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THE CHRISTIAN TREASURY.

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I SLEEP, BUT MY HEART WAKETH.

A Sermon."

BY THE LATE REV. .R. M. M CHEYNE, DUNDEE.

"I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled

ing fuller and fuller, as she proceeds, till she says: "This is my beloved, and this is my

with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night," friend, O ye daughters of Jerusalem!" They

&c.-SONG v. 2, to the end.

I have read forms one of the draTHE passage matical songs of which this wonderful book is composed. The subject of it is a conversation between a forsaken and desolate wife and the daughters of Jerusalem.

1. First of all, she relates to them how, through slothfulness, she had turned away her lord from the door. He had been absent on a journey from home, and did not return till night. Instead of anxiously sitting up for her husband, she had barred the door, and slothfully retired to rest: "I slept, but my heart was waking." In this halfsleeping, half-waking frame, she heard the voice of her beloved husband: "Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled; for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night." But sloth prevailed with her, and she would not open, but answered him with foolish excuses: I have put off my coat; how shall I put it on? I have washed my feet; how shall

I defile them?"

2. She next tells them her grief and anxiety to find her lord. He tried the bolt of the door, but it was fastened. This wakened her thoroughly. She ran to the door and opened, but her beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone. She listened-she sought about the door she called-but he gave no answer. She followed him through the streets; but the watchmen found her, and smote her, and took away her veil; and now with the morning light she appears to the daughters of Jerusalem, and anxiously beseeches them to help her: "I charge you, if ye find him whom my soul loveth, that ye tell him that I am sick of love."

3. The daughters of Jerusalem, astonished at her extreme anxiety, ask: "What is thy be loved more than another beloved?" This gives opportunity to the desolate bride to enlarge on the perfections of her lord, which she does in a strain of richest descriptiveness-the heart fill• Preached after the communion; and from a volume of Sermons, by the lamented author, now in the press. No. 3.-*

seemed to be entranced by the description, the search after this altogether lovely one: and are now as anxious as herself to join in "Whither is thy beloved gone, O thou fairest aside, that we may seek him with thee?" among women? whither is thy beloved turned

you will see at once that there is a deeper meanSuch is the simple narrative before us. But ing beneath-that the narrative is only a beautiful transparent veil, through which every child of God may trace some of the most common experiences in the life of the believer. (1.) The desolate bride is the believing soul. (2.) The daughters of Jerusalem are fellow-believers. (3.) The watchmen are ministers. (4.) And the altogether lovely one is our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.

I. Believers often miss opportunities of communion with Christ through slothfulness.

1. Observe, Christ is seeking believers. It is true that Christ is seeking unconverted souls. He stretches out his hands all the day to a gainsaying and disobedient people-he is the Shepherd that seeks the lost sheep; but it is as true that he is seeking his own people also that he may make his abode with them-that their joy may be full. Christ is not done with a soul when he has brought it to a forgiveness of sins. It is only then that he begins his regular visits to the soul. In the daily reading of the Word Christ pays daily visits, to sanctify the believing soul. In daily prayer Christ reveals himself to his own, in that other way than he doth to the world. In the house of God Christ comes in to his own, and says: "Peace be unto you!” And in the sacrament he makes himself known to them in the breaking of bread, and they cry out: "It is the Lord!" These are all trysting times, when the Saviour comes to visit his own.

2. Obserce, Christ also knocks at the door of be lievers. Even believers have got doors upon their hearts. You would think, perhaps, that when once Christ had found an entrance into a poor sinner's heart he never would find difficulty in getting in any more. You would think March 13, 1846.

that as Samson carried off the gates of Gaza, table is the most famous trysting-place with bar and all, so Christ would carry away all the Christ. It is then that believers hear him gates and bars from believing hearts. But no; knocking-saying: "Open to me." How often there is still a door on the heart, and Christ is this opportunity lost through slothfulness stands and knocks. He would fain be in. It-through want of stirring up the gift that is -through want of attention- through thoughts about worldly things-through unwillingness to take trouble about it!—

is not his pleasure that we should sit lonely and desolate. He would fain come in to us, and sup with us, and we with him.

