Chapter III: Part 3

Surely contentment, wisdom, peace, and a sweet sense of the Saviour's presence, are rich golden grains gleaned here of that harvest of light which has been sown for the children of light, which they will enjoy in perfection when the Church, the Heavenly Bride, is raised from grace to glory! Only gleanings, indeed, yet precious gleanings, and to be gathered by those who are ready, like Ruth, to stoop, to labour, and to endure.

The foot of Pride crushes these golden grains; Humility bends down, grasps them by faith, and carries them home in her bosom. "Learn of He, for I am meek and lowly," said the Lord of the harvest; and it is for the meek and lowly that the treasures of the harvest are laid up above.

XVIII.

Job's Sackcloth.

WHAT an aching, what a bursting heart throbbed under this, the garment of sorrow chosen by him who could once say, in the sincerity of his soul, "I put on righteousness, and it clothed me: my judgment was as a robe and a diadem."

To the history of Job, God's afflicted people have constantly turned in their hours of anguish. This sackcloth has, as it were, helped to dry up the tears of thousands; for who can say, "My sorrows have been greater than those of Job!" Whose have equalled his—and yet the Lord loved him through all, and out of all delivered him. So great was the variety of the afflictions of Job, that under almost any burden that presses down the spirit, we can look to Job in his sackcloth and say, "He also was crushed by the weight of this cross."

Is poverty our trial, and poverty rendered more painful by contrast with former prosperity? On Job it came with fearful suddenness, like successive shocks of an earthquake. He had been a wealthy man. He had multitudes of camels and oxen; the valleys were whitened with the thousands of his sheep. All his property was swept away from him, he was left poor and bare upon earth. Yet could the ruined man meekly say,—

"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of
the Lord!"

Or are we weeping sorely for the loss of one who was to our eyes as the sunshine; are we in bitterness of soul because some sweet voice is silenced in our home, and there is a blank left in our aching hearts which we feel that time can never fill up? Job lost all his children at once! Those whose successive births had given him fresh joy, new precious ties to earth; those who had sported round him in childhood, and in youth received his counsels; those in whose happiness he had been happy;—all reft from him by one stroke! Not one left to soothe his anguish by sharing it! Is it not a marvel that reason endured it, that the patriarch's heart did not break indeed?

But we may lose those whom we have loved by a separation far worse than that caused by death. This was a cross which almost crushed the spirit of Job: "My friends scorn me: my kinsfolk have failed, and my familiar friends have forgotten me. My breath is strange to my wife, though I intreated for the children's sake. All my inward friends abhorred me: and they whom I loved are turned against me!" Where is the burden of family trial endured by a Christian now that can weigh in the balance against such a mountain of sorrow as this?

Is our cross that of sickness and pain? We behold Job suffering all the tortures which the malice of a fiend could inflict, stretched on the rack of most acute suffering, and that for no brief space of time: "I am made to possess months of vanity, and wearisome nights are appointed to me. When I lie down, I say, When shall I arise, and the night be gone? and I am full of tossings to and fro unto the dawning of the day. My skin is black upon me, and my bones are burned with heat."

Nor were Job's sufferings those of the body alone: his was the wounded spirit, the tormented mind, oppressed with fear, with temptation, and with mysterious terrors: "Thou scarest me with dreams, and terrifiest me through visions: so that my soul chooseth strangling, and death rather than my life. I loathe it; I would not live alway! The arrows of the Almighty are within me, the poison whereof drinketh up my spirit: the terrors of God do set themselves in array against me. Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul; which long for death, but it cometh not?" Truly the spirit of Job, as well as his tortured body, was clothed in the sackcloth of mourning!

The question naturally arises, "Why was so good a man as Job thus overwhelmed with affliction; almost, as it would seem, abandoned for a while to the malice of the Enemy? God had Himself said of Job, 'There is none like him on the earth, a perfect and an upright man.'"

It cannot be that Job was thus chastened only to show forth his patience in the sight of men and devils; great as was that patience, we know that it wavered in the trial. Nor do we suppose that Job's miseries were permitted only that he might be thoroughly humbled before God; still less that he suffered only that his history might be for the lasting instruction of the Church. All these advantages, indeed, followed; but the more we reflect on the subject, the more clearly we see that some great, personal, and lasting benefit must have accrued to Job from every pang that he endured. There was a proportion between his anguish and his subsequent joy. It is delicate ground on which we now enter: it would be a perilous error to hold that sorrow of itself sanctifies; that because a man suffers much here, he must necessarily rejoice hereafter. So is it a perilous error to hold that any good works of men's doing can ever earn Heaven.

But how clearly and forcibly the Rev. Mr. Arnot places before us the blessed effects of good works, not as a means of salvation, but as a precious evidence of grace! "As ciphers added one by one in an endless row to the 'left' hand of an unit are of no value, but on the 'right' hand rapidly multiply in power; so, although good works are of no avail to make a Christian, yet a Christian's good works are both pleasing to God and profitable to men."

