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 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 My Aspirations. 
 
 18th Thousand. Is. 
 Forming a Volume of the "Heart Chords" 
 
 Sekiks. 
 
 Cassell &, Company, Limited, Ludgate Hill, 
 London. 
 
 .sc^ar? 
 
Searchings in the Silence 
 
 A SERIES OF 
 
 devotional flDe&itations 
 
 REV. GEORGE MATHESON, M.A, D.D., F.R.S.E. 
 
 MINISTER OF THE PARISH OF ST. BERNARD'S, EDINBURGH 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 l My Aspirations," "Can the Old Faith Live with the New?" "Moments on the 
 Mount," dtc. 
 
 CASSELL and COMPANY, Limited 
 
 LONDON, PARIS $• MELBOURNE 
 1894 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 By the title " Searchings in the Silence " I 
 have meant to express the fact that these brief 
 meditations are designed for the stray moments 
 of solitude in which the heart looks in upon itself. 
 No attempt has been made either at uniformity 
 of size or uniformity of manner. I have tried 
 to strike chords of experience, as many and as 
 varied as I have felt within myself. The little 
 book has had long and earnest study. I would 
 like it to be devotional, not by the absence of 
 thought, but by the flashing of suggestion. I 
 would like it to be some small help, not only to 
 the toilers on life's beaten way, but, if possible, 
 even to one or two of that large class who require 
 to preach on the Sundays. If these endeavours 
 have proved a failure, the only excuse which can 
 be pleaded is that the strength of the arm has 
 not been equal to the height of the aim. 
 
 G. M. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 paok 
 I. Morning Sacrifices . . . . . .11 
 
 II. The Illumination of Death . . . . 13 
 
 III. The Last Survivals of Grief . . . .16 
 
 IV. Revelation by Shadow 18 
 
 V. The Impossible Consequence of a Denied Future 20 
 
 VI. Permanent Elation 22 
 
 VII. Nameless Lives 24 
 
 VIII. The Disguise of Christ 26 
 
 IX. The Kindness of Love 28 
 
 X. Ties for the Solitary 30 
 
 XL The Light of Life 32 
 
 XII. A Prayer for Christ 34 
 
 XIII. The Crown Before the Cross . . . 37 
 
 XIV. The Voice of God's Silence .... 39 
 XV. The Education for Prayer . . . . 41 
 
 XVI. The Burden of Love . . . . . .43 
 
 XVII. How to Search for Truth .... 4o 
 
 XVIII. The Power of Prophecy 47 
 
 XIX. The Comfort of Judgment .... 50 
 
 XX. The Safeguard of Joy 52 
 
-iii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XXI. The Concealment of Sorrow ... 54 
 
 XXII. Work in Grief 56 
 
 XXIII. The Retarding of God 58 
 
 XXIV. Foresight of Possibilities .... 60 
 XXV. The Impersonality of Love .... 62 
 
 XXVI. The Argument from the Heart . . .65 
 
 XXVII. The Hopefulness of St. Paul ... 07 
 
 XXVIII. Tiie Will for the Deed 70 
 
 XXIX. The God of Jacob 72 
 
 XXX. The Wants of Man 75 
 
 XXXI. The Crucifixion of the Cross . . . 77 
 
 XXXII. Seeking the Highest 80 
 
 XXXIII. Christ's Sympathy with Man ... 82 
 
 XXXIV. Asking in Christ's Name 85 
 
 XXXV. Charity for Surmounted Things ... 88 
 
 XXXVI. The Accompaniment of Prayer ... 90 
 
 XXXVII. The Practicalness of Christ's Cross . . 93 
 
 XXXVIII. Revelation Before Death .... 96 
 
 XXXIX Religious Investments 99 
 
 XL. Unconscious Gifts . . . . . .101 
 
 XLI. Incompleteness without Christ . . 103 
 
 XLII. Perfection not Destructive of Desire . .105 
 XLIII. The Struggling Conscience . . . . 108 
 
 XLIV. The Temptation to Silence Conscience . .110 
 XLV. The Enlargement of the Soul . 113 
 
 XLVI. Why God Hides Himself 115 
 
 XLVII. Man Revealed to Himself . . 118 
 
 XLVIII. Provision in Advance 120 
 
COXTENTS. ix 
 
 PACK 
 
 XLIX. Instinctive Christians 123 
 
 L. The Retrieving of Yesterday .... 125 
 
 LT. The Blessing of Conflict .... 128 
 
 LIT. The Power of Prospect 130 
 
 LIII. The Power of God's Presence . . 132 
 LIV. Looking Through the Crystal . .134 
 
 LY. Light in Christ 137 
 
 LYI. God's Sight of Our Beginnings .139 
 
 LYII. Childhood at the Last 141 
 
 LYIII. God in the \Yorld 144 
 
 LIX. The Sin-Bearer 14G 
 
 LX. God's Architectural Plan .... 149 
 
 LXI. Doubt 151 
 
 LXII. Christ's Love of Life ..... 153 
 
 LXIII. Enrichment by Christ's Poverty . . 156 
 
 LXIY. The Spiritual in the Earthly . . 15S 
 
 LXY. The Strength Beyond Xature . . . 1G0 
 
 LXYI. The Finality of Christ 162 
 
 LXYII. The Humility of Greatness . . . 165 
 
 LXYIII. Christian Union 167 
 
 LXIX. The Blemishes Revealed by Light . 169 
 
 LXX. A Prayer for Enemies 172 
 
 LXXI. The Flower Below the Thorn . . . 174 
 LXXII. The Cosmetic for the Soul . . .176 
 
 LXXIII. Christ in Everything ..... 179 
 
 LXXIY. The Gain of Loss 181 
 
 LXXY. The Answer to Prayer . . . . 184 
 LXXYI. The Enforced Reign of Christ . .187 
 
x CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 LXXVII. Exaltation and Revelation . . . . 189 
 