3. Observe, Christ speaks: "Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled." O what a meeting of tender words is here!-all applied to a poor sinner who has believed in Christ. (1.) "My sister;" for you remember how Jesus stretched his hand toward his disciples, and said: “Behold my mother and my brethren; for whosoever shall do the will of my Father, the same is my brother, and my sister, and my mother." (2.) "My love;" for you know how he loved sinners-left heaven out of love-lived, died, rose again, out of love for poor sinners; and when one believes on him, he calls him "My love." (3.) “My dove;" for you know that when a sinner believes in Jesus, the holy dove-like Spirit is given him; so Jesus calls that soul" My dove." (4.) "My undefiled" -strangest name of all to give to a poor defiled sinner. But you remember how Jesus was holy, harmless, and undefiled. He was that in our stead-when a poor sinner believes in him, he is looked on as undefiled. Christ says "My undefiled." Such are the winning words with which Christ desires to gain an entrance into the believer's heart. Oh, how strange that any heart could stand out against all this

love!

4. Observe, Christ waits: "My head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night." Christ's patience with unconverted souls is very wonderful. Day after day he pleads with them: "Turn ye, turn ye, why will ye die !" Never did beggar stand longer at a rich man's gate, than Jesus, the almighty Saviour, stands at the gate of sinful worms. But his patience with his own is still more wonderful--they know his preciousness, and yet will not let him in their sin is all the greater, and yet he waits to be gracious.

5. Believers are often slothful at these trysting times, and put the Saviour away with rain excuses. (1.) The hour of daily devotion is a trysting hour with Christ, in which he seeks, and knocks, and speaks, and waits; and yet, dear believers, how often you are slothful, and make vain ex

cuses! You have something else to attend to, or you are set upon some worldly comfort, and you do not let the Saviour in. (2.) The Lord's

in us

"I have put off my coat; how shall I put it on?

I have washed my feet; how shall I defile them?," Doubtless, there are some children of God here, who did not find Christ last Sabbath-day at his table-who went away unrefreshed and uncomforted. See here the cause--it was your own slothfulness. Christ was knocking; but you would not let him in. Do not go about to blame God for it. Search your own heart, and you will find the true cause. Perhaps you came without deliberation-without self-examination and prayer-without duly stirring up faith. Perhaps you were thinking about your worldly gains and losses, and you missed the Saviour. Remember, then, the fault is yours, not Christ's. He was knocking—you would not let him in.

II. Believers in darkness cannot rest without

Christ.

In the parable we find that, when the bride found her husband was gone, she did not return to her rest. Oh, no! her soul failed for his word. She listens-she seeks she calls. She receives no answer. She asks the watchmen, but they wound her, and take away her veil; still she is not broken off from seeking. She sets the daughters of Jerusalem to seek along with her.

away

from

So is it with the believer. When the slothful believer is really awakened to feel that Christ has withdrawn himself, and is gone, he is slothful no longer. Believers remain at ease only so long as they flatter themselves that all is well; but if they are made sensible, by a fall into sin, or by a fresh discovery of the wickedness of their heart, that Christ is them, they cannot rest. The world can rest quite well, even while they know that they are not in Christ. Satan lulls them into fatal repose. Not so the believer-he cannot rest. does all he can do himself. He listens-he seeks he calls. The Bible is searched with fresh anxiety. The soul seeks and calls by prayer; yet often all in vain. He get no answer -no sense of Christ's presence. 2. He comes to ministers-God's watchmen on the walls of Zion. They deal plainly and faithfully with his backslidden soul-take away the veil, and show him his sin. The soul is thus smitten and

1. He

I SLEEP, BUT MY HEART WAKETH.

wounded, and without a covering; and yet it does not give over its search for Christ. A mere natural heart would fall away under this—not so the believer in darkness. 3. He applies to Christian friends and companions-bids them help him, and pray for him: "I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find him whom my soul loveth, tell him that I am sick of love."

