perceive it stealing over us, awake our consciences if we have not sought light in Christ.

We say to the child, when in its trembling terror it clings to us, that there is no fear, because its mother is near to guard it. If we are wise, we say also, that even were that presence removed, there is another and a higher Protection which can never be taken from it. We tell of the loving Eye of God, and the ceaseless watch of the holy angels; and, comforted by our words, the child turns again to rest, for darkness has lost its terror, and in dreams it thinks of the morning.

And the rest of the grave, the quiet sinking to sleep in love, the bright dreams of the glorious awakening, shall they not be ours also, if, in the hour of our great darkness, we can repeat the child's lesson, and exercise the child's faith?

We rehearse that last trial many many times during the course even of a short life. We watch the stealing onwards of night at the close of every day; we lay ourselves down to rest, conscious that light has fled, and that we have passed into a world "lying in darkness." Perhaps, for a moment, we feel awestruck, but our wearied eyes close in forgetfulness, and the lesson which God would teach us is lost. What if every night-nay, more, if every evening of our lives, as light vanishes and shadows gather around us-we were to force ourselves to read the types presented to us! What if we realised to ourselves that darkness was the image of death, and that death without Christ would be darkness.

for ever! Would it terrify us—would it sadden us- - would it render existence so solemn that we should be unfitted for its duties? We may think so, but it can scarcely be a right thought; else wherefore has God given to darkness, which is the type of death, and, therefore, necessarily awful, so great a dominion over the earth? Why do we not live in continued light-why, at least, are not the days always long, and the nights always short? Why is it necessary that even what we call light should be, in itself, only a lesser darkness?

May it not be, because darkness-terrible in itself,-may, if we will, be converted into a great blessing; because it teaches us more than light; because it appeals more to our sense of helplessness, and speaks to us more powerfully in its stern warnings. What man would have been without darkness, who can venture to imagine? how proud, how self-reliant, how wanting in faith, and trust, and gratitude? What we ourselves should pray to be with it, the Spirit of God will teach us as we think of the darkness which shrouded the dying agony of Christ, and the confidence with which He commended His Soul to God.

"Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of His servant, that walketh in darkness, and hath no light? let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon His God.

297

FAITH.

ST. LUKE, Xxiii. 46.

"And when Jesus had cried with a loud voice, He said, Father, into Thy hands I commend My spirit; and having said thus, He gave up the ghost."

MORE unspeakably soothing are these words than even the blessed promise of Paradise; more so because they tell not of rest after conflict, which, perhaps, we can scarcely picture to ourselves, but of rest in the midst of conflict, which is what at this moment all who are striving to serve God must more or less be yearning after. One of the sternest lessons to be learnt at the outset of our Christian life is the necessity of continual exertion. Το labour, however vigorously, for a while, and then to cease, seems within our power; but to labour till death, is a prospect at which the heart, aware of its own weakness, must always tremble. Many there are who can never bring themselves to the state of steadfast resolution which such a necessity demands; whose Christian life is always beginning, and whose whole course is in consequence a succession of feeble and, too frequently, unsuccessful

struggles; whilst the progress which they may be really making is hidden from them by the consciousness of the infirmity of their will. To such persons religion, with all its blessedness, must be, in a measure, dreary, because it is infinitely disappointing; and so, also, is it dreary to those who imagine that they can find in their own strength— the firmness of their own purpose-that witness of a good conscience without which there is no peace. The strength of the strongest resolution, the firmness of the most earnest purpose, what is it? Pray, strive, watch, we may, indeed; yet must there be still the frequently recurring sense of defeat, the perpetual falling short in our duty, and the ceaseless battle with self. How we bear it as we do we may well marvel! God's Spirit, doubtless, supports even those who are labouring with imperfect views of their true position, with efforts misdirected, though earnest; but notwithstanding the support given us, we can never know the repose of Trust, until the thought present to our Redeemer, when sinking under the weary anguish of the Cross, comes to us also in the weariness of our daily conflict with sin.

"Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit." What we give to God He will assuredly keep, and what He keeps must be in safety. There is no rest for the soul except in this confidence. The strictest watchfulness, the most unwearied exertion, can only bring out more clearly to view the need for increased repentance, and renewed care, until the

helplessness of human nature sinks overwhelmed by such a prospect. But to commend our souls to Christ, whether we call the act Faith, or Trust, is to turn aside from all this anxiety, and to seek for repose where only it can be found,―apart from ourselves.

The feeling need not necessarily be accompanied by any crushing sense of guilt, though it will be generally connected with the perception of infirmity and danger. At times even physical weakness will cause the same burden of anxiety to fall upon us, bringing with it the same craving for repose; and we are not called upon to examine whence it comes. The prayer of trust, which gives us rest, gives us at the same time the consciousness that we are not wilful self-deceivers, and, therefore, without a claim to it. No one can calmly and steadfastly commend his soul to Christ's keeping who does not at the moment-whatever may be his usual infirmity of will -fully desire to serve Christ. The faith which gives itself to God is inseparable from the loving gratitude which can only be satisfied with striving to please Him. The child who looks up to its mother before closing its eyes in sleep, and with an earnest truthfulness commends itself to her care, cannot have the heart of an alien; if it had, it could not trust; and if aware of any hidden fault, any cloud which had arisen to shut out love, it could not rest until the fault had been acknowledged and the resotion of amendment made. It is, indeed, quite possible to deceive ourselves on this point. Nothing is