 LXXVIIL Thanksgiving 192 
 
 LXXIX. The Highest Type of Beauty . . . 195 
 LXXX. Love "Without Dissimulation . . . .197 
 
 LXXXI. Liberty in Christ 200 
 
 LXXXII. The Condition of Beholding . . . .203 
 
 LXXXIII. The Entrance into the City . . . 205 
 
 LXXXIV. The Ripest Communion 208 
 
 LXXXV. The Prefaration of Man's Dwelling -Place 210 
 
 LXXX VI. God's "Work and Man's Work . . . 213 
 
 LXXXVII. Kindness to Animals 215 
 
 LXXXVIIL The Order of Ltfe 218 
 
 LXXXIX. Reverence for the Past 220 
 
 XC. Retrospect and Forecast .... 223 
 
 XCI. The Thought for the Act .... 226 
 
 XCTI. The Comfort of Christ's Experience . . 229 
 
 XCIII. The World's Salutation to Christianity . 232 
 
 XCIV. The Approach of Xicodemus. . . . 235 
 
 XCV. The Later Glory 238 
 
SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 A SERIES OF 
 
 DEVOTIONAL MEDITATIONS. 
 
 Morning Sacrifices. 
 
 Psalm v. 3 v. 
 
 " My voice shalt Thou hear in the morning, Lord ; 
 in the morning will I direct my prayer unto Thee ; and 
 will look up." 
 
 Why "look up"? Is it expectancy — the 
 lifting of the eyes in the hope of an answer? 
 I do not think so. I think it is the looking 
 up not in expectation but in pride — that 
 noble pride which a holy man may feel. 
 The Psalmist says that when he prays he can 
 pray with unabashed countenance — with eyes 
 looking right into the face of God. He has 
 nothing to be ashamed of. He may not gain 
 
12 SEARGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 his desire, but he need not blush for it. And 
 why has he no cause to blush? Because his 
 prayer is offered "in the morning." It is not 
 wrung out by the exigencies of the day. It 
 does not come from the burden and the heat. 
 It is not wakened by the cares of the world. 
 It is not a cry called forth by personal pain. 
 It comes from the heart as yet unburdened, 
 from the spirit as yet free. It mounts by the 
 wings of praise ; it soars in the flight of song. 
 It has not been taught to fly ; it flies by in- 
 stinct. It turns to the Father as the magnet 
 turns to the pole — not by compulsion but by 
 attraction. It comes before the clouds come, 
 ere ever there is felt a drop of rain. Only 
 the offering of life's morning can say, " I will 
 direct my prayer unto Thee'' 
 
 Oh, Thou whose name is love, it is in the 
 offering of love that Thou rejoicest. There is 
 no sacrifice to Thee like the morning sacrifice. 
 Thou lovest it best because it is the least sacri- 
 ficial. It is dearest to Thy heart because it is 
 most spontaneous to mine. Thou desirest not 
 sacrifice, oh, my Father. My voice is never so 
 sweet to Thee as when it comes from where the 
 birds sing. The cry of the weary is open to 
 
THE ILLUMINATION OF DEATH. 13 
 
 Thee, but it is not precious to Thee. The 
 prayers of evening can wake Thy j^ity, but only 
 the prayers of morning can stir Thy joy. Be 
 mine the voice Thou shalt hear in the morning. 
 Many voices cry to Thee from the dusk ; let 
 mine be from the dawn. Let me bring Thee my 
 springtime, my freshness, my glory. Let me 
 bring Thee my heart undimmed, my life un- 
 weighted. Let me bring Thee a desire for 
 communion that is born not of fear, but of love. 
 Let me pluck for Thee the rose that has not 
 drooped beneath the shower. If my voice 
 shall be heard in the morning, I can lift up 
 my head with joy. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Illumination of Death. 
 
 Matthew iv. 16 v. 
 
 " To them which sat in the region and shadow of death 
 light is sprung up." 
 
 What a strange antithesis ! — " to them which 
 sat in death light is sprung up." We should 
 have expected " life is sprung up." Is not life 
 
14 SEABGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 the natural contrast to death ? Is there any 
 cure for death but to abolish it ? Yes, there is 
 another cure — to throw light upon it. What 
 makes death horrible is its darkness. It is not 
 a thing which I know to be bad ; it is a thing 
 of which by nature I know nothing. What I 
 want is light. It may be that when the light 
 comes, I shall find that death needs no trans- 
 forming. It may be, the sunshine will reveal it 
 to be already a form of life. I want the 
 sunshine ; I want something to see by, some- 
 thing to judge by, something to read by. I do 
 not ask that the valley should be made a 
 mountain ; I want light in the valley. Who 
 can tell but under the shadows of night there 
 may rest treasures 'of purest gold. Who can tell 
 that the valley is not richer than the mountain, 
 if only the morning were here to disclose its 
 gems. Truly it was a wonderful insight that 
 made the prophet say, "to them that sat in 
 death light is sprung up." 
 