Is there any of you, then, a believer in darkness, thus anxiously seeking Christ? You thought that you had really been a believer in Jesus; but you have fallen into sin and darkness, and all your evidences are overclouded. You are now anxiously seeking Christ. Your soul fails for his word. You seek-you call, even though you get no answer. You do search the Bible, even though it is without comfert to you. You do pray, though you have no comfort in prayer-no confidence that you are heard. You ask counsel of his ministers-and when they deal plainly with you, you are not offended. They wound you, and take away the veil from you. They tell you not to rely on any past experiences-that they may have been delusive-they only increase your anxiety; still you follow hard after Christ. You seek the daughters of Jerusalem-them that are the people of Christ—and you tell them to pray for you.

Is this your case? As face answers to face, so do you see your own image here? Do you feel that you cannot rest out of Christ? Then do not be too much cast down. This is no mark that you are not a believer, but the very reverse. Say:—

Why art thou cast down, O my soul?
Why art thou disquieted in me?

Still trust in God; for I shall yet praise him,

Who is the health of my countenance, and my God." III. Believers in darkness are sick of love, and full of the commendation of Christ—more than ever. In the parable, the bride told the daughters of Jerusalem that she was sick of love. This was the message she bade them carry; and when they asked her about her beloved, she gave them a rich and glowing description of his perfect beauty, ending by saying: "He is altogether lovely."

So is it with the believer in time of darkness he is "sick of love." When Christ is present to the soul, there is no feeling of sickness. Christ is the health of the countenance. When I have him full in my faith as a complete surety, a calm tranquillity is spread over the whole inner man-the pulse of the soul has a calm and easy flow-the heart rests in a

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present Saviour with a healthy, placid affection. The soul is contented with him-at rest in him: "Return unto thy rest, O my soul." There is no feeling of sickness. It is health to the bones; it is the very health of the soul to look upon him, and to love him. But when the object of affection is away, the heart turns sick. When the heart searches here and there, and cannot find the beloved object, it turns faint with longing: "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick." When the ring-dove has lost its mate, it sits lone and cheerless, and will not be comforted. When the bird that hath been robbed of its young, comes back again and again, and hovers with reluctant wing over the spot where her nest was built, she fills the grove with her plaintive melodies-she is "sick of love." These are the yearnings of nature. Such also are the yearnings of grace. When Jesus is away from the believing soul it will not be comforted. When the soul reads, and prays, and seeks, yet Jesus is not found, the heart yearns and sickens he is "sick of love." " Hope deferred maketh the heart sick."

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Did you ever feel this sickness? Did you ever feel that Christ was precious, but not present that you could not lay hold on Christ as you used to do, and yet your soul yearned after him, and would not be comforted without him? If you have-1. Remember it is a happy sickness-it is a sickness not of nature at all, but of grace. All the struggles of nature would never make you sick of love." Never may you be cured of it, except it be in the revealing of Jesus! 2. Remember it is not best to be "sick of love"-it is better to be in healthto have Christ revealed to the soul, and to love him with a free, healthy love. In heaven, the inhabitants never say they are sick. Do not rest in this sickness; press near to Jesus, to be healed. 3. Most, I fear, never felt this sickness

know nothing of what it means. Oh dear souls, remember this one thing: If you never felt this sickness of grace, it is too likely you never felt the life of grace. If you were told of a man, that he never felt any pain or uneasiness of any kind all his days, you would conclude that he must have been dead-that he never had had any life; so you, if you know nothing of the sick yearnings of the believer's heart, it is too plain that you are dead-that you never have had any life.

Last of all, the believer in darkness commends the Saviour. There is no more distinguishing mark of a true believer than this. To the unawakened there is no form nor comeliness in

Christ-no beauty that they should desire him. Even awakened souls have no true sense of Christ's perfect comeliness. If they saw how Christ answers their need, they could not be anxious. But to believers in darkness there is all comeliness in Christ-he is fairer than ever he was before. And when the sneering world, or cold-hearted brethren, ask: "What is thy beloved more than another beloved?" he delights to enumerate his perfections, his person, his offices, his everything-he delights to tell that "he is the chiefest among ten thousand"-" his mouth is most sweet"-yea," he is altogether lovely."

