if asked they must own, they cannot help owning, that whatever that favour of God may be, they have no right to it--that so far, at least, punishment must and would be just.

Once more then let us ask what that punishment would involve.

It has been brought forward as an illustration against the arguments of those who would look upon God only as a God of benevolence, without the will or the power to inflict punishment, that we bear about with us an apparatus of torture, in the very delicacy and sensitiveness of the net-work of our nerves; and whether the illustration is admitted or not, it is certain that, in like manner, we bear about with us, even now, the apparatus for our eternal punishment.

We cannot see it, we seldom feel it, except when at times some touch awakens a keenness of anguish, which warns us, quickly though it may pass, of what hereafter we may be capable of enduring. The dreary desolation of heart which succeeds some act of wilful sin, the blank dread which accompanies the awakening of conscience, are followed now, either by the recklessness which drowns anguish in false mirth, or by the penitence which finds consolation at the foot of the Saviour's Cross. But there is no such mirth beyond the grave; and the consolation of the Cross of Christ will cease with the sorrow and the sin of a guilty world. The desolation then felt, will be felt for ever; the dread then awakened will never sleep again.

It cannot! The power of regaining the favour of God, when it has been lost, belongs exclusively to a state of probation; and probation ceases with time. Argue therefore as we may, upon the extent of the punishment we have deserved, there is a suffering, which, by the universal consent of reasoning beings, is inseparably connected with sin, and in itself involves the misery of hell.

The just reward of our deeds! May God save us from it; for we know not what it is!

But perhaps we have been saved from the worst agonies of a guilty conscience; perhaps we have been so shielded, watched, guided, that our path, from our baptism onwards, has ever been brightened (though too often the brightness may have been clouded), with the smile of our Redeemer's Love. Then, if we would know what the suffering of that great loss, that eternal privation must be, let us think what we should feel, if we were told that the smile of God's approval would never again be ours; that His Face was turned away from us; that our loving Saviour would never again listen to us; that the Blessed Spirit would never again soothe us; that we might cry, but none would answer; that we might weep, but none would comfort us; that we might knock at the gates of Glory, but they would for ever be closed against us; that we might gaze wistfully, longingly, and catch the echoes of the angels' songs of welcome, and see the white robes of the Redeemed, as they passed onwards in the hour of their triumph; but that no

step would pause, and no eye turn to look upon us; that our name was lost to the memories of Heaven, and-what more should we need to tell us that our life from thenceforth must be-Hell?

That we ourselves own to be a just and inevitable punishment for the least of our wilful and unpardoned sins. When God tells us of the many stripes reserved for those which are the greatest, who can dare do aught, but bow himself to the dust in awe, praying that, for Christ's sake, he may be spared.

May we indeed be enabled so to pray, when the terrors of such possibilities appal us; for so may we be comforted by the hope that the punishment we thus dread may never be inflicted,-that the favour we thus fear to lose may never be taken away from us!

REST.

ST. LUKE, Xxiii. 42, 43.

"And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom. And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be with me in Paradise."

THAT prayer and its acceptance make our hearts thrill, even in our coldest moments, with longings for the same assurance. Rest and safety! and with Him! It seems there could be nothing more to wish for; seems only, for doubtless there would be, since progression is one of the great laws of our being; and glory is promised for the completion of happiness; but in our present state of imperfection, the thought of glory is inseparably connected with the thought of temptation; and with temptation, how can there be rest? The Joy which we scarcely dare allow our thoughts to dwell upon now, because the overpowering rush of delight must be followed by the crushing sense of shame, scarcely comes to us as an object of desire. What we seek is quietness, freedom from danger; and only when

we have become accustomed to that can we look

forward to the rapturous bliss which " eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive."

But, fully to appreciate the rest of Paradise, we must understand and realise the unrest of earth; and this, perhaps, is what few do. The uneasiness which we bear about with us, is to our hearts what the weight of the atmosphere is to our bodies. It meets us on all sides with a pressure so equal that we are not conscious of it, except by its unexpected increase or diminution. This is especially the case with the unrest occasioned by the necessity of watching against sin. When we are struggling against some particular temptation, we feel keenly the burden and weariness of the watch which we are required to keep; but we are not aware that, if we are at all living in the consciousness of duty and responsibility, we are keeping that watch continually. It has become habitual to us, even like the care which we exercise in our common actions. If we could remove ourselves from earth, and look down, merely as ignorant spectators, upon its inhabitants, one of the most surprising facts that could meet our view would be the unconcern with which men act and move in the midst of innumerable dangers, and the amount of enjoyment they extract from an existence which, at any moment, may be cut short by some fatal accident. It would appear like the indifference of fools; but the truth is, that we, whose actions are carried on, seemingly, without a thought of fear, are really living in incessant watchfulness.