 Oh, Thou who hast made all things new by 
 Thy rising sun, I understand death in Thee. I 
 have called it the great eclipse — and so it is ; 
 but it is the eclipse by Thee. It is Thy 
 shadow passing between me and the earth. 
 
THE ILLUMINATION OF DEATH. 15 
 
 Never art Thou so little eclipsed as then. Thou 
 shuttest all the doors that I may speak to Thee 
 alone. Thou drawest the curtains of the eye, 
 Thou hushest the songs of the ear, Thou closest 
 the gates of the past, that I may be alone with 
 Thee. I do not see any change in the shadow, 
 but I have found a new cause for the shadow. 
 I used to think it was an eclipse of life — an 
 eclipse of Thee. I thought it was the earth 
 putting out the heaven ; I see now it was the 
 heaven putting out the earth. It is not new 
 life but new light that has come. Life was 
 always in the valley, but I mistook its shadow. 
 Thou art the shadow of death, oh, my Father ; 
 Thou art the veil of the temple, Thou art the 
 cloud on the mercy- seat, Thou art the darkness 
 on the cross. I shall not fear any longer to sit 
 in the region of blinding death, since I know 
 that I am blinded by the light above the 
 brightness of the sun. 
 
16 
 
 III 
 
 The Last Survivals of Grief. 
 
 Revelation vii. 17 v. 
 
 " The Lamb shall lead them unto living fountains of 
 waters ; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." 
 
 What need that God should wipe away the 
 tears when the Lamb has led to the living 
 waters ? Would not joy follow as a matter of 
 course ? If my hunger and thirst have been 
 taken away, if my eyes have already rested on 
 the sparkling fountains, surely God need not 
 interpose to dry my tears ; will not Nature 
 do that ? No. You do not bring back my 
 first joy by restoring my first surroundings. 
 Grief itself robs me of something ; it breaks 
 the elastic spring. The child cries after it 
 has ceased to be hurt. The hurt has put it 
 in the valley, and the painlessness cannot at 
 once lift it to the mountain. Some one must 
 put right the spring, must restore the capacity 
 for joy. The fountains in vain will sparkle 
 if the heart has lost its shining. 
 
 My God, set right the broken spring ; all 
 
THE LAST SURVIVALS OF GRIEF. 17 
 
 my springs are in Thee. Eestore to me the 
 joy of Thy salvation. Thon hast brought me 
 to Calvary ; bring me to Olivet. Thou hast 
 given me back my freedom, give me back my 
 wings. The fountains are nothing without the 
 sense of morning; send me Thy bright and 
 morning star. Forbid the clouds to return to 
 me after the rain is gone. Give me once 
 more not only the old trees of the garden, 
 but the old birds that sang in them. Plant 
 my Eden again in the East — the place of the 
 rising sun. Take away the weariness, the 
 jadedness, the fadedness, that follows the hour 
 of struggle. Heal the shrinking of the sinew 
 that succeeds to the angel's blessing. Remove 
 the paralysis that lingers after the sorrow 
 itself has fled. When I stand beside the 
 fountains of living water, do Thou wipe away 
 past tears from my eyes. 
 
18 
 
 IY. 
 
 Revelation by Shadow. 
 
 Leviticus xvi. 2 v. 
 "I will appear in the cloud upon the mercy-seat." 
 
 Appear in a cloud ! I thought a cloud was 
 the place for disappearance ; I thought it was 
 a thing which hid. Yes, in eveiy sphere hut 
 one — the message of mercy. But the pardon 
 of my Grod comes to me through pain. I 
 never know He is near to me till I feel that 
 He is far away. I never go up to my house 
 justified till I heat upon my breast and say 
 " unclean." My sky of conscience does not 
 besrin to clear till its cloud comes ; its birds 
 can only sing in the groaning of my spirit. 
 It is only when the wind and sea are raging 
 round my ship that I know the feet of Christ 
 to be on the waters ; the storm of my heart 
 is wakened by the wings of angels. There is 
 no darkness on the face of my deep till God 
 has created the heavens and the earth. 
 
 My soul, art thou trembling under thy 
 cloud ? Art thou disturbed by the jarring 
 
REVELATION BY SHADOW. 19 
 
 chords within thee ? Thou neecl'st not be. 
 Whence hast thou ] earned the jarring ? It 
 can only be from music. Thou hast heard 
 afar off the melodies of Heaven, or thou 
 would'st not quarrel with the sounds of earth. 
 Thou hast gazed on the pure fountains of 
 living water, or thou would'st not murmur at 
 the stagnant pools. Thou has seen the face 
 of the King in His beauty, or thou would'st 
 not shrink from the slave in his deformity. 
 It is thy transfiguration that has made thy 
 cloud. Thy gloom is the child of thy glory, 
 and the shadow that obscures thee is thy Grod 
 passing by. Oh ! mist, clearer than the sun- 
 shine ; oh ! storm, gentler than the lullaby ; 
 oh ! pain, sweeter than earthly joy — my 
 Father's face appears in thee. 
 
 b2 
 
20 
 
 V. 
 
 The Impossible Consequence of 
 a Denied Future. 
 