A word to believers in darkness. There may be some who are walking in darkness, not having any light. Be persuaded to do as the bride did -not only to seek your beloved, but to commend him, by going over his perfections.

1. Because this is the best of all ways to find him. One of the chief reasons of your darkness is your want of considering Christ. Satan urges you to think of a hundred things before he will let you think about Christ. If the eye of your faith be fully turned upon a full Christ, your darkness will be gone in an instant. "Look unto me, and be ye saved." Now, nothing so much engages your eye to look at Christ as going over his perfections to others.

2. Because you will lead others to seek him with you. Oh! dear brethren, the great reason of our having so many dark Christians now-adays is, that we have so many selfish Christians. Men live for themselves. If you would live for others, then your darkness would soon flee away. Commend Christ to others, and they will go with you. Parents, commend him to your children; children, commend him to your parents; and who knows but God may bless the word, even of a believer walking in darkness, that they shall cry out :

"Whither is thy beloved gone, O thou fairest among women? Whither is thy beloved turned aside, that we may seek him with thee?"

THE MISSIONARY LEGACY.*

In one of those lovely and fertile vales with which England abounds, and in a retired town, some years ago resided a happy and industrious pair, who, in the midst of their toils for daily bread, and their anxiety for the welfare of their

family, had not forgotten "the one thing needful." The house of God was their delight, and in his ways they had long found a solace amid all their cares, which made their daily bread sweet and their daily toils light.

* We are not aware where this remarkable narrative first

appeared. We met with it recently in a foreign journal.

In the all-wise dispensation of Providence, the excellent mother, after seeing her children grown up in life, was laid upon the bed of affliction. There she exemplified, as might have been exmission of herself and hers into the hands of pected, the power of the Gospel, in a meek subGod. But her departure was connected with

the remarkable events I am about to detail. She was ripening for glory about the time the missionary cause was first coming into notice. She had heard of the benevolent project of culed scheme of sending salvation to the those pious men who broached the then ridiHeathen; and, just before her death, she called her daughter to her bed-side, and said, with all the solemn but elevated feeling of a dying Christian: "Here are twenty pounds; I wish to give them to the missionary cause. It is my particular desire that, after my death, you give them to that cause; and, depend upon it, you will never have any reason to be sorry for having done so."

66 After my mother's death I took the money," said the daughter, "and gave it according to the dying directions of my dear parent, not thinking that ever that cause would bring compossibility of the benevolent act returning in any fort to myself." There appeared, indeed, no shape to bless the family of the liberal donor. But the daughter who had, with becoming diligence and care, fulfilled her mother's dying request, and who inherited no small portion of her mother's spirit, at length had a son, who, as he grew up, gave symptoms of a state of mind and heart as opposite to that of his mother and grandmother as can be imagined.

As this youth approached man's estate he became very profligate, and brought heartrending trouble upon his mother. It is useless to describe the pangs a godly mother feels her hope for her hoary hairs or her widowwhen her first-born, perhaps her favourite son, hood, turns out ill. This youth proved utterly unmanageable either by tenderness or autho rity. He threw off all regard for his friends

forsook them-entered into the army, and vanished altogether from their knowledge. The providence of God, however, at length led him to India. Here, after some time, he fell into the company of a missionary. The man of God dealt faithfully with the youth, who was much impressed, and could neither gainsay his convictions mastered his conscience, and nor get rid of the good man's words. At length subdued his heart. He became an altered man, and gave such evidences as satisfied the missionary that a work of grace was indeed begun.

missionaries, influenced by a truly liberal and After a prudent trial of his stedfastness, the Christian-like affection for the young man, procured his discharge from the army, and took him under their own immediate care. At length, so satisfied were they of the devoted piety, the zeal, and the talents of this young convert, that they encouraged him in the design of

THE MISSIONARY LEGACY.

dedicating his talents to the missionary work. How delightful are the fruits of that grace which subdues the heart to the obedience of faith! Even irreligious and worldly men must admire so illustrious a work-so lovely a change as that we are now describing, when, from being a vicious, abandoned profligate, a young man becomes orderly, virtuous, and religious. But how will the Christian reader triumph when he finds that the grace of God has changed this youthful warrior into a soldier of the cross, and turned him from the kingdom of darkness into that of God's dear Son!

