Part 11

St. Paul also bears witness to Him who lay in the manger of Bethlehem, as the Creator and Preserver, as well as the Saviour of the world. "God . . . hath in these last days spoken unto us by His Son, whom He hath appointed Heir of all things; 'by whom also He made the world:' who, being the brightness of His glory, and the express image of His person, and 'upholding all things by the word of His power,' when He had by Himself purged our sins, sat down on the right hand of the Majesty on high." St. Paul quotes from the Psalms the testimony of the Eternal Father to the dignity of the Redeemer: "Unto the Son He saith, 'Thy throne, O God, is for ever and ever!'"

Micah the prophet witnessed of Him who was to be born in Bethlehem, that "His goings forth have been of old, from everlasting." Zechariah, in a passage, part of which our Lord Himself quoted, exclaims: "Awake, O sword, against My Shepherd, and against 'the Man that is My Fellow,' saith the Lord of hosts smite the Shepherd, and the sheep shall be scattered." This is He who, "being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God: but made Himself of no reputation, and took upon Him the form of a Servant,—" yea, even that of a feeble Infant, lying in a manger, in an obscure corner of the world which He Himself had created.

Such a mystery as this the understanding of man cannot grasp; but faith meekly receives it, and reason bids us acknowledge, that He whose sacrifice was to be of "infinite" merit must needs Himself be infinite; that no created being could possibly have made satisfaction for the sins of a whole world, the redemption of which is a work as marvellous as was its first creation.

But nowhere do the marvels of that creation strike us with more overpowering force than when we muse on them beside the manger of Bethlehem. Let us consider Him who deigned to become a mortal Babe in the single attribute of power, as displayed in launching into space this globe in which we live, on which He stooped for a while to dwell, and which, as compared with the heavenly bodies around it, is but as a grain of dust in the universe created by Him by whom "all things were made."

Though the giving motion to our world was but a comparatively "small" exercise of such power, how overwhelmingly great it appears when set before us in the scientific page! Let us make an extract from "The Christian Philosopher": *

"However rapidly a ball flies from the mouth of a cannon, it is the flight of a body only a 'few inches' in diameter . . . The earth contains a mass of matter equal in weight to at least 2,200,000,000,000,000,000,000, or more than two thousand trillions of tons, supposing its mean density to be only about two and a half times greater than water. To move this ponderous mass a single inch beyond its position were it fixed in a quiescent state, would require a mechanical force almost beyond the power of numbers to express. The physical force of all the myriads of intelligences within the bounds of the planetary system, though their powers were far superior to those of men, would be altogether inadequate to the production of such a motion. How much more must be the force requisite to impel it with a velocity 'one hundred and forty times swifter than a cannon-ball, or sixty-eight thousand miles an hour,' the actual rate of its motion in its course round the sun! . . . The ideas of 'strength' and 'power' implied in the impulsion of such enormous masses of matter through the illimitable tracts of space are forced upon the mind with irresistible energy far surpassing what any abstract propositions or reasonings can convey, and constrain us to exclaim, 'Who is a strong Lord like unto Thee? Thy right hand is become glorious in power! The Lord God Omnipotent reigneth!'"

* By T. Dick, L. L. D.

And it was He whose Word could thus launch forth, and for thousands of years keep the world and the other planets whirling round the sun at a speed that baffles thought to conceive, it was He who deigned to inhabit a human form so helpless that a woman's weak arms were needed even to lift Him out of the manger in which that woman had laid Him! The thought is overpowering, we can but prostrate our souls in silent adoration. Well might the angels, bending over the manger, desire to look into such a mystery; "God was manifest in the flesh"!

O blessed Redeemer, when even a faint glimpse of the riches of Thy glory falls on the mental eye, it seems to dazzle and blind; and yet, for our sakes, Thou didst become poor, so poor that the stable was Thy first earthly dwelling-place, and Thy cradle this manger! Grant unto us, feeble worms, the grace of Thy Holy Spirit, that we may be able to comprehend, at least in part, "what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height, and to know the love of Christ which passeth knowledge;" that love which is infinite as Thy power, and everlasting as Thy existence!

XXXVIII.

The Apostles' Net.

THERE is a danger, especially to imaginative minds, when meditating on Scripture, to allegorize what ought to be taken literally, to lose the clear outlines of fact in a haze of fancy. May we be watchful against this! But the Bible is full of types and emblems, and many objects of which we read in Scripture naturally form themselves into such.

The miraculous draught of fishes is at once a fact and an allegory; the fishes were types of souls; something far beyond a mere present supply of food was betokened by the abundance in which these fishes were caught by the apostles. That such was the case is evident from the Saviour's promise, "I will make you fishers of men." The net therefore appears to us as a type of what St. Paul calls "the foolishness of preaching," by which it has pleased God "to save them that believe;" and it may not be unprofitable to us to pause for awhile by that net, and to consider some of the characteristics in which it resembles the teaching of the gospel by the ministers of God.