 1 Corinthians xv. 13 v. 
 
 " But if there be no resurrection of the dead, then is 
 Christ not risen." 
 
 " If there be no immortality Christ is dead — 
 the purest, the fairest, the loveliest life that 
 ever breathed has become less than the napkin, 
 less than the grave-clothes, less than the 
 sepulchre." It is to Paul an impossible con- 
 sequence. He cannot think of Christ as dead. 
 He says " If Christ be dead, death must be 
 a delusion." Did you never feel this ex- 
 perience ? You parted with a friend an hour 
 ago, and the next hour you heard that he was 
 dead ; you said " impossible ! " And when it 
 was confirmed, you said again " impossible ! 
 If he be dead, then death is not to die. I 
 must have misnamed it, misread it, mistaken 
 the inscription on its doorway. Death hence- 
 forth is a gate of life to me." 
 
 Son of Man, whenever I doubt of life, I 
 
OF A DENIED FUTURE. 21 
 
 think of Thee. Nothing is so impossible as 
 that Thou shouldst be dead. I can imagine 
 the hills to dissolve in vapour, and the stars 
 to melt in smoke, and the rivers to empty 
 themselves in sheer exhaustion ; but I feel 
 no limit in Thee. Thou never growest old 
 to me. Last century is old, last year is old, 
 last season is an obsolete fashion ; but Thou 
 art not obsolete. Thou art abreast of all the 
 centuries, nay, Thou goest before them like the 
 star. I have never come up with Thee, modern 
 as I am. Thy picture is at home in every 
 land. A thousand have fallen at its side, but 
 it has kept its bloom ; old Jerusalem, old 
 Rome, new Borne- — it has been young amid 
 them all. Therefore, when oppressed by the 
 sight of death, I shall turn to Thee. I shall 
 see my immortality in Thee. I shall read 
 the possibilities of my soul in Thee. I shall 
 measure the promise of my manhood by Thee. 
 I shall comfort myself by the impossible 
 conclusion " If there be no immortalit}^, Christ 
 is dead." 
 
22 
 
 VI 
 
 Permanent Elation. 
 
 Psalm xxviii. 9 v. 
 " Lift them up for ever." 
 
 What a bold aspiration ! To have a perpetual 
 How of spirits, to be ever in the air, always 
 on the wing, invariably above the common 
 plain — surely it is the wildest dream ! Can any 
 man reach it? Has not Peter to dismount 
 from his air-built tabernacle, and Paul from 
 his height in the third heaven? I never get 
 my exaltation without getting my thorn. Every 
 mile I soar above the plain is paid for with 
 depression. Even where I gain the goal, the 
 goal itself becomes common-place. The star 
 falls from heaven when I touch it ; the manna 
 of wonder ceases, and I eat the old corn of 
 the land. I am the child of reaction ; how dare 
 I ask to be lifted up for ever ? 
 
 Be still, my soul ; thou hast mistaken the 
 message of thy Father. He does not wish 
 to lift thee above the plain ; He wants to 
 lift the plain itself. He would uplift thee as 
 
PERMANENT ELATION. 23 
 
 the Son of Man was lifted up — through the 
 Cross. The joy He seeks for thee is the joy 
 of thy Lord. It is not the elevation of thy 
 heart above its cares ; it is the elevation of 
 the cares themselves. He does not promise 
 to arrest depression, but He promises that 
 depression shall not arrest thee. He asks thee 
 to believe that even when under the cloud 
 thou art moving still, moving upward, moving 
 onward. " He giveth to His beloved in their 
 sleep " — in their very moments of reaction. 
 The heart cannot beat without its intervening 
 pauses. Th}^ pauses are thy Father's mile- 
 stones, oh my soul. They are the times when 
 thou hast ceased to gird thyself, and art carried 
 on a bed ; but thou art carried none the less, 
 and carried up the hill. And when thou shalt 
 awake from thy faintness, it shall not be in 
 the spot where thou hast lain down. The 
 moments of seeming waste shall have borne 
 thee leagues aloft. Thou shalt trace thy pro- 
 gress in the tracks thou hast left behind. 
 Thou shalt look out upon the pathway with 
 surprise, and say, " I have been lifted up for 
 ever." 
 
24 
 VII. 
 
 Nameless Lives. 
 
 Acts iii 2 v. 
 
 " And a certain lame man was carried, whom tliey laid 
 daily at the gate of the temple called Beautiful." 
 
 Who carried him? We cannot tell. Peter and 
 John found him at the beautiful gate of the 
 temple, and healed him there. But the main 
 actors of the drama were the men who brought 
 him to the gate, and these are nameless ; they 
 are known only to God. Is it not ever so ? 
 Have we not all been carried to the gate of our 
 destinjr by obscure hands ? When we pass 
 through the portals of beauty, do we remember 
 our indebtedness to the unknown ? Do we re- 
 member the modest lives that, like the angels 
 of Jacob, blessed us and refused to give their 
 names ? Do we remember the mothers that 
 planned for us, and the sisters that spun 
 for us, and the strangers by the wayside that 
 lent us a helping hand ? How often do I 
 read, "And they brought him to Jesus.'' 
 Who are "they"? It is known only to God. 
 
NAMELESS LIVES. 25 
 
 They left no personal record ; they planted 
 their flowers and ran away. But the eye of 
 the Master has followed them, and they shall 
 not escape fame ; they have a record in the 
 Book of Life. 
 
