ask, “If such is the pity and compassion of the Lord toward his children in this sinful state, his pity toward them when with their sufferings is mingled so much that is vile, what will be his delight in them when they shall have ceased to sin, and shall be conformed to his perfect image-when misery is no more, and sighing has ceased and God's hand has for the last time passed across the weeping eyes, and wiped away the last tear?"

The more I apprehend and feel the force of this truth, the higher value do I place upon human nature. I look upon the bright side, and am cheerful and hopeful. Every soul, like the cloud, has its silver lining. I behold sin all around me, and where I do not see it I suspect its existence; still, I never meet a soul that it has entirely robbed-no soul but retains some relic of its departed innocence-some spark of the celestial fire still glimmering in the ashes, and never burning so low but the wing of some sweet angel may fan it into a living flame. Sin drags many a soul down into the dark, wild banquet of death, and presses the brimming goblet to the pale lips until the heart sleeps; but in that goblet, mixed with the wine, is the wholesome bitterness of the myrrh, and no heart sleeps so

soundly but it shall be awakened when touched by the wand of life in the Father's hand. Not long since I saw a poor inebriate reeling past me in the street. His clothes were torn and soiled, and his bloated face and great, hard hands weak as an infant's for all the power that slept in their wiry muscles, were covered with his own blood. The sight of him sent a chill through me. As great a slave as walks the earth, he had staggered up to the ballot box that was made only for freemen, and while depositing his vote, had fallen upon the floor in a fitand it was a heavy, cruel fall. He passed on. Boys stared at him, and sober men shook their heads. For the time, he stood lower in the scale of being than the poor, dumb ox. Few pitied him and none loved him but the great God up in heaven. He reeled away, and I saw him no more-but I thought of him. Poor, miserable and degraded as he is, he is not lost. Oh no, not lost for he is a child of God-my brother and your brother! He still has a heart, and deep down under its incrustation of cinders and lava there are fountains that we do not seefountains that shall yet open to the touch of some prophet's rod, and water the desert until it blooms like a garden. And those brothers

who have served him so cruelly, and who will still give him the burning cup-their hearts too shall be touched-and the tempter and the tempted shall be lost in the holy union of Brotherhood, when each shall live for the other and forGod. With the consciousness that God is our Father, we feel that we have a friend and protector who will never deceive us. We can go to him with our sorrows and our heart-burdens, and find in his tenderness a balm that shall heal our wounds. He touches with his gentle finger the marble lips of our grief, and like the statue of Memnon they become melodious. The light of his benignant smile warms and flushes with its own radiance the cold forehead, and that which had crushed us weeping to the earth, is changed into an angel of light and love, scattering choicest blessings from its wings. We can endure all that the Father sends, and feel that the yoke is easy and the burden light. We never quail under the weight of the cross that he lays upon our shoulders--for Christ bore the same. We may stagger, but it will not crush us. "The duty he imposes upon us, like a sort of inner mail, supports while it compresses us, so that we walk more upright and firm for the iron bands that tighten round our bosoms, while over all in their snowy whiteness, float the robes of peace and purity."

VII.

THE RESURRECTION OF LAZARUS.

Thy Brother shall rise again.-Joшn xi, 23.

L

AZARUS was dead-Lazarus the brother

of Mary and Martha, and tears were rising to their eyes and sighs to their lips from the depths of a divine sorrow. They had buried the dear one from mortal sight--had placed the cold stone upon the sepulcher's mouth, and he was gone forever. Forever? The heart of woman clings to hope as a star clings to heaven. In that sad and trying hour the weeping sisters thought of Christ, the Redeemer. It was a blessed thought. If there was one in the wide world who could render them comfort it was that wandering man of sorrow who had often in his weary journeyings, reposed beneath their humble roof, and had ever repaid their hospitality and kindness with some gentle word that

fell from his lips like sweetest music. Like the fallen vine that reaches out its frail tendrils into the sunshine, after the storm, for something upon which to cling, their souls were yearning for Christ. He was their dearest, their best friend. They felt that they could lean on him, could breathe into his ear the story of their grief, and find in that great heart a response. A great sorrow is holy, and it can be told only unto such as are good and holy. It shuns the gaze of the worldly, and the common words of consolation. There have lived but few in this world who, like Christ, were worthy of the recital of such a sorrow; and they have stood, their faces radiant with the light of love, between the living and the dead. The echo of their footsteps has been music unto the wounded heart, and their soft words a balm more precious than all the gold of Ophir.

Yes, they thought of Christ, those pure-hearted, loving sisters in that sad hour of trial. Even before, they had thought of him as they stood like ministering angels watching in the nighttime by the sick one's couch, and had dispatched a messenger with the tidings, "Behold he whom thou lovest is sick!" Thrilling words are these when addressed unto the absent. Who has not