment after death-the view of the Redeemer, the sight of the splendors of the heavenly world, the angels, the spirits of the just made perfect, the river of the paradise of God, and the harps of praise, and what has the Christian to fear in the prospect of dying?"

"And not only so, but we also joy in God, through our Lord Jesus Christ, by whom we have now received the atonement."

ROM. V. 11.

THERE is a remarkable peculiarity in Paul's disposition. To him is entrusted the charge of preaching the gospel to the Gentiles; but he is not the stern religionist, the fierce sectary we might have been led to suppose from the relations which he had previously sustained to Judaism. He is the decided, yet liberal-the devoted, yet amiable Christian. Thwarted in his movements, yet he is not despondent. Exposed to persecution, yet he is not embittered in his feelings. Doomed to suffer, he does not complain. Threatened with bonds and imprisonments, neither the prospective loss of liberty nor of life can shake his firmness or repress his spiritual joys. He ever rejoices in the hope of the glory of God; and not only so, but joy and triumph pervade the very heart of his trials.

Yes, brethren, if you would witness an embodied illustration of the blessed power of our holy religion, look into that gloomy dungeon. See there a man who might have been honored by his nation, had he not become a Christian; who might have enjoyed domestic comforts, lettered ease and distinction, an unmolested course, a peaceful old age, had he not

given up all for Christ. But is he a haggard, wretched man? Do we hear any regrets from his lips for having espoused the new faith? O no; he is very joyful in the God of his salvation. Listen to the praises with which his dungeon resounds. Ponder the exhortation sent to all his brethren"Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say rejoice."

Singular, and aside from Revelation, inexplicable circumstance, that a man so sorely tried, should have derived his only joy from an invisible, incomprehensible source!

did the imprisoned Socrates or condemned Seneca rejoice: not so did the priests of the grove, or the philosophers of the porch, rejoice: not so does human nature joy in God.

Yet it is strange that man should not seek his chief happiness in the Author of his being. Has not the soul been formed for the enjoyment of its Maker? Does not its irrepressible desire for joy indicate the original purpose of its being! But who does not know that nothing of earth's mould can satisfy its boundless aspirations? What is that word joy to the greater proportion of men? They know it not. Even their so-called pleasures are stolen, hurried, frantic, securing to their souls only some new anguish for the morrow. Despairing of happiness on earth, I doubt not that men in general would be amply content could they only keep the ordinary miseries of life in abeyance.

We are wont to speak of vice and crime, of disease and death, in proof of man's depravity. I want no other than the fact asserted by Scripture and corroborated by the history of our race, that man seeks his happiness away from God. Surely there is something awfully, fatally wrong in the internal condition of his very being, if the soul of man does not as naturally turn to its Maker as the needle to the pole. Cast your eye over this vast moral system. It was originally pronounced good by its Author. So glorious a Being could have proposed no other end in his creation, than fulness and perpetuity of joy. If it were not now essentially deranged, the world of mankind would be advancing in its cycles of holy happiness around the throne of unsullied blessedness, with the harmony and celerity, with which the planets move on in their majestic orbits around the source of material light. Joy and gladness would be found therein; thanksgiving and the voice of melody surpassing the symphonious hallelujahs of heaven, when "the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy."

Until man, then, shall be led to seek his happiness in God, not only must he be in pursuit of shadows, but be defeating the true and ultimate purpose of his being.