 Son of Man, gate of all beautiful temples, 
 help me to remember those that carried me to 
 Thee. They sank beneath their burden and 
 made no sign ; they passed and left no monu- 
 ment ; but they opened for me the gate called 
 Beautiful, and I have entered in. The world 
 thinks I have carved my own destiny because 
 my helps are in the mist ; but they are all seen, 
 all sent, by Thee. Forbid that I should be 
 proud of having reached the gate called Beauti- 
 ful. Let me build on its threshold to the 
 memory of the dead. Let me build to the 
 voices long silent that have led me on. Let me 
 build to the chords of unrecorded hearts. Let 
 me build to the speechless prayers, the unuttered 
 yearnings, the lonely vigils, of hidden lives. Let 
 me build to the unspoken influences that drew 
 my eyes to the morning, and beckoned me up 
 with their song. Thou hast touched my lame- 
 ness, and set me free ; but the couch that bore 
 my impotence yet lingers at the gate, and, if it 
 
26 SEAECHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 would be to me the ivory gate and golden, the 
 relic of my past must enter in. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Disguise of Christ. 
 
 Matthew ix. 30 v. 
 
 " And their eyes were opened ; and Jesus straitly 
 charged them, saying, See that no man know it." 
 
 Why conceal the miraculous cure ? Because He 
 wanted to be loved, not for His wealth, but for 
 His soul. It is one thing to reveal my wealth 
 after you have loved me ; it is another to tell it 
 beforehand. If you want to prove your boy's 
 love of poetry, don't begin by saying, " this was 
 written by Tennyson." Authority would compel 
 admiration. Conceal the authority ; hide the 
 name ; cut out the title-page ; present the poem 
 as the work of an unnamed hand. And, if the 
 young eye shall kindle spontaneously, if the 
 young heart shall say, " whoever he be, this is a 
 master mind," the altar of art shall be glorified. 
 The Son of Man fears to be first known as the 
 Son of God. He is afraid you judge the work 
 
THE DISGUISE OF CHRIST. 27 
 
 by its title-page — accept thp rhythm for the sake 
 of the ring. Therefore, He veils Himself ; He 
 enters into a cloud ; He puts on the disguise of 
 a servant ; He works wonders by stealth ; He 
 flies from fame ; He buries underground the 
 trophies of His glory. He wants me to love 
 Him for Himself — through the mean apparel, 
 through the human weakness, through the com- 
 mon pain. He wants me to find His pearl in 
 the dust, His beauty in the manger, His crown 
 in the cross. He wants me to see Him by His 
 own light — spirit light, soul light. He meets 
 with me on the road to Emmaus, and talks with 
 me, and makes my heart burn ; but He tells me 
 not at first that His name is Jesus. Perhaps I 
 call Him by other names — nature, art, science, 
 culture, humanity. Be it so ; mine eyes are 
 holden by His hand. He covers my face, that I 
 may not see His glory. He makes me love Him 
 in disguise. He veils His coronet, that I may 
 come to His inner beauty. Oh blest disguise ! 
 Oh glorious veil ! Oh revealing silence ! My 
 heart finds itself in thee. It has loved a captive, 
 and he is found to be a king ; it has adored a 
 manger, and it proves to be a palace. I bless His 
 mightv name that He won my love unknown. 
 
IX. 
 
 The Kindness of Love, 
 
 1 Corinthians xiii. 4 v. 
 " Love is kind." 
 
 What a small thing to say as an introduction to 
 the praise of love ! It is like saying that a 
 great soldier has conquered a mile of ground. 
 Love is so high, and kindness so homely ; love, 
 so much in the heavens, and kindness so near 
 the earth. Yes ; but the lowliest things are the 
 hardest to illuminate. The triumph of the sun 
 light is the kindling of the vale. Even so is the 
 triumph of love. It leaps from the mountains 
 to the valleys, and in the valleys it is perfected. 
 Love's morning is in great things, but its 
 evening is in the trifles of life. It rises by 
 shedding its blood, but it culminates by dif- 
 fusing its kindness. It learns in its dawn how 
 to die, but its fulness tells it how to live. 
 Kindness is the latest flower of love ; it is self- 
 surrender in small things. It is the last rose of 
 the heart's summer. It is love playing on the 
 
THE KINDNESS OF LOVE. 29 
 
 surfaces of life, gilding their very trifles with its 
 glory. It is love become habitual, become 
 chronic, become spontaneous — love running over 
 the borders and making beauty on the dusty 
 way. The keeper of the garden may smile 
 when he can say "love is kind." 
 
 Thou Christ of Calvary, give me Thy latest 
 flower. Give me the bloom that runs over the 
 border. Give me the unconscious power of 
 making glad. I have read that after the box 
 was broken its fragrance filled the house. The 
 brokenness was love's morning, but the fragrance 
 was its evening gold. The brokenness was for 
 Thee : the fragrance was for all. I have lonsf had 
 the brokenness, but I have not yet come to the 
 fragrance. My pride has been shattered like the 
 alabaster fragments, and I have lain prostrate 
 at Thy feet ; but Martha's part must come after 
 Mary's. Help me into helpfulness ; tend me 
 into tenderness ; kindle me into kindness. Give 
 me the over-flowing cup — the cup that carries 
 more than myself can hold. Give me the 
 branches running over the wall — making beauti- 
 ful the hard places. Give me the miDistrant 
 hand for Cana, and the beneficent feet for 
 Galilee. Lend me the healing touch which men 
 
30 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 call tact, which Thou callest contact — the 
 power to cure the wound without pressing on 
 the sore. Thou shalt perfect Thy loving kind- 
 ness when Thou hast made my love kind. 
 