So may it be with the sufferings which saints are called to endure—not self-inflicted pangs, but trials appointed by God. Numerous passages in Holy Writ lead us to such a conclusion: "Our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory."

Yes; there is a mystery in suffering which we do not fully understand, nor perhaps ever will, until suffering is exchanged for bliss everlasting. Preeminence in pain appears to be connected with preeminence in glory. What was the answer of our Lord to those who asked for the highest places in Heaven? "Ye know not what ye ask. Can ye drink of the cup that I drink of?" We cannot fathom the depth of meaning contained in the words that even He, the Captain of our salvation, was made "perfect through suffering," but we know that the cup which He drained was one of unutterable woe. The very description of the saints in bliss seems to be the fulfilment of the blessing on them that mourn: "These are they which came out of great tribulation." To them God hath appointed "beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness."

The fearful afflictions of Job remind us of the saying, that God, like a human general, gives His best soldiers the most difficult post, places them under the hottest fire. There is a striking passage in the Book of Proverbs, which, it has been observed, makes a distinction between two metals, both precious, but one of nobler nature than the other: "The fining pot is for silver, and the furnace for gold." Both are exposed to the heat of tribulation, but the furnace-glow, the hottest trial, is that which the gold undergoes. If it be indeed thus, how should long-continued prosperity exercise our humility as well as our gratitude! What the world regards as proofs of God's favour, may be rather signs of His indulgence for the weakness of His feebler saints! He keeps on easy garrison-duty those whose faith is not yet equal to the greater hardships and perils, to be followed by the greater glories, of the battlefield of life. What a high post of honour was assigned by Him to the veteran Job! We look upon his sackcloth as the warrior's uniform covered with decorations by the King of kings!

This view of the secret connection, in the case of the redeemed, between present pain and future pleasure, the "evil things" here, and the "good things" hereafter, throws some light on the otherwise almost inexplicable mystery of the sufferings of idiots and of infants. These sufferings can neither be chastenings for wilful sin nor exercises of patience, yet they are permitted by a God of love who "doth not afflict willingly." How solacing to the affection, how strengthening to the faith of parents witnessing the pangs of the innocent, to feel that, in some way that we understand not, God makes the seed sown in tears rise into the harvest of joy; that not one cry of pain from a baby's lips is uttered in vain!

Thus we may believe, dear afflicted brethren, that ye have indeed cause to rejoice in tribulation; that poverty, bereavement, depression, pain, through Him who led the way on the path of suffering, will all be found to enhance the joy and the glory of Heaven. Perhaps the depth of the pit of woe may bear some proportion to the height of the monument to God's love, for which its very mire and clay will furnish materials in a future state of bliss. Therefore sorrow not as those without hope; nay, let your hope become brighter through your very sorrow, like the rainbow on the cataract which owes its beauty to the waters which seem in their furious washings to seek to sweep it away.

XIX.

Dagon's Stump.

CONQUERORS are wont to hang up trophies of victories, the arms the standards won from the enemy; it is as such a trophy that this mutilated, unsightly idol, or rather fragment of an idol, is preserved in the Scripture collection, a witness to the power of the God of salvation, by whom at length all idols shall be utterly abolished, when the knowledge of the Lord shall cover the earth, as the waters cover the sea.

The Philistines had won a great victory at Ebenezer; their foes had fled before them: there had been a very great slaughter; thirty thousand of the warriors of Israel had fallen on that fatal day, and a terrible wail of woe had risen from the dwellings of Shiloh. The rejoicings of the victors were the more exultant from the fears which had beset them before the fight began. The worshippers of Dagon had a dread of the power of the God of the Hebrews. The Ark of the Covenant had, before the battle, been brought into the camp of Israel, and had been welcomed there as a pledge of certain victory. All Israel had shouted with a great shout, so that the earth rang again; and the sound of that exulting cheer had reached the camp of the Philistines, and spread there a feeling of foreboding and alarm. The Philistines had been afraid, and they had said, "God is come into the camp! Woe unto us! for there hath not been such a thing heretofore. Woe unto us! who shall deliver us out of the hand of these mighty Gods? Be strong, and quit yourselves like men, O ye Philistines, that ye be not servants unto the Hebrews, as they have been to you: quit yourselves like men, and fight!"

Thus with something like the courage of despair had the Philistines entered on the conflict. Victory seems to have taken them by surprise, and the more unexpected, the more welcome must it have been. Glorious tidings were borne to Askelon, loud were the rejoicings in Gath; Israel had been signally defeated, the Ark of the Lord had been taken, the Hebrew priests had fallen while vainly defending it. There was wild exultation in England after a Cressy, or an Agincourt, but there was an element in the triumph of the Philistines which was wanting to swell the joy of our ancestors; the victory of Ebenezer was not merely success in a hard-fought battle between rival hosts or races—it was deemed the triumph of Dagon, the fish-god, over the God of Israel. It was into the temple of Dagon that the Ark of the Covenant was exultingly brought, the noblest trophy of victory, a token of the conquering might of him whom the Philistines worshipped.