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ready lost to her, and a second treading in his steps! O it was almost too much for nature to bear, even though it was supported and secured by grace! All that a mother could do, she did. She wept-she prayed-she entreated but all in vain. The youth was resolved, and it was hopeless to attempt to bring him to a better mind. When things were arrived at this point, she gave him up indeed as lost to herself and his family, but as still in the hands of a merciful and gracious God.

Like a mother, however, whose bowels yearned over the son of her womb, dear, though fallen, she sent him a small sum of money, with as many needful articles as she could procure, to render him comfortable, and left him to wander far from his native home, and from the peace and simplicity of his native vale. He sailedhe arrived in India, without any knowledge of what had befallen his brother, or even of what part of the world he might be in.

But to return to the narrative: As soon as an opportunity occurred, he wrote to his afflicted and bereaved mother, stating the great change that had taken place, and detailing as well the merciful dealings of the Lord with his soul as the singular alteration which had taken place in his employment. All this was accompanied with the most humiliating expressions respecting himself, and with entreaties for the forgiveness of that kind and pious mother, whose affection he had neither appreciated nor improved. Let a parent conceive the mingled emotions of joy and surprise, of rapture and astonishment, which filled the mother's heart when she received this letter-when she read her profligate son's repentance, and his prayer for her forgiveness. Forgive you, my son!" she cried out: "O how easy it is for me to forgive you!" What a moment was that!-what a gush of feeling overcame the good woman when she thought of her dying mother and the twenty pounds! It was like Joseph's being sent into Egypt to prepare corn for the famished house of his father and brethren. Here was an answer to many prayers-here was a re-afflicted mother what the Lord had wrought turn indeed, more than a hundredfold, poured immediately into her own bosom. It was the Lord's doing, and it was marvellous in her eyes.

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But we have not yet done. This good woman had a young son, who in his early life had been a child of great promise. He seemed likely to be the stay of his father's house, and the prop of his mother's age. His talents were superior; and all who knew him, and witnessed his boyish years, augured well for the future, and blessed the woman that had such a son. But the fairest flowers are often nipped in the bud, or blighted as they begin to open and show their beauty and their fragrance. Henry, for that was his name, fell by that snare which ruins so many promising youths-evil company. He became ensnared, fell into profligate habits, and resolved to go to India.

All this transpired before any information reached the family of the fate of the first son. Of course, the loss of a second, and he the | youth of fairest promise and fairest gifts, was enough to break the heart of such a mother. The announcement of his resolution to go to India was like tearing away the tenderest strings that were entwined around her heart. One al

The youth had not been long in India before he, too, was brought in contact with some of the missionaries. After a short time, the sight and conversation of these good men reminded him of scenes at home. He recollected his father's house-the Gospel-the good instruction of his mother-her prayers, and tears, and love. The seeds sprung up, though in a foreign clime, and though a long and threatening winter had passed over them. The result was a decided change of heart and conduct, upon which I need not expatiate. Soon after this change it became evident that the climate disagreed with his constitution. His health and strength rapidly declined, and it became manifest that he would never return to tell his

for his soul. In this situation he was affectionately attended by the missionaries, who did all in their power to carry forward that work of grace which was so auspiciously begun. They earnestly sought the peace of his mind and the good of his soul; and they had the unspeakable happiness of reaping a rich reward of their labour.

While this younger brother lay ill, the elder, who knew nothing of what had transpired, and who resided several hundred miles in the interior of the country, had occasion to come to the very place where his younger brother was. He did not even know that he was in India, much less that he was ill, and least of all that he had become a converted character. But a mysterious and most gracious Providence directed his steps to the very place where his brother was now dying. Having himself become a missionary, and being, of course, on terms of the strictest intimacy with the brethren at this station, it will be easily imagined that he would soon become acquainted with the case of the youth who was the daily object of attention and solicitude, and whose growing piety was to them a source of so much exalted gratification.

I need not detail his surprise at the discovery

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