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quired the whole strength of the Godhead | then, and compare it with the state of matto sustain it. What mean the agonies of the ters now. garden? What mean the bitter cries and Christ has there ascended on the wings complainings of abandonment upon the of victory-and he is now sitting at God's cross? What meaneth the prayer that the right hand, amid all the purchased triumphs cup might pass away from him, and the of his obedience--and the toil, and the construggle of a lofty resolution with the ago- flict, and the agony, are now over-and nies of a mighty and unknown distress, and from that throne of mediatorship to which the evident symptoms of a great and toil- he has been exalted, is it his present office some achievement throughout the whole to welcome the approaches of all who come, progress of this undertaking, and angels and to save to the uttermost all who put looking down from their eminences, as on their trust in him. And is it possible, we a field of contest where a great Captain had would ask, my brethren, is it possible that to put forth the travailing of his strength, he who died to atone, now that he lives, and to spoil principalities and powers, and will not live to make intercession for us? to make a show of them openly? Was there Can the love for men which bore him nothing in all this, do you think, but the through a mighty and a painful sacrifice, mockery of a humiliation that was never not be strong enough to carry him onwards felt-the mockery of a pain that was never in peace and in triumph to its final consumsuffered-the mockery of a battle that was mation? Will he now abandon that work never fought? No, my brethren, be assured which his own hands have so laboriously that there was, on that day, a real vindica-reared?---or leave the cause for which he tion of God's insulted majesty. On that day has already sustained the weight of such an there was the real transference of an aveng-endurance, in the embryo and unfinished ing hand, from the heads of the guilty to the head of the innocent. On that day one man died for the people, and there was an actual laying on of the iniquities of us all. It was a war of strength and of suffering in highest possible aggravation because the war of elements which were infinite. The wrath which millions should have borne, was all of it discharged. Nor do we estimate aright what we owe of love and obligation to the Saviour, till we believe, that the whole of that fury, which if poured out upon. the The death of a crucified Saviour, when world, would have served its guilty genera-beheld under such a view, is the firm steptions through eternity-that all of it was poured into the cup of expiation.

state of an abortive undertaking? Will he cast away from him the spoils of that victory for which he bled; and how can it be imagined for a moment, but by such dark and misgiving hearts as ours, that he whose love for a thankless world carried him through the heat and the severity of a contest that is now ended, will ever, with the cold and forbidding glance of an altered countenance spurn an inquiring world away from him?

ping stone to confidence in a risen Saviour. You may learn from it that his desire and A more adequate sense of this might not your salvation are most thoroughly at one. only serve to awaken the gratitude which Of his good-will to have you into heaven, slumbers within us, and is dead--it might he has given the strongest pledge and dealso, through the aid of the argument in my monstration, by consecrating, with his own text, awaken and assure our confidence. If blood, a way of access, through which sin when we were enemies, Christ ventured on ners may draw nigh. And now, that as our an enterprise so painful--if, when loathsome forerunner, he is already there--now that outcasts from the sacred territory of hea- he has gone up again to the place from ven, he left the abode of his Father, and which he arose--now that to the very place exchanged love, and adoration, and con- which he left to die, and that, that the bargenial felicity among angels, for the hatred rier to its entrance from our world may be and persecution of men-if, when the ago- moved away, he has ascended alive and in nies of the coming vengeance were still be- glory, without another death to endure, for fore him, and the dark and dreary vale of death has no more the dominion over him--suffering had yet to be entered upon, and he will ever he do any thing to close that enhad to pass under the inflictions of that trance which it has cost him so much to sword which the eternal God awakened open? Will he thus throw away the toil against his Fellow, and he had still to give and the travail of his own soul, and reduce himself up to a death equivalent in the to impotency that apparatus of reconciliaamount of its soreness to the devouring fire, tion which he himself has reared, and at an and the everlasting burnings, which but for expense, too, equal to the penance of many him believers would have borne-if, when millions through eternity? What he died to all this had yet to be travelled through, he begin, will he not now live to carry for nevertheless, in his compassionate longing ward; and will not the love which could for the souls of men, went forth upon the force a way through the grave to its acerrand of winning them to himself,-let us complishments--now that it has reached just look to the state of matters in heaven the summit of triumph and of elevation

is awaiting him; but the bitterness of which has passed away. He will not turn with indifference and distaste from that very fruit which he himself has fought for. But if for guilt in its full impenitency, he dyed his garments, and waded through the arena of contest and of blood---then should the most abandoned of her children begin a contrite movement towards him, it is not he who will either break the prop for which he feels, or quench his infant aspiration. He will look to him as the travail of his own soul, and in him he will be satisfied.