But God then, as ever, over-ruled the brief triumph of His enemies to His own glory. When the priests of Ashdod arose early in the morning, to their horror they beheld their idol prostrate on the earth before the Ark of the Lord. Surely this might have proved to them the folly of bowing down to that which had fallen before the symbol of God's presence. But the evident helplessness of Dagon seems to have made no change in the infatuation of his priests. They set him in his place again; he was still the god of the Philistines!

Yet more signally was the worthlessness of the idol to be proved in the sight of his priests. When they arose early on the morrow, behold, Dagon was fallen on his face to the ground before the Ark of the Lord; and the head of Dagon and both the palms of his hands were cut off upon the threshold; only the stump (or fishy part) of Dagon was left.

Here was evidence calculated to convince even the most superstitious of the folly of idolatry. The head—the supposed seat of knowledge and wisdom—was wanting; the hands—the emblems of power—were broken off. Dagon had evidently no means of helping either himself or his worshippers. Might we not have expected that conviction of the absurdity of adoring such an image would have flashed across the minds of the priests and people of Ashdod; that the temple would have rung with the shout, "The Lord, He is God! the Lord, He is God!" Nay; the idol was broken indeed, but the stump remained to be venerated still! The very threshold on which it had lain prostrate was for its sake treated with respect. The miserable relic of superstition was still spoken of as "Dagon our god!"

Such infatuation might well surprise us, did we not so frequently see its counterpart now. The human heart still sets up its idol; the young, full of hope and joy like the Philistines after their victory, pay homage to the world, and expect from it those pleasures and delights which it is ever promising to bestow. Dagon has a lofty shrine, and many bow down before it. Then comes some providential dispensation of sorrow, that opens the eyes to the fact that the world and the things of the world have no power to secure our peace. Have we not known such a moment, when Dagon is seen prostrate on earth, and we feel that he is indeed but an idol?

Happy for us if the knowledge make us turn to One who is over all, God exalted for ever!

But it is not always that sorrow and disappointment wean the soul from the world. We too often find Dagon set up again on his shrine, and as ardently worshipped as ever. Yes, even the gray-headed, the weary-hearted, who from repeated trials know the hollowness of the world and its sinful pleasures—who have, as it were, but the stump of the idol left—too often, even to the last, fondly worship that stump! The dreary lament may be heard,—

"My days are in the yellow leaf—
The flower, the fruit of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Remain alone!" *

Without one sigh of true penitence, one upward look towards Him who can give rest to the heavy-laden.

* Byron.

Our last subject of thought was sanctified sorrow, that sorrow which must be succeeded by joy as—

"Morning is ever the daughter of Night;" †

but it is well to remember that there is also a "sorrow of the world," that "worketh death." If God throw down our idols, it is not that we should raise them again and adore them all broken and mutilated as they may be.

† Tupper.

Rather be ours the prayer of the Christian poet:—

"The dearest idol I have known,
Whate'er that idol be,
Help me to tear it from Thy throne,
And worship only Thee!"

XX.

Saul's Spear.

REPEATEDLY do we read in the Bible of the javelin or spear of King Saul: it is, of course, impossible for us to know whether it is the same identical weapon that is mentioned on each occasion; we may, however, take this for granted, as the mental eye rests upon this ancient weapon, once grasped in the hand of Israel's first monarch, the unhappy Saul.

On three occasions that iron barb would have been stained with innocent blood, had not the king in his blind fury missed his aim. As David, the hero-minstrel, sat playing before the king, the evil spirit came upon Saul, and, in a sudden paroxysm of jealous hatred, he attempted to smite David to the wall. But the intended victim evaded the blow, and escaped from the fury of the king.

After this proof of the malice and hatred of Saul, it is a sign of the trustfulness of David's character that we find him again attempting to soothe with music the deep melancholy of the king. Once more David narrowly escaped with his life from the javelin, which, aimed at his body, struck the wall by which he had been placed.

Many events had occurred between Saul's two attempts upon the life of David. The son of Jesse had distinguished himself in fight against the Philistines; he had won the hand, as he had gained the affections of Michal, daughter of the king; Jonathan had by his influence induced Saul to swear that David's life should be safe in his hands; yet that javelin was again raised by the furious tyrant against his faithful subject, the beloved husband of his child.

Once more that weapon was hurled by the king, and with yet more unnatural cruelty, this time against his own son, the noble Jonathan, whose crime in the eyes of his father was fidelity to his friend. Never had Saul more cause to thank God for undeserved mercy than when he received back that javelin unstained, not wrenched from the corpse of a murdered son. It was as though the weapon refused to be the instrument of unnatural crime.