Two especially suggest themselves to the mind; its imperfection in itself, and its power when blessed by the Lord.

This net before us is twined of the same homely material as that of other fishermen, the hemp has undergone the same rough process of manufacture, toil-hardened hands have with patient labour formed every knot in its meshes, there is nothing in its appearance to charm the senses or attract the eye. Yet we do not turn from it because the web is not silken; we look not—care not for brilliancy of dye in the net which enclosed the miraculous draught. But how strangely critical are many amongst us in regard to the preaching of the Word! A blemish in style, a defect in pronunciation will sometimes mar the effect of an earnest discourse. The net must be silken to attract us; truth, when homely, too often offends. The ear and taste must be satisfied, though heart and conscience be left untouched!

Then, again, the net is not only of common material, but it requires both cleansing and repairing; we read of the apostles both as washing and mending their nets. Here the application of the lesson seems to be rather for the minister than his flock. The popular preacher, to whose words hundreds—thousands listen with rapt attention, who feels his net heavy with the richest of prizes, needs constantly to remind himself of the weakness and imperfection of the instrument which the Lord is deigning to bless. It was when the apostles were drawing in a multitude of fishes "that their net brake." When in the midst of their successes, servants of God suddenly feel their net breaking, when their physical or mental powers are crippled, so that they need to beckon to their partners that they should come and help them, is not this sign of the imperfection of their noblest talents sent to them lest they should fall into the sin of pride, and, albeit unconsciously, "sacrifice unto their net, and burn incense unto their drag;" rest complacently in those powers which at any moment might fail?

But if the net be but a poor instrument in itself, how marvellous its power when blessed by the Lord! How mysterious the faculty of stirring souls to their very depths, of sending forth words like arrows, which God Himself guides to the hearers' hearts! St. Peter, the illiterate fisherman, must have marvelled at the effect of his first recorded sermon. Three thousand souls gathered in at once, a number far larger than appears to have been drawn in during all the years of Christ's sojourn upon earth by the ministry of Him who spake as never man spake!

What were the emotions of the apostle when his preaching, by the might of the Spirit, brought into the Church such a harvest of souls? We know that the miraculous draught made him fall on his knees, humbled and overpowered under a sense of his own unworthiness, and exclaiming to the Divine Being who had wrought the miracle, "Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord!" May we not believe that St. Peter was far more humbled by the miraculous draught of souls, the mighty success granted to one who had, but a few weeks before, so sinned against light and love!

"What is this honour vouchsafed to me!" Such may have been the apostle's thought ere he laid down his head to rest that night, with his soul overflowing with thankful joy: "Have these lips, so lately polluted with cursing and swearing, these lips that have thrice denied my Lord, been permitted so to preach the gospel, that thousands are gathered into the Church! What am I that I should be chosen to enjoy a privilege so glorious!"

But though on that occasion the confession, "I am a sinful man, O Lord!" may have been uttered with far deeper consciousness of guilt than it was in the boat on Gennesaret; the "depart from me!" would never more be heard from the contrite Peter. His sense of sin would but make him cling the more closely to Him who taketh away sin; the greater his guilt, the greater his need that the Saviour should not depart, but abide with Him for ever!

XXXIX.

The Bed of the Paralytic.

WHEN was a burden ever lifted more joyfully than this was, when at the Saviour's command the light bed was raised by the strong arms that had, but a few moments previously, rested in helpless weakness upon it! How joyfully did the restored paralytic make his way on his own feet through that crowd whose presence had rendered it impossible for his friends to bear him in on his bed! We know not of a single word spoken by the rejoicing pardoned believer in that hour of intense happiness, but surely the utterance of his heart must have been like that of the psalmist.

"Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits! Who forgiveth all thine iniquities, who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction, who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies, . . . so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle's!"

We would gladly follow the restored sufferer to his home, and hear him recounting to eager listeners there what great things the Lord had done for him; describing his feelings of hope as—borne on that bed—he had approached the house in which the Master was teaching, then the fear, the anxiety, the difficulty which had followed when it was found to be useless to attempt to carry the invalid in. How grateful must he have felt to those friends whom difficulties would not daunt, especially to whoever first offered the suggestion to let him down through the roof!

The sufferer could not help his friends in their labour of love, but how anxiously he had watched it, and, when gently lowered down by kind hands, with what a trembling hope had he found himself in the immediate presence of the Redeemer! To hear such scenes described by those who were the immediate actors in them, may probably be one of the joys reserved for God's children in Heaven.