 Ties for the Solitary. 
 
 Psalm lxviii. 6 v. 
 "God settetli the solitary in families." 
 
 There are some lives to whom the nuptial torch 
 is denied. They form no family ties, and, as 
 the ties into which they were born are 
 dissolved, one fears that they will be alone. 
 They need not be. " Grod setteth the solitary 
 in families." Eeligion supplies the place of 
 marriage. Often have I thought of these words 
 of the Master, " Whosoever shall do the will of 
 My Father, which is in heaven, the same is My 
 brother, and sister, and mother." The soul 
 surrendered to God is brother, sister, mother, to 
 the race of Man. Who, think you, of merely 
 human birth, had the widest heart for earthly 
 ties ? Was it not the solitary man of Tarsus ? 
 
TIES FOR THE SOLITARY. 31 
 
 Who speaks of the family like him ? Who 
 legislates for the household like him ? Who 
 feels for the bereaved like him ? And why ? 
 Because they who are united to Christ are 
 wedded also to humanity. They have the ring 
 and the robe. They have the bridal garment. 
 They have the marriage supper of the Lamb. 
 They have the cares of all households, the 
 weight of all children, the guidance of all youth, 
 the help of all manhood, the support of all age. 
 It is a crowded life to be married like the angels. 
 Oh Thou who hast consecrated not only the 
 nuptial torch but the want of it, make room for 
 the solitary lives. Make straight not in the 
 desert, but on the highway, a path for those 
 who walk alone. Invite the virgin souls of 
 earth to the marriage supper of the Lamb. 
 Kindle the paternal instinct in the heart that is 
 no father. Light the family altar in the home 
 that has no ties. Fill with the voices of the 
 multitude the spaces left vacant by the brethren. 
 Eeplenish the isles with Thy fulness — the fulness 
 of human sympathy. Give a crowded interest 
 to spirits outside the crowd. Bring the vision 
 of the city into the silence of the garden. Put 
 the burden of all souls on the life that has 
 
32 SEAUGHING8 IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 no burden. Lay the debt of humanity on those 
 who know not lesser bonds. The isles wait for 
 Thee to make them vocal. When Thou hast 
 set the solitary in families there shall be no 
 more sea. 
 
 XL 
 The Light of Life. 
 
 Psalm xxxvi. 9 v. 
 
 " With Thee is the fountain of life : in Thy light shall 
 we see light." 
 
 Do you know the connection between the 
 fulness of life and the vision of brightness ? 
 Do you know what it is to have a joy from sheer 
 vitality, to be glad from the very vigour of your 
 strength ? It is something like the peace that 
 passeth understanding ; it makes one unaccount- 
 ably happy, unreasonably comfortable. Many a 
 time we laugh when by the standard of the world 
 we ought to cry. The life can often see what 
 the eye cannot see — hope. It is hard to make 
 youth feel impossibility. You may prove to 
 the eye a thousand times that there is no abate- 
 ment of the flood ; but the heart of vigorous life 
 
THE LIGHT OF LIFE. 33 
 
 shall catch sight of Ararat. The dove of the 
 spirit brings its olive-branch ere the ark of the 
 flesh has descried land. Hundreds walk by the 
 light of life who would fall by the light of facts. 
 The still, small voice of health within outweighs 
 all the testimony of the thunder and the earth- 
 quake and the fire. In vain shall the tempest 
 cry to my soul, " Flee as a bird to thy mountain," 
 if my soul has said to itself: " Peace, be still." 
 
 Son of Man, it is " more life and fuller " that 
 I want from Thee — not more gardens, not more 
 sunbeams, not more beauties, but more life. 
 When my life is low, I see nothing fair ; Eden 
 becomes Gethsemane. My voice Thou canst hear 
 in the morning, because in the morning my life 
 is fullest. But at mid-day, when the inner sun 
 declines, the gates of the New Jerusalem ope for 
 me in vain ; I pass the pearls unseen, I tread the 
 diamonds unknown. Nothing but blood can save 
 me from blindness ; transfuse Thy blood into my 
 soul. Grive me more nerve, more sinew, more 
 strength. I ask not new sight ; I ask new power 
 of seeing. The wood is there, and the ram for 
 the offering is there, if only the inner burning 
 were there. I need no better revelation ; I want 
 Thy saving health. I want to count the unnoted 
 
34 SEARCHING^ IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 sunbeams, to mark the unnumbered wells, to 
 record the unacknowledged joys. I want, like 
 Elijah, to see the seven thousand in the place 
 where I thought myself alone, to behold the 
 chariots and horsemen where I knew only the 
 valley of the shadow. There shall be a new 
 heaven and a new earth for me when I have 
 received the light of life. 
 
 XII. 
 
 A Prayer for Christ. 
 
 Luke xxiv. 29 v. 
 
 " Abide with us ; for it is toward evening and the day 
 is far spent." 
 