The last occasion on which we hear of the spear of Saul is one of singular interest. Before us rises the hill of Hachilah, with the dark shroud of night around it, where Saul the king and his chosen thousands lie stretched in deepest sleep. The spear of the slumbering monarch is stuck into the ground close to his pillow. We almost wonder that Saul with a conscience so stained by guilt, he being at the time actually engaged in an attempt to hunt David to the death, can sleep so soundly. He does not see the forms that have approached the spot where he lies, he does not hear the sound of their footsteps nor the stern whisper of Abishai, who stands with David beside him, "God hath delivered thine enemy into thine hand this day: now therefore let me smite him, I pray thee, with the spear even to the earth at once, and I will not smite him the second time." Saul's weapon may now be grasped by a hand that will not miss its aim, and be wielded with a deadly force that shall make no second blow needful. Surely the hour of vengeance is come! It is but just retribution that he who has thrice attempted murder with a javelin should by a javelin be smitten to the earth.

So human nature might reason, so human resentment would urge; yet David spares his enemy and reverences his king. "The Lord forbid that I should stretch forth mine hand against the Lord's anointed!" David only takes the spear and the cruse of water from the bolster of the king, and bears them away as tokens that his foe has been in his power, but that he has abstained from injuring one who has inflicted the most deadly wrongs upon him.

As forgiveness is one of the most difficult of all graces to exercise, and yet is indispensable to the Christian, it is well for us all, as in the sight of God, to search and try our hearts as regards our feelings towards those who have offered us injury or insult. We may take it for granted that no real Christian will deliberately seek revenge, and that there are few who habitually use the petition, "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us," who will actually refuse pardon if entreated.

But I fear that we shall find that when the first ebullition of anger has boiled over, and all appears quiet again, there is a residue of "malice" left behind in many a heart that is no stranger to the fear of the Lord. "I forgive, but I cannot forget," is a very common expression, and we may generally infer from it that dregs of ill-will remain, readily stirred up to embitter the spirit, and often to colour the language and conduct.

There are few who have not something to forgive, few whose comfort has not been assailed by the selfishness or envy of another. Have you, dear reader, suffered wrong? Perhaps you may reply, "grievous wrong;" but calmly weigh what you have borne from the malice of men with what David had to endure; with that spear before you as a reminder, think on what he could suffer, and yet so forgive that not only did he twice spare his enemy when in his power, but he poured forth a touching elegy to his honour, in which not one of the errors of Saul was mentioned, not one of his own wrongs recalled.

When we receive injury, it is usually in our "prospects," our "peace," or our "character;" how was it with David? The man to whom he had rendered most essential services sought to ruin him, to blacken his fame; again and again Saul attempted his life; the king drove David from his home, hunted him like a partridge on the mountains, slew those who had shown him kindness, and wounded him most cruelly in his affections by giving his wife to another! Beside such a mountain of accumulated wrongs, how small and trivial appear the injuries which we may have had to sustain! If David, who had never heard the command breathed from the lips of Him who Himself prayed for His murderers, "Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you," if David could forgive even Saul, how can any Christian make excuse for harbouring resentment against any whom he thinks have done him a wrong!

If we look beyond second causes to the one first cause, the ordering of Him who maketh all things work together for good to them that love Him, we shall see that no enemy can injure us, unless by drawing us into sin; that no wrong but will prove a blessing, save a wrong which "we will not forgive."

If our enemy seem to mar our worldly prospects, he is as the thorny hedge planted by God to keep us from wandering out of the strait path which leads through the valley of humiliation. If by a thousand petty acts of unkindness, he try our temper and mar our peace, he is the file in the hand of Him who maketh the wrath of man to praise Him; a file whose roughness is to shape, polish, and prepare the living stones for God's temple. If our enemy assail our character, then is his malice the cross which God bids us carry after the Saviour, who, though without spot or taint of sin, was accused of many things, condemned, and led forth as a malefactor.

Those who, through God's grace, can forgive freely as they themselves ask to be forgiven, will find at length that the thorny hedge will blossom into fragrance and beauty, the file prove but an instrument of good, the cross bring them more close unto Him in whose favour is life, peace, and joy!

XXI.

Jonathan's Bow.

THERE is pathetic interest in this memorial of Jonathan, prince of Israel. When the mental eye rests on the unstrung bow once grasped in his strong firm hand, we recall the touching lament of David over him who fell on the mountain of Gilboa. "How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places. I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women!"

There are few characters in the Old Testament that stand before us in more life-like reality than that of Jonathan, few that so much attract our sympathy and love. We think of him less as the hero, attacking almost alone the Philistine garrison, or falling, covered with wounds, at the fatal battle of Gilboa, as the faithful friend, in close communion with one whom he loved as his own soul. We think of him going forth into the field at Ramah with his bow in his hand, to give warning to David, then lying concealed behind the stone Ezel; sadness on the prince's brow, stern sorrow in his spirit, but unchanging love in his heart. Touching is the account of that stolen interview between the prince and his persecuted friend, when they kissed one another, and wept one with another, till David exceeded.