How would the restored paralytic in the course of his after-life regard that bed on which he had lain perhaps for weary year after year! Would the associations connected with it be those of pain or of pleasure? Would he dwell on the long wearisome days, the dreary nights which he had spent on that bed when he had no power to lift himself from it? Would he sigh when he looked on it from the recollection of all that he had had to endure? We cannot think this, however long, or painful, or trying, his illness may have been; it is far more likely that the sight of that bed would bring to his mind recollections on which memory would dwell with rapture.

"It was when stretched on that bed that I first looked on my Lord, and met His glance of ineffable love and compassion! It was when stretched on that bed that I heard those accents which will thrill delight through my soul to my dying day, yea, and through all eternity,—'Son, be of good cheer, thy sins be forgiven thee!' Oh, God be praised that I ever was sick! I thank, I bless, I adore Him for the weakness, the helplessness, the disease which brought me so close to my Lord, and made me a monument thus of His everlasting mercy and grace!"

And thus will many a dear Christian brother or sister, long afflicted by sickness, look back on the couch of suffering when the Lord has restored health to the feeble frame, or when—through what man calls death—He has bidden the pardoned believer "arise," never more to lie down in pain. Many will doubtless have cause to say, "It was in love and mercy that sickness and suffering were permitted to chain me down to my bed; it was from thence that I first looked through faith on my Saviour—there first I knew that my sins were indeed forgiven. My weakness made me rest in Christ's strength—my sufferings brought me to His feet. I would not exchange the lessons learned, the privileges enjoyed on that sick-bed, for all the wealth of the world!"

The story of the paralytic man is fraught with comfort also to those in sorrow for loved ones afflicted either in body or in mind. It is terrible to watch sufferings which we cannot relieve, to seek aid from physicians but to find that their utmost skill is exerted in vain. Which of us has not known the wearing anxiety, the sickening suspense, when a precious life is at stake? Oh! Let us not then rest on earth, and put down our loved burden in despair. We must "go up higher," we must carry our friend upwards on the strong arms of prayer, we must lay him at the feet of the Saviour. The Son of Man hath still power to say, "Arise, take up thy bed and walk."

Still more earnest should be our efforts when the sickness of him for whom we pray is that of the soul—the sickness of sin. Bodily health and strength and beauty may be united with deadly spiritual paralysis. Some seem as if they would not—could not—come to the Saviour; they have no power to rise, they are chained down by the cares or pleasures and follies of the world; when others are pressing in to hear God's Word, they remain in peril without.

Let us, as it were, carry those who will not or cannot walk, let us bear the burden on our hearts. God is trying our faith and our patience. Have we clambered the outward stair, have we toiled to uncover the roof—to remove as far as we can the obstacles which divide the paralyzed soul from the Lord? And then, using the bands of love, the "cords of a man," have we gently placed our burden even at the feet of our Heavenly Master? He has still power to say to the diseased and paralyzed soul, "Thy sins be forgiven thee," and to bid it arise to walk in newness of life, to tread in the paths of holiness, to run with vigour that blessed race of which Heaven itself is the goal!

XL.

The Cross.

IN the olden times when legends and traditions, like parasites mantling a tree and hindering its healthy growth, had appeared well-nigh to choke gospel-truth while meant to adorn it, the day of the supposed discovery of the true cross was made a festival; * its name was given to province and city; and fragments, however small, of what was deemed so inexpressibly sacred, were esteemed amongst the greatest treasures of princes. Satan would be well pleased to see adoration paid to pieces of wood, if he could so draw away the minds of the pious from contemplation of the true cross, as it is preserved for believers in the Bible alone, to be touched only by Faith as she repeats the words of St. Paul, "God forbid that I should glory save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ."

* "'Invention of the Cross,' an annual feast solemnized on the 3rd of May, in memory of Helena's (the mother of Constantine) finding the (supposed) true Cross of Christ deep in the ground on Mount Calvary, where she erected a church for the preservation of part of it." _English Encyclopædia._

With the deepest, most solemn reverence, let us now draw nigh in spirit to this altar, on which was offered the one "full, perfect, and sufficient sacrifice, oblation, and satisfaction, for the sins of the whole world." Let all worldly thoughts be put off; it is on holy ground that we tread, as the cross—stained with that most precious blood which alone cleanseth from all sin—draws our contemplation to Him who upon it agonized and died for mankind.

That Christ "could" suffer proves that He was human; that He could "so" suffer, proves that He was divine, for Deity alone could so hold the tortured frame in subjection as to keep it suspended for six hours in agony upon the cross. A mere man, by the force of strong will, may give himself up to death—may so overcome the shrinking of nature as to spring down the chasm, or throw himself into the waves. Many martyrs have yielded up their lives willingly and cheerfully, "but who could die as Jesus died?" His was no single effort of will, but a prolonged exercise of it, hour after hour, amidst sufferings more excruciating than the mind can conceive. We cannot doubt that He who is "the mighty God" could at any moment have ended those sufferings; no nails could have fixed Him to the cross; not the united powers of a thousand peopled worlds could have kept Him there for an instant! The unutterable pangs which the Saviour endured were His own deliberate choice, and it was His own infinite love which made Him sustain them even to the end. We know this from the Lord's declaration:

"I lay down My life . . . No man taketh it from Me, but I lay it down of Myself. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it again."