 We often use the words as a cry for help in 
 darkness ; and the}' wonderfully express our 
 need. Yet, I think, to the men who first uttered 
 them, they were a prayer for Chrisfs benefit. 
 These men had already reached home ; but Christ 
 seemed to be travelling still. They were sorry 
 for Him. The night was dark and the way was 
 long, and they asked Him to come in and rest. 
 Is that a less beautiful prayer? It is ten times 
 
A PRAYER FOR CHRIST. 35 
 
 more beautiful. To ask my own relief from 
 shadow is human ; hut to ask Christ's relief from 
 shadow is divine. To hid Him shelter me is the 
 cry of my nature ; but the offer to shelter Him 
 is the voice of God's nature. The climax of all 
 prayer is prayer for the journey of Jesus. 
 Solicitude for Him, anxiety for Him, desire for 
 the welfare of Him — this is the summer of 
 supplication. Impotence becomes godlike, help- 
 lessness grows heavenly, the bended knee sujiports 
 the sceptred hand, when I ask " for Jesus' 
 sake." 
 
 Oh, Thou, who art still unsheltered in the 
 night of time, abide with me. Come into my 
 poor heart and rest awhile. The wind is cold, 
 and the shades are deep, and the road reveals no 
 end; abide this night with me. In the days of 
 old, didst Thou not strengthen Thyself with love? 
 Didst Thou not climb the lonely height to catch 
 the glimpse of a Father's smile ? And shall a 
 brother's smile be powerless ? Are there no 
 heights in my heart where Thou canst still 
 repose ? My heart burns as Thou talkest ; come 
 and warm Thyself at its lire. Too long have I 
 been content to ask from Thee ; I have learned 
 to ask /or Thee. I have learned to say before all 
 c 2 
 
36 SEARCHING*? IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 things, " Hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom 
 come, Thy will be done in earth as it is in 
 heaven." I would smooth Thy path amid the 
 shadows. I would light Thy way through the 
 gloom. I would ring bells of sympathy across 
 the snow. Above all, I would meet Thee for one 
 hour alone — one hour beneath my roof, one hour 
 within my soul. I would tell Thee before going 
 forth that I at least am with Thee. I would 
 speak a word from my heart into Thy heart, to 
 let Thee feel that it beats with Thine. I would 
 give Thee what strength the little can lend to 
 the great — the response of a kindred spirit, the 
 Amen of a common prayer. Abide with me over 
 this ni^ht. 
 
37 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The Crown before the Cross. 
 
 Hebrews ii. 9 v. 
 
 " For the suffering of death crowned with glory and 
 honour." 
 
 What a proud provision for so mean an end ! 
 A life crowned for death — surely it is a wasteful 
 thing ! If you knew that your flower must die 
 ere it could reach its summer bloom, would you 
 rear it with a special care ? If jou knew that 
 the ship would go down in mid-ocean, would 
 you labour to load it with a freight of precious 
 gold ? No, but this is not a flower ; this is not 
 a ship ; it is a human soul. The things of 
 nature must weed their thorns to get their 
 crown ; but the things of grace get their crown 
 to meet the thorns. The flowers of the soul are 
 planted for the winter. The songs of the night 
 are sent for the night, and they are sent before- 
 hand. God loads with the most precious gold 
 the ship in greatest danger. He sends beauty 
 before the blast, to allay the keenness of the 
 blast. Thy Father seeks not thy pain ; He 
 
38 SEARCHIXGS IN THE SILEXCE. 
 
 would have sacrifice transmuted into joy. He 
 would warm thee so for the journey as to make 
 thee impervious to cold. He would give thee, 
 ere starting, such a draught of love as should 
 keep thee unsubdued amid the arid sands. The 
 man who would be beautiful in death, must first 
 ascend the summit of Xebo ; the crown must 
 precede the cross. 
 
 Thou upon whose head were many crowns, 
 give me the crown that came before Thy cross. 
 Send me the flower that preceded Thy thorn 
 and made Thy thorn so bearable. I would 
 rather be crowned with glory before the cross, 
 than after it has passed away. It is much to 
 escape, but it is more to conquer; it is good to 
 have joy on Olivet, but it is better to have peace 
 on Calvary. Ennoble me for the hour of 
 sacrifice. Crown me for the altar of duty. 
 Beautify me for the steps of the Dolorous Way. 
 Take me up to Thy transfigured mount ere I 
 suffer, and bathe me in its light unspeakable. 
 Let me sit down at the Passover feast ere I taste 
 the Passover sorrow. Anoint me with the oil of 
 love for every burial of my earthly joy. My 
 cross shall become my crown when Thy crown 
 has preceded my cross. 
 
XIV. 
 
 The Voice of God's Silence. 
 
 Luke ix. 36 v. 
 "And when the voice was past, Jesus was found alone." 
 
 There is a revelation in the silence. There are 
 times when the voice of God dies upon the 
 height, and there is no testimony from the 
 mountain. We call, but it answers not; we 
 question, but there is no reply. Yet there is a 
 substitute ; the voice of God is followed by the 
 form of man. I come down from the Divine 
 speculation to the human sympathy. God hides 
 himself that I may see my brother. It is a 
 glorious descent. On the top of the mountain 
 earth seems very small. Its crosses dwindle in 
 the light of eternity. I am in danger of becom- 
 ing unsympathetic to common pain. The cries 
 of the weary are lost in the songs of the 
 redeemed. Therefore, betimes my Father comes 
 to me in a chariot of silence. He veils Himself 
 from my sight. He shuts the doors of the 
 upper sanctuary. He throws a cloud over the 
 former glorv. He forces me to look down 
 
40 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 instead of up. He leads me from the crown to 
 the cross — from the opened heaven to the im- 
 prisoned earth. He shows me Jesus alone — 
 without His retinue, without His pomp, without 
 His kingdom — sinking with pale visage under 
 the weight of human woe. The silence of God 
 reveals Man. 
 