In the love between David and Jonathan we see an exquisite picture of what friendship should be; and as Jonathan's constancy was put to a far sharper test than that of the man whom he loved, let us for our own instruction examine a little into the leading characteristics of the friendship of the prince of Israel. There are few amongst us so desolate or so cold-hearted as not to have friendship for at least one being upon earth; let us now try its strength and its nature by comparing it with the deep, disinterested attachment of Jonathan for one who was preferred before him, one who was to supersede him, the shepherd lad who was chosen to sit upon the throne to which the king's son seemed the natural heir.

In the first place, Jonathan's friendship had a "religious basis," the only one which can ensure stability. It was when David had appeared before Saul as a conqueror through faith, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David. Theirs was peculiarly friendship "in the Lord." In the last solemn meeting which was ever to be theirs upon earth, when Jonathan by the wilderness of Ziph sought out David in the wood, he gave religious encouragement to his friend, he strengthened his hand in God.

Is not that friendship wanting in the noblest attribute of which the bonds only regard this brief state of being? Are we indeed friends to those with whom we never interchange thoughts on the highest subjects, those whom we have never made the slightest attempt to draw closer to the Lord? Affection is a most powerful lever; have we made use of it to elevate the character of those whom we love? Or do we flatter their foibles, foster their vanity, make their very affection towards us act as a clog to their souls? There are times when unselfish attachment is best seen in not only "strengthening, in the Lord," but tenderly rebuking.

"Who speaks not needed truth, lest he offend,
Hath spared himself, but sacrificed his friend."

Jonathan's friendship was perfectly "free from selfishness." Had there been in him the taint of ambition, covetousness, or envy, he would rather have been inclined, like his father, to hate than to love the young shepherd. Jonathan was of royal descent, the eldest son of a king; he must have been accustomed from youth to hear the voice of flattery, and to receive the homage of respect. Few readily part with dignity; but the son of Saul, without a murmur, apparently without a feeling of regret, yielded place to the son of Jesse.

And Jonathan was not only a prince but a hero; he had deservedly won both popularity and fame. David eclipsed him in both. In the song of the women of Israel— "Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands," there seems not to have been even an allusion to the distinguished courage of Jonathan. How a proud heart would have chafed under such neglect! What drops of bitter jealousy would have poisoned the friendship of most men in the position of the prince! Can we see a friend of lowlier birth pass before us in the race of honour without an envious pang? Are we perfectly content to let his fame eclipse our own; and do we feel nothing but pleasure in listening to praises bestowed upon him? Then is our unselfish friendship worthy indeed of the name!

Jonathan's attachment to David was "firm under difficulties." The prince had duties to balance; he had to be submissive to the father who persecuted the friend. In a very remarkable manner Jonathan combined filial respect to Saul with fidelity to David. His mild but earnest, and for awhile successful, pleading with his father, his remaining with that guilty parent even after the tyrant had attempted his life, so that in death they were not divided, are beautiful traits in the prince. Saul was a persecutor—a murderer; his conduct must have wrung the heart of his pious son; but in life, as well as in death, that son seems to have kept near to his parent, without for one moment betraying the cause of his injured friend.

And, lastly, Jonathan's friendship was "tried in trouble." He was no summer-day lover, but a "brother born for adversity," who clung the more closely to David as the tempest raged the more fiercely around him. Jonathan's was love strong as death. If our hearts be warmed with friendship, is it holy, unselfish, generous, unchanging friendship such as his?

We are inclined, with David, to mourn over Jonathan, and feel that his fate was a hard one; that he suffered for sins not his own. But let us remember that the Lord reserves for those who love Him a far brighter crown than that which Jonathan was not permitted to wear, and that it was doubtless in mercy that he was called to close on Gilboa his brief but glorious career, so that he survived not to witness the ruin of his house. *

* It is interesting to observe that while the family of Saul may be compared to a blighted tree, the branch of Jonathan in later days bloomed into vigorous life. He left, as we know, but one little lame son; yet, centuries after Jonathan's death, we find his descendants numerous. The names of twenty-five of them are given in the Book of Chronicles, and of one of these it is written, "The sons of Ulam were mighty men of valour, archers, and had many sons and sons' sons, an hundred and fifty." It is very probable that the descendants of Jonathan may be living still upon earth. Is it quite impossible that Saul, the Apostle, the most illustrious of all the tribe of Benjamin, may have been descended from another Saul through the prince whom in his warm, self-denying affection he so mush resembled?

Jonathan's bow was as a type of himself. He was not as a weapon left to hang idle in a royal armoury, he was taken into the field of strife, he was bent in the hand of the Lord; but the hand that bent supported him still; his affections were strained like the tightened cord, but they were strengthened to bear the sore strain; and the bending and the straining were but to send the arrow of his hopes above an earthly sceptre or diadem, and fix them on higher joys, a crown that fadeth not away.