Christ had but to will it, and the cross of shame would instantly have been exchanged for the throne of glory, and the mocking crowds have been stretched blackened, blasted corpses before Him! We speak of our Lord's temptation in the wilderness—what must have been His temptation "on the cross"? Such as none but Deity could have resisted—none but God have overcome. A Paul might have consented to be crucified for the sake of his brethren—but could even a Paul have remained long on the cross had it needed but an act of volition to release him? Human nature must have failed under the trial. The fondest of mothers clinging by her hands to the edge of a precipice, with her infant fastened to her shoulders, must let go ere long, though conscious that her child as well as herself will be dashed in pieces by her fall.

The weight of a world's salvation hung on the Redeemer, and He "would not let go."

"Come down from the cross!" shouted the rabble.

"Come down from the cross!" urged the tempter.

"Come down from the cross!" cried out agonized human nature,—Christ could, but He would not come down. This was constancy beyond that of humanity; this was the endurance not of a man but of a God!

There appears to be a mysterious analogy between the great act of the Creation and that of the Redemption of the world. After the six days in which the Lord made earth and the things within it, He "did rest the seventh day from all His works;" and so, after the six hours of anguish, the Saviour rested in death from the more awful work of redemption. Another analogy arises in the mind, though it is mentioned with some hesitation, as Scripture warrant cannot be brought forward to support it. It is an ancient well-known tradition that the world will endure six thousand years under our present dispensation, and that then will come the long Sabbath of rest. If it be so, is it impossible that each hour on the cross may have had a mysterious relation to each thousand years—that the two first hours of agony may have expiated the guilt of the antediluvian race; the succeeding, that of its successors; the increasing numbers of sinners corresponding with the tortures which, towards the close of the awful time of sacrifice, would naturally most fearfully increase?

If such a suggestion be admitted, what a peculiar interest have we, who live in these latter times, in the dying thirst—the agonized cry, which appears to have marked the climax in the sufferings of our blessed Redeemer! The idea links itself on to another. Is it impossible that before Him who knoweth all things may have passed in prophetic vision every human being who should enter Heaven through the merit of those pangs which He at that moment was enduring? That the Lord "waited," with arms outstretched, strained muscles and bleeding hands, until the last, the very last, should be safe; and till—knowing that none, not the least of His flock should perish—Christ could at length exclaim, "It is finished", and so bow the head and yield up the ghost?

There is something inexpressibly touching in this thought, especially if we regard the possibility that some one now breathing on this globe may have been the last one for whom the Lord waited on the cross! Perhaps some prodigal for whose soul a mother is now wrestling in prayer; perhaps some poor heathen slave in a distant land; perhaps some despised one brought up in haunts of vice, the answer to whose first cry of faith and repentance, "God be merciful to me a sinner," will be the sound of the trumpet announcing that the world's great suffering-time is ended, and that the last saved soul being gathered in, the glorious Sabbath shall commence!

Let us pause for a few moments, and with closed eyes and bended knees attempt to realize the thought,—"the Saviour waited on the cross for me!" For "me" was that awful thirst, for "me" that intolerable pain. Christ would not save Himself from a death of torture, because—with all my coldness, selfishness, sinfulness—He could not, would not, suffer me to perish!

A few words inscribed under a picture of the Crucifixion were once made the means of converting a soul; they were as a question from Him who hung on the cross, these touching words are addressed to us all—what reply dare we return? "I suffered this for thee; what dost thou for Me?"

XLI.

The Stone at the Sepulchre.

WHO has not known the pang of bereavement,—

"When sorrowing o'er the stone we bend, Which covers what was once a friend, And from his hand—his voice—his smile, Divides us for a little while?"

Let the mourner draw nigh to this stone which closed the sepulchre of the Lord, and beneath its quiet shadow meditate on the solemn and most blessed doctrine of the resurrection.

With aching hearts, with drooping heads, the disciples of the crucified Saviour turned from the sepulchre in which they had seen His sacred body laid. For Him, indeed, the awful trial was over; He was beyond reach of the cruelty of soldier, or the malice of priest. Those holy eyes were clothed in death, no cry of anguish would ever more burst from those pallid lips, the blood had ceased to flow from the pierced hands and side. For the Master indeed there was rest, but for the disciples desolation, for none in that hour of anguish appears to have believed or understood the re-iterated promise,—

"After three days I will rise again."