 Thou who art beating in vain against the 
 problems of eternity, turn aside and be free. 
 God's silence is a voice. It forbids thee to stand 
 gazing up into heaven. It tells thee that life 
 is not ripe for the tabernacle on the hill. It 
 calls thee back from the mountain to the 
 plain — from the Divine search to the human 
 pity. It puts the veil of Moses on thy nice ; it 
 teaches thee meekness by the absence of vision. 
 Obey the silence of God. Go down to the 
 Son of Man amid the darkened heavens. Go 
 down to watch with Him in His hour of humili- 
 ation. Go down to accompany Him in the 
 agony of man for man. There shall be no loss 
 to thee in the stilling of the Father's voice, if 
 only thereby thou shalt find " Jesus alone." 
 
41 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Education for Prayer. 
 
 Luke xi. 1 v. 
 " One of His disciples said, Lord teach us to pray." 
 
 You say, " It must have been a very primitive 
 disciple." I do not think so ; I think it 
 must have been St. John. It is, no doubt, a 
 very easy thing to cry, but it is specially 
 difficult to cry for the right thing. No man 
 needs to say, " teach me to pray " ; we have all 
 an eye to our own interests. But every man 
 needs to say " teach us to pray." What is it 
 that he asks in such a request? It is the 
 abandonment of his whole nature. He says : 
 Teach me to wish nobly, to wish unselfishly, to 
 wish in harmony with others. Teach me to 
 weigh beforehand the force of my own petition. 
 Teach me to ponder whether my personal boon 
 will be the universal joy. What if my desire 
 should be a missile thrown at the common good ! 
 What if the overstrained note of my heart 
 should break the melody of the universe ! What 
 if my prayer should destroy the symmetry of the 
 
42 SEARCHWGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 house not made with hands ! It is an awful 
 tli ought and I tremble before it. I dare not 
 ask for anything until I have learned to ask in 
 unison. I dare not strike the note till my 
 brother has given me the key. Until I have 
 been taught to love, I have not been taught 
 to pray. 
 
 Love on, then, oh my soul. Prayer is no 
 lesson for the beginner ; it is for the last year. 
 It is thy mark for the highest prize. Before it 
 can be reached by thee, thou must love all 
 beautiful things — the hallowed name, the coming 
 Kingdom, the accepted will, the brother's bread, 
 the forgiven debt, the redeemed evil. Prayers 
 are wishes on the wing, and the wish is more 
 than the wing. ]S r ot the eagle's pinion, but the 
 eagle's eye, is what thy Father prizes — not thy 
 rise to God, but what thou seest in God. It is 
 easy to fly, but it is hard to fly together. Thou 
 must wait for the summer, oh my soul ; let not 
 your flight of prayer be in the winter of self- 
 love. Wait for the sight of the common good. 
 Wait for the sense of a universal care. Wait for 
 the impulse of a united life. Wait for the love 
 of the loveless, and the sigh for the sighing, and 
 the pity for the pitiless. Wait till thou hast 
 
THE BURDEN OF LOVE. 43 
 
 entered into the joy, into the pain, of thy Lord. 
 In the June of thy spirit thou shalt be taught 
 to pray. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The Burden of Love. 
 
 Acts viii. 17 v. 
 
 "Then they laid their hands on them, and they received 
 the Holy Ghost." 
 
 " They laid their hands on them " : there is 
 a burden imposed in the imparting of every 
 gift. Each ray of light leaves me less free. 
 I have to pay for my increase of wealth by 
 an increase of weigh tedness. The child is more 
 joyous than the man, as man counts joy. 
 The burdens of love are more numerous than 
 the burdens of law. Love brings me a chain, 
 albeit it is a golden one. She binds me not 
 only about the feet of God, but about the 
 feet of man. I cannot keep my lightness of 
 heart in the presence of love. The heart which 
 is full is not light ; it reserves its music and 
 dancing for the prodigal's return. My hour 
 of revelation is ever my hour of pressure ; T 
 
44 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 receive Grod's Spirit by the laying - on of 
 human hands. 
 
 Son of Man, I accept the price of Thy 
 revelation ; I accept the penalty of love. It 
 was Thine own penalty ; love laid on Thee 
 the iniquities of us all. Hadst Thou been 
 less loving, Thou wouldst have suffered less. 
 Had Thy Father not delighted in Thee, He 
 would have delivered Thee ; truly Thy cross 
 was Thy crown. If I love like Thee, I must 
 pay for my love like Thee. I must "pay for it 
 with heavy-ladenness — with receiving on my 
 head the hands of the multitude. I must be 
 ordained to my ministry, to Thy ministry, by 
 having laid on me the weight of other lives. 
 I wait for Thy ordination. I know its begin- 
 ning is in pain, but its ending is in peace ; 
 the pressure of myriad hands feels at last like