XXII.

David's Harp.

IT has been beautifully observed, "In the Book of Psalms we have, if I may reverently say it, the very prayer-book of our divine Lord Himself; which He inspired, which He Himself made use of, and has bequeathed as His own book to the Church." We might also, speaking metaphorically, say,—The sacred harp on which David first played has never since been silent; as the breath of God's Spirit breathed through its chords, its music has been the joy and the comfort of the Church through all generations; its mysterious sound was heard even in the awful hours of the Crucifixion; * and never will it be silent, never will one golden string be broken, till all the redeemed of the Lord join in the chorus of Heaven.

* Compare Matt. xxvii. 46 with Ps. xxii. 1.

Let us recall some of the various periods when the now familiar psalms of David first burst from his lips as he touched his harp. The son of Jesse probably acquired his skill on the instrument by practice, as he sat watching his sheep in the pastures by Bethlehem, when he was a beautiful ruddy-checked boy. David's fleecy charge may have been his only auditors when first the sweet strain arose which has since been echoed by millions of human hearts. "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters."

But the first occasion on which we have certain knowledge of David's playing on his favourite instrument, is when his skill soothed the deep depression of the half-mad king. "David took an harp, and played with his hand: so Saul was refreshed, and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him." Gladly would we know what words were joined to the exquisite music which had such power to lighten deep gloom; perhaps no words were then heard, yet how often has a perturbed spirit been soothed by such breathings as these: "Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God."

David appears to have taken his harp with him into the gloomy recesses of Adullam, as the companion and solace of his flight; for this is the strain of his psalm "when he fled from Saul in the cave."

"Be merciful unto me, O God, be merciful unto me: for my soul trusteth in Thee: yea, in the shadow of Thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast . . . Awake up, my glory; awake, psaltery and harp: I myself will awake early."

Under very different circumstances did the monarch of Israel strike the sounding chords of his harp when the Ark of God was carried in triumph from Kirjathjearim: "And David and all Israel played before God with all their might and with singing, and with harps, and with psalteries, and with timbrels, and with cymbals, and with trumpets." Then indeed rose a sound of rejoicing. "The singers went before, and the minstrels followed after; in the midst were the damsels playing on the timbrels." According to David's own striking metaphor, he who had "lien among the pots" had become as "the wings of a dove, covered with silver, and her feathers with yellow gold;" and the harp of the king swelled the glorious chorus, "Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered: let them also that hate Him flee before Him!"

But dark shadows were to succeed the glorious sunshine. Happier was David as the fugitive in the cave than as the king in the palace. When the guilty but penitent psalmist bent over his harp, the tears of the stricken sinner, the bereaved father, may have fast dropped on its strings as he uttered the cry for pardon and grace:

"Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Thy lovingkindness: according
to the multitude of Thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions!"

Could we be permitted to possess any visible relic of King David, and to choose what that relic might be, it would not be the crown of Rabbah, that was set on his head, the weight of which was a talent of gold; it would not be even the sword of Goliath, though with David we might say of that weapon, "there is none like that;" no, surely it would be the harp of the sweet singer of Israel that we would choose as the most precious relic of him whom God's Holy Spirit inspired. But were that harp visibly before us, would it not appear almost sacrilege to lay a hand on its strings; would the mightiest or most gifted of mortals presume to waken its chords? Far, far better for us to have its divine music preserved for us in the Scriptures, where the little child can make it sound, and yet be not guilty of presumption; where it is accessible to all—to the dying pauper on her sick-bed, as well as to the crowned queen or mitred archbishop. The ragged child's Psalter is truly more precious than the identical harp of King David would be.

And we have a key to the divine harmonies of the psalms which those who first stood listening around David did not possess. The blessed name of Jesus sounds to us thrilling through all the deepest chords of his music. If the Psalmist's strain be mournful, a Saviour's sufferings are its theme. "My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken Me? . . . The assembly of the wicked have inclosed Me: they pierced My hands and My feet."

If it burst into a loud song of triumph, its keynote is still the name of our Lord. "Thy throne, O God, is for ever and ever: the sceptre of Thy kingdom is a right sceptre. Thou hast loved righteousness, and hated iniquity: wherefore God, Thy God, hath anointed Thee with the oil of gladness above Thy fellows."

It would be deeply interesting could we know how far King David himself understood the meaning of his own songs when, guided by the inspiring Spirit, he uttered dark sayings to the sound of his harp.

Let us not quit this subject without alluding to the fact that the harp is the only instrument which is mentioned in Revelation as adding to the music of Heaven. * The elders beheld by St. John around the throne of the Lamb had "every one of them harps," when "they sung a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book, and to open the seals thereof: for Thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by Thy blood out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation; and hast made us unto our God kings and priests: and we shall reign on the earth."