But how shall he be brought to joy in God? I need not ask, whether it would have been possible, had we been left to the dim light of nature, to look up to God as the source of joy. The Great Spirit of natural religion comes not within the definite purview of a finite mind. He is too retired and silent to influence our habitual emotions. Let us think of God as the omnipotent Creator, the beneficent Father of the universe. Man may not fail to be wrapt in admiration as he casts his eye over the beauty and brightness of creation. He may be inclined to adore the unseen source of all things when he contemplates the evidences of the divine skill and goodness, which encompass him as the effulgence of the noon; but when the thunders utter their voices, and the cloud surcharged with the element of death approaches nearer and yet nearer, shall not fear and trembling take hold on him? He may think that God is good; love to expatiate on the evidences of his overflowing goodness, but, ah! has he not sinned? If, notwithstanding, he dreams of peace with God, is not his joy delusion? Could he even hope, if he did not regard the divine goodness irrespective of the holiness, and the truth, and the justice of the almighty Father? The wiser heathen thought that God was good; but "how can man be just with God?" was their natural enquiry. Nay, what is the divine goodness, philosophically considered, but one aspect of that holiness which blights the purity of angels, and regards sin, even in its most impalpable state, with abhorrence? What is the divine goodness but that all-pervading feeling of God's mighty heart, which leads him to promote the highest happiness of his moral universe by at once rewarding the righteous and punishing the wicked? The government of God, because he is infinitely good, has high and holy ends, which necessarily forbid impunity to sin, and can in no wise be answered by either repentance, confession, or amendment. The ends of human government cannot how much less the divine. Commit a crime, and you have necessarily incurred the penalty of civil law; and upon the same principles of good and righteous government, sin, and you have engaged in a fearful controversy with the almighty Ruler of the universe. It is in vain to say that your conviction of God's goodness fortifies your heart against all prognostications of evil. If you feel that you have sinned, (and how can you repress the conviction ?) you must know that you enjoy no harmonious alliance with your Maker and Judge. Mark me! I am not arguing the point whether, in the midst of your sins and worldly pursuits, you may not generally be at ease; whether, by sophistry or sensuality you may not fortify your heart with an imperturbable apathy as respects your relations to God; but whether you joy in God

as the Originator, and Controller, and Disposer of your being? Even admitting that you are seldom or never troubled in your mind, that you carry with you a light heart, this is not the point. The question is, Is God the source and centre of your joys? Have you no fear of him when you think that he may be strict to mark iniquity? Can you commit yourself with conscious and joyous safety to his supreme disposal? I care not how erroneous the speculative views which one may entertain, or however moral he may be, only remove him from his free-thinking companions, or from the business and gaieties of life; let him lay his head upon that solitary, noiseless, pillow; let him think of himself, of this world, of death, of the prophetic analogies of the present to the future, and, so far from joying in that incomprehensible Being, he is troubled in all his thoughts. Amid that thick and appalling darkness which shrouds the throne of Almighty God, he can " find no hook to hang a hope on." He knows not what awaits him beyond the murky limits of the sepulchre and it is this uncertainty that has stricken fear and trembling through many a glad heart in the world, and given redoubled poignancy to the pangs of woe; as it were, beclouding the brightness of day, and augmenting to a ten-fold degree the blackness of night.

I contend, that it is impossible to joy in God, unless he be revealed to man's distinct and intimate knowledge; unless we have been made to feel that he takes a deep and deathless interest in our welfare; has no pleasure in our death; pities us even as a father his children, and waits to be gracious; yea, that he may glorify his own name, and illustrate the stability of his throne, in our salvation.

Now, where can be gathered any satisfactory knowledge of God, except from the Word of God himself? Blessed Book! I no longer grope in the darkness of nature, nor am I embarrassed by the expedients of conscious guilt. I see the attributes of Jehovah in all their plentitude, and in all their harmony. I know that he can be just to the universe, just to the law, and just to himself, and yet pardon the sinner. Those very attributes which were once arrayed against me, are now leagued for my salvation. So far from regarding him with suspicion and dread, because he is immaculate in holiness, uncompromising in justice, inviolable in truth, I know that he loves my poor soul, and I can "go unto God, my exceeding joy." He is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abundant in goodness, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to the knowledge of the truth.

This, in truth, is the great end of the Gospel revelation to man; to unveil to our adoring vision the blended perfections of a just and merciful God; to convince an erring and hell