which he at present occupies, burst forth | lity upon that contest, the triumph of which and around the field of that mighty enterprise, which was begun in deepest suffering, and will end in full and finished glory? This is a good argument in all the stages of a man's Christianity. Whether he has found, or is only seeking--whether he be in a state of faith, or in a state of inquiry--whether a believer like Paul and many of the disciples that he was addressing, or an earnest and convinced sinner groping the way of deliverance, and labouring to be at rest, there may be made to emanate from the present circumstances of our Saviour, and the position that he now occupies, an argument either to perpetuate the confidence where it is, or to inspire it where it is not. If, when an enemy, I was reconciled, and that too by his death--if he laid down his life to remove an obstacle in the way of my salvation, how much more, now that he has taken it up, will he not accomplish that salvation? It is just fulfilling his own desire. It is just prospering forward the very cause that his heart is set upon. It is just following out the facilities which he himself has opened--and marching onward in glorious procession, to the consummation of those triumphs, for which he had to struggle his way through a season of difficulties that are now over. It is thus that the believer reasons himself into a steadier assurance than before-and peace may be made to flow through his heart like a mighty river--and resting on the foundation of Christ, he comes to feel himself in a sure and wealthy place--and the good-will of the Saviour rises into an undoubted axiom--so as to chase away all his distrust, and cause him to delight himself greatly in the riches of his present grace, and in the brightening certainty of his coming salvation.

We know not what the measure of the sinfulness is of any who now hear us. But we know, that however foul his depravity, and however deep the crimson dye of his manifold iniquities may be, the measure of the gospel warrant reaches even unto him. It was to make an inroad on the territory of Satan, and reclaim from it a kingdom unto himself, that Christ died—and I speak to the farthest off in guilt and alienation amongst you-take the overture of peace that is now brought to your door, and you will add to that kingdom which he came to establish, and take away from that kingdom which he came to destroy. The freeness of this Gospel has the honour of him who liveth and was dead for its guarantee. The security of the sinner and the glory of the Saviour, are at one. And with the spirit of a monarch who had to fight his way to the dominion which was rightfully his own, will he hail the returning allegiance of every rebel, as a new accession to his triumphs, as another trophy to the might and the glory of his great undertaking.

But, amid all this latitude of call and of invitation, let me press upon you that alternative character of the Gospel, to which I And this view of the matter is not only have often adverted. I have tried to make fitted to heighten the confidence that is al-known to you, how its encouragements ready formed---but also to originate the con-rise the one above the other to him who fidence that needs to be inspired. It places moves towards it. But it has its correspondthe herald of salvation on a secure and lofty ing terrors and severities, which also rise vantage ground. It seals and authenticates the one above the other to him who moves the offer with which he is intrusted---and away from it. If the transgressor will not with which he may go round among the be recalled by the invitation which I have guiltiest of this world's population. It en- now made known to him, he will be rivetables him to say, that for guilt even in the ted thereby into deeper and more hopeless season of its most proud and unrepentant condemnation. If the offer of peace be not defiance, did Christ give himself up unto entertained by him, then, in the very prothe death--and that to guilt even in this portion of its largeness and generosity, will state of hardihood, Christ in prosecution of the provocation be of his insulting treathis own work has commissioned him to go ment in having rejected it. Out of the with the overtures of purchased mercy--mouth of the Son of man there cometh a and should the guilt which has stood its two-edged sword. There is pardon free as ground against the threatenings of power, the light of heaven to all who will. There feel softened and arrested by pity's prevent- is wrath, accumulated and irretrievable ing call, may the preacher of forgiveness wrath, to all who will not. "Kiss the Son, affirm in his Master's name, that he, who for the chief of sinners, bowed himself down unto the sacrifice, will not now, that he has arisen a Prince and a Saviour, stamp a nul

therefore, lest he be angry, and ye perish from the way: when his wrath is kindled but a little, blessed only are they who put their trust in him."

cannot apprehend it. And O, if you but knew how often the word of faith may fall from the minister, and the work of faith be left undone upon the dying man, never would you so postpone the purposes of seriousness, or look forward to the last week of your abode upon earth as to the conve nient season for winding up the concerns of a neglected eternity.