* The trump of God, which shall awaken the dead, cannot be spoken of
under such a term.

And again, recording his bright vision of the blessed above who bear God's name written on their foreheads, thus writes the beloved Apostle: "I heard a voice from Heaven, as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of a great thunder: and I heard the voice of harpers harping with their harps." There again, we believe, will the voice of the son of Jesse blend with the notes of a nobler instrument than that which he played upon earth; there may even we—the weak, the wayward, we whose lips have been so cold in praise and whose hearts in thanksgiving—lift up our voices with his!

"Lord, I believe Thou hast prepared,
Unworthy though I be,
For me a blood-bought, dear reward—
A golden harp for me.
'Tis strung and tuned for endless years,
And formed by grace divine,
To sound in God the Father's ears
No other name than Thine!"

XXIII.

Absalom's Hair.

IT is not without a cause that a record is preserved in those Scriptures "which are written for our learning," of the magnificent growth of Absalom's hair, which, like a golden harvest, was cut by him every year, and weighed, in the pride of his heart. It is remarkable that this very hair, this mass of rich beauty, was, through God's judgment, the instrument of Absalom's destruction.

When the prince fled on his mule before the troops of his injured father, as Absalom was passing beneath a thick oak, the branches caught his head, and suspended him between the heaven and the earth, while his mule passed on through the wood; and there in agony and terror hung the miserable sinner, unable to release himself from the fetters of his own luxuriant hair, till death came in the form of a merciless kinsman, and three darts were thrust by Joab through the heart of Absalom as he was yet alive in the midst of the oak.

There is no one in Scripture whose mortal beauty, is more vividly described than Absalom's. "In all Israel there was none to be so much praised as Absalom for his beauty: from the sole of his foot even to the crown of his head there was no blemish in him." And there are few whose characters are represented to us as so loathsome and black with sin. This suggests a natural inquiry, Was the extraordinary beauty of Absalom in any way a snare to his soul; was it a bane to him throughout his life, as well as the immediate cause of his death?

In a certain subordinate degree, perhaps, we may find that it was so. Absalom's great personal attractions probably increased the weak, doating partiality of David for his unworthy son, while they made it more easy for the prince to attain the object of his guilty ambition—"he stole the hearts of Israel."

Should we then represent beauty as a thing to be despised? Far from it. Beauty is the stamp which God hath set upon the wondrous works of His creation; deformity only entered this world with sin, and in the realms where sin is unknown, all will again be perfect beauty. Personal charms, like rank or wealth, are a talent, for they undoubtedly bestow influence; and a blessed thing is influence used for God. There is no fairer sight than that of youth and loveliness united with "the beauty of holiness," and devoted to the service of Christ.

The subject naturally opens out into that of personal appearance in general, and a little reflection upon it may not be unprofitable to those who possess few attractions, as well as those gifted with many. To appear well is a common wish, confined to neither sex, nor to any station or age. As beauty has its advantages and responsibilities, let us consider for a brief space, with Absalom's rich locks before us, what are some of the temptations to which it exposes its possessor. They seem to be chiefly these—love of dress, love of the world, love of admiration.

The first of these, "love of dress," may seem to be a folly better attacked by playful satire than by serious rebuke. It is not very often noticed from the pulpit, though it can be very little pleasure to an earnest-minded pastor to see the pews like a tulip-bed before him, where, instead of being dressed with modesty and "shamefacedness," Christian women seem to study how to evade the command to wear a covering on their heads in the house of prayer, by making that covering as slight and as fantastic as may be. Even painting the skin is not unknown amongst the women of England, though she of whom it is recorded that "she painted her face and tired her head," is assuredly one of the last whom our matrons or maidens would wish to resemble. A bold style of dress is so utterly repugnant to all our ideas of Christian devotion, that we can hardly even imagine it to have been ever worn by the holy women who ministered to our Lord.

The sums of money lavished on dress (nor is the reproach confined to the weaker sex) is also a disgrace to Christian profession in a land where poverty abounds. I have heard that a lady (I am glad to say not British) boasted that she spent a thousand a year on dress. She would hardly have uttered that boast had she realized that upon her at that moment was resting the eye of Him who said to the rich young ruler, "Sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven."

It is, indeed, impossible to fix a rule as to how much it is lawful to spend upon dress, as the amount must necessarily vary according to means and station in life; it would be well, however, to determine never to spend money on any mere ornament of the person, without giving at least an equal sum to purchase plain articles of clothing for the poor, to be bestowed "personally." Were this simple plan adopted, one may safely aver that the flannel and serge would be found to bring far more pleasure than the jewel, the lace, or the plume; and luxuries would be gradually relinquished, and that with no feeling of regret, for the richer luxury of clothing the shivering forms of the poor.

"Love of the world" is another evil to which those are peculiarly exposed whose attractions dispose the world to love them. To them there is an added gloss to pleasure; scenes of amusement are brightened by the ready welcome which they ever receive there. The ornaments of society need even more than others to watch and pray lest they enter into temptation, and to seek that grace which alone can keep them "unspotted from the world."