It is the most delusive of all calculations | sadly and sullenly put away. The free to put off the acceptance of the Gospel, be- proclamation is heard without one accomcause of its freeness—and because it is free panying charm-and the man who refused at all times-and because the present you to lay hold of it through life, finds, that in think may be the time of your unconcern the impotency of his expiring grasp, he and liberty, and some distant future be the time of your return through that door which will still be open for you. The door of Christ's Mediatorship is ever open, till death puts its unchangeable seal upon your eternity. But the door of your own heart, if you are not receiving him, is shut at this moment, and every day is it fixing and fastening more closely-and long ere death summon you away, may it at length settle immoveably upon its hinges, and the voice of him who standeth without, and knocketh, may be unheard by the spiritual ear-and, therefore, you are not made to feel too much, though you feel as earnestly as if now or never was the alternative on which you were suspended. It is not enough, that the Word of God, compared to a hammer, be weighty and powerful. The material on which it works must be capable of an impression. It is not enough, that there be a free and forcible application. There must be a willing subject. You are unwilling now, and therefore it is that conversion does not follow. To-morrow the probability is, that you will be still more unwilling-and, therefore, though the application be the same, the conversion is still at a greater distance away from you. And thus, while the application continues the same, the subject hardens, and a good result is ever becoming more and more unlikely and thus may it go on till you arrive upon the bed of your last sickness, at the confines of eternity-and what, I would ask, is the kind of willingness that comes upon you then? Willing to escape the pain of hell-this you are now, but yet not willing to be a Christian. Willing that the fire and your bodily sensations be kept at a distance from each other-this you are now, for who of you at present, would thrust his hand among the flames? Willing that the frame of your animal sensibilities shall meet with nothing to wound or torture it—this is willingness of which the lower animals, incapable of religion, are yet as capable as yourself. You will be as willing then for deliverance from material torments as you can be now-but there is a willingness which you want now, and which, in all likelihood, will then be still more beyond the reach of your attainment. If the free Gospel do not meet with your willingness now to accept and submit to it, neither may it then. And I know not, my brethren, what has been your experience in death-beds, but sure I am, that both among the agonies of mortal disease, and the terrors of the malefactor's cell, Christ may be offered, and the offer be

If you look attentively to the 'text, you will find that there is something more than a shade of difference between being reconciled and being saved. Reconciliation is spoken of as an event that has already happened-salvation as an event that is to come. The one event may lead to the other; but there is a real distinction between them. It is true, that the salvation instanced in the preceding verse, is salvavation from wrath. But it is the wrath which is incurred by those who have sinned wilfully, after they had come to the knowledge of the truth" when there remaineth no more sacrifice for sin, but a certain fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation, which shall devour the adversaries." Jesus Christ will save us from this by saving us from sin. He who hath reconciled us by his death, will, by his life, accomplish for us this salvation. Reconciliation is not salvation. It is only the portal to it. Justification is not the end of Christ's coming-it is only the means to an ultimate attainment. By his death he pacified the lawgiver. By his life he purifies the sinner. The one work is finished. The other is not so, but it is only going on unto perfection. And this is the secret of that unwillingness which I have already touched upon. There is a willingness that God would lift off from their persons the hand of an avenger. But there is not a willingness that Christ would lay upon their persons the hand of a sanctifier. The motive for him to apprehend them is to make them holy. But they care not to apprehend that for which they are apprehended. They see not that the use of the new dispensation, is for them to be restored to the image they have lost, and, for this purpose to be purged from their old sing. This is the point on which they are in darkness-"and they love the darkness rather than the light, because their deeds are evil." They are at all times willing for the reward without the service. But they are not willing for the reward and the service together. The willingness for the one they always have. But the willingness for both they never have. They have it not to-day-and it is not the operation of time

that will put it in them to-morrow. Nor will disease put it in. Nor will age put it in. Nor will the tokens of death put it in. Nor will the near and terrific view of eternity put it in. It may call out into a livelier sensation than before, a willingness for the reward. But it will neither inspire a taste nor a willingness for the service. A distaste for God and godliness, as it was the

reigning and paramount principle of his life, so may it be the reigning and paramount principle of his death-bed. As it envenomed every breath which he drew, so may it envenom his last-and the spirit going forth to the God who gave it, with all the enmity that it ever had, God will deal with it as with an enemy.

SERMON IV.

The Restlessness of human Ambition.

"How say ye to my soul, Flee as a bird to your mountain?-O that I had the wings of a dove, that I may fly away, and be at rest."-Psalm xi. 1. and lv. 6.

To all those who are conversant in the when the sun threw its unclouded splenscenery of external nature, it is evident, dours over a whole neighbourhood, did you that an object to be seen to the greatest ad- never form a wish that your place could be vantage must be placed at a certain distance transferred to some distant and more beaufrom the eye of the observer. The poor tiful part of the landscape? Did the idea man's hut, though all within be raggedness never rise in your fancy, that the people and disorder, and all around it be full of the who sport on yon sunny bank are happier most nauseous and disgusting spectacles than yourself-that you would like to be yet, if seen at a sufficient distance, may ap- buried in that distant grove, and forget, for a pear a sweet and interesting cottage. That while, in silence and in solitude, the distracfield where the thistle grows, and the face tions of the world-that you would like to of which is deformed by the wild exuber- repose by yon beautiful rivulet, and soothe ance of a rank and pernicious vegetation, every anxiety of your heart by the gentlemay delight the eye of a distant spectator ness of its murmurs-that you would like by the loveliness of its verdure. That lake, to transport yourself to the distance of miles, whose waters are corrupted, and whose and there enjoy the peace which resides in banks poison the air by their marshy and some sweet and sheltered concealment? In putrid exhalations, may charm the eye of a word, was there no secret aspiration of the an enthusiast, who views it from an adjoin-soul for another place than what you actuing eminence, and dwells with rapture on the quietness of its surface, and on the beauty of its outline-its sweet border fringed with the gayest colouring of Nature, and on which spring lavishes its finest ornaments. All is the effect of distance. It softens the harsh and disgusting features of every object. What is gross and ordinary, it can dress in the most romantic attractions. The country hamlet it can transform into a paradise of beauty, in spite of the abominations that are at every door, and the angry brawlings of the men and the women who occupy it. All that is loathsome and offensive, is softened down by the power of distance. You see the smoke rising in fantastic wreaths through the pure air, and the village spire peeping from among the thick verdure of the trees, which embosom it. The fancy of our sentimentalist swells with pleasure, and peace and piety supply their delightful associations to complete the harmony of the picture.

This principle may serve to explain a feeling which some of you who now hear me may have experienced. On a fine day,

ally occupied? Instead of resting in the quiet enjoyment of your present situation, did not your wishes wander abroad and around you-and were not you ready to exclaim with the Psalmist in the text, "O that I had the wings of a dove; for I would fly to yonder mountain, and be at rest ?"

But what is of most importance to be observed is, that even when you have reached the mountain, rest is as far from you as ever. As you get nearer the wished-for spot, the fairy enchantments in which distance had arrayed it, gradually disappear; when you at last arrive at your object, the illusion is entirely dissipated; and you are grieved to find, that you have carried the same principle of restlessness and discontent along with you.