For the "love of admiration" is in many minds not unlike the feverish craving for intoxicating liquor which possesses the habitual drunkard. Eager is the longing for the sweet poison of flattery, the excitement caused by a sense of power over human hearts. And this leads to very serious evil. I am not referring only to the dark descent to actual vice, to which, in thousands of cases, the love of admiration has led; but would earnestly protest against that common effect of it which makes trifling with the happiness of others the favourite amusement of the vain of both sexes, under the name of flirting. One who would not willingly set foot on a worm will often feel actual pleasure in inflicting the keenest pangs. Selfish vanity must be gratified at any cost to others, ungenerous as it is to desire to engross affection which cannot be returned. The man who prides himself on being a "lady-killer," or the beauty who complacently counts up the number of her "conquests," is making an unworthy and sinful use of the endowments of nature. I might quote to such the homely advice of the great Marquis of Montrose,—

"Let no one to more love pretend
Than he has hearts in store;
True love begun should never end—
Love one, and love no more."

But I would rather take higher ground. This pride of beauty, this selfishness of vanity, is "utterly inconsistent" with a Christian character; it is incompatible with the adoption of that spirit of Christ without which we "are none of His." God's people are called to glorify Him in their bodies as well as their souls; and where the beauty which He has bestowed becomes a cause of vanity, selfishness, and folly, its possessor may one day have reason to regret not having been a cretin or a dwarf.

There are two special antidotes to the spiritual poison which is constantly offered to those in whom the world delights. The first is a realization of the transitory nature of that beauty which passes away like a flower; the second is meditation on that beauty which will abide for ever. One great poet has, as it were, written the first on a skull; he preaches his sermon in the churchyard. But it is more pleasant, and at least as profitable, to turn our thoughts from the dust "sown in dishonour" to what it shall be when "raised in glory." We cannot but think that outward beauty will then correspond with that which before was inward; that they who have borne most of the Saviour's image in their hearts will bear most of that image visibly when we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.

Oh, what marvellous changes will appear on the day of the resurrection! The wrinkled face, the decrepit form, the blemish, and the deformity, will then, in God's saints, be exchanged for the brilliancy of immortal beauty, beyond what thought can conceive! But how then will an Absalom appear? Let Nature's favoured ones turn from the looking-glass to God's Word, and test by that mirror of truth both what they are and what they are likely to be; whether their goodliness be but as "the flower of grass which passeth away," or be the faint, dim type of that beauty with which God will clothe His redeemed, who, though now in the world, and perhaps admired and sought after there, are yet (like their Master) "not of the world," nor look for their happiness in its vain pleasures or empty applause.

XXIV.

Seed Corn from Barzillai's Gift.

TWICE is the aged Barzillai brought before us in Scripture. On the first occasion, when David, fleeing from his unnatural son, had with his faithful followers crossed over Jordan, the Gileadite, himself too old to join in the approaching conflict, brought valuable help to those who were to bear the burden and heat of the day.

Let us notice the minuteness with which every article of the old man's gift is noted down in the Word of God, not even the homeliest omitted. "Barzillai the Gileadite of Rogelim brought beds, and basons, and earthen vessels, and wheat, and barley, and flour, and parched corn, and beans, and lentiles, and parched pulse, and honey, and butter, and sheep, and cheese of kine, for David, and for the people that were with him, to eat: for they said, The people is hungry, and weary, and thirsty, in the wilderness." Considerate kindness was shown; the mind of the old man had revolved what would be most needed, and therefore most welcome; his was a freewill offering, a timely offering, gladly accepted, and afterwards royally requited.

Again old Barzillai comes before us in Scripture, but not this time as bringing aid to a fugitive, but as welcoming a king at the head of victorious forces. David was returning to reign when the venerable Gileadite went over Jordan with the king. Then were the old man's loyal services acknowledged and richly rewarded; his was the kiss, and the blessing, and the promise, "Whatsoever thou shalt require of me, that will I do for thee." That was a day of honour and of rejoicing to the faithful Barzillai when his royal master returned in peace to his own.

A few thoughts are suggested to the mind by the parallel between the position of David's followers in their time of need, and that of Christ's soldiers now struggling in warfare against the powers of evil, especially as regards missionaries in heathen lands. This is a time when many of the followers of our heavenly King are called, as it were, into the wilderness. The missionary quits home and country, and goes forth to do battle with idolatry in the dark places of the earth. We read of the brave devotion of Ittai, who, when David would have dismissed him from sharing his perils, exclaimed, "As the Lord liveth, and as my lord the king liveth, in what place my lord the king shall be, whether in death or life, there will thy servant be!" and we feel that such is the spirit which should animate the Christian missionary. But we need our Barzillais also, to strengthen the hands of those whose perils and hardships they are unable to share.