Now, what is true of a natural landscape, is also true of that moral landscape, which is presented to the eye of the mind when it contemplates human life, and casts a wide survey over the face of human society. The position which I myself occupy is seen and felt with all its disadvantages. Its vexations come home to my feelings with all the cer

per. I fix mine eye on some lofty eminence in the scale of preferment. I spurn at the condition which I now occupy, and I look around me and above me. The perpetual tendency is not to enjoy his actual position, but to get away from it-and not an indivi dual amongst us who does not every day of his life join in the aspiration of the Psalmist, "O that I had the wings of a dove, that I may fly to yonder mountain, and be at rest.”

tainty of experience. I see it before mine | actual observation. What is present fills me eyes with a vision so near and intimate, as with disgust. What is distant allures me to admit of no colouring, and to preclude the to enterprise. I sigh for an office, the busiexercise of fancy. It is only in those situa-ness of which is more congenial to my temtions which are without me, where the principle of deception operates, and where the vacancies of an imperfect experience are filled up by the power of imagination, ever ready to summon the fairest forms of pure and unmingled enjoyment. It is all resolvable, as before, into the principle of distance. I am too far removed to see the smaller features of the object which I contemplate. I overlook the operation of those minuter causes, which expose every situation of human life to the inroads of misery and disappointment. Mine eye can only take in the broader outlines of the object before me, and it consigns to fancy the task of filling them up with its finest colouring.

But the truth is, that we never rest. The most regular and stationary being on the face of the earth, has something to look forward to, and something to aspire after. He must realize that sum to which he annexes the Am I unlearned? I feel the disgrace of idea of a competency. He must add that ignorance, and sigh for the name and the piece of ground which he thinks necessary distinctions of philosophy. Do I stand upon to complete the domain of which he is the a literary eminence? I feel the vexations of proprietor. He must secure that office which rivalship, and could almost renounce the confers so much honour and emolument splendours of my dear-bought reputation upon the holder. Even after every effort for the peace and shelter which insigni- of personal ambition is exhausted, he has ficance bestows. Am I poor? I riot in friends and children to provide for. The fancy upon the gratifications of luxury, and care of those who are to come after him, think how great I would be, if invested with lands him in a never-ending train of hopes, all the consequence of wealth and of pa- and wishes, and anxieties. O that I could tronage. Am I rich? I sicken at the de- gain the vote and the patronage of this ho ceitful splendour which surrounds me, and nourable acquaintance-or, that I could se am at times tempted to think, that I would cure the political influence of that great man have been happier far, if, born to a humbler who honours me with an occasional call, station, I had been trained to the peace and and addressed me the other day with a corinnocence of poverty. Am I immersed in diality which was quite bewitching-or that business? I repine at the fatigues of em- my young friend could succeed in his comployment, and envy the lot of those who petition for the lucrative vacancy to which have every hour at their disposal, and can I have been looking forward, for years, with spend all their time in the sweet relaxations all the eagerness which distance and uncerof amusement and society. Am I exempted tainty could inspire-or that we could fix from the necessity of exertion? I feel the the purposes of that capricious and unac corroding anxieties of indolence, and at-countable wanderer, who, of late indeed has tempt in vain to escape that weariness and disgust which useful and regular occupation can alone save me from. Am I single? I feel the dreariness of solitude, and my fancy warms at the conception of a dear and domestic circle. Am I embroiled in the cares of a family? I am tormented with the perverseness or ingratitude of those around me; and sigh in all the bitterness of repentance, over the rash and irrecoverable step by which I have renounced for ever the charms of independence.

been very particular in his attentions, and whose connection we acknowledge, in secret, would be an honour and an advantage to our family-or, at all events, let me heap wealth and aggrandizement on that son, who is to be the representative of my name, and is to perpetuate that dynasty which I have had the glory of establishing.

This restless ambition is not peculiar to any one class of society. A court only offers to one's notice a more exalted theatre for the play of rivalship and political enThis, in fact, is the grand principle of hu- terprise. In the bosom of a cottage, you man ambition, and it serves to explain both may witness the operation of the very same its restlessness and its vanity. What is pre-principle, only directed to objects of greater sent is seen in all its minuteness, and we insignificance-and though a place for my overlook not a single article in the train of girl, or an apprenticeship for my boy, be all little drawbacks, and difficulties and disappointments. What is distant is seen under a broad and general aspect, and the illusions of fancy are substituted in those places which we cannot fill up with the details of

that I aspire after, yet an enlightened observer of the human character will perceive in it the same eagerness of competi tion, the same jealousy, the same malicious attempts to undermine the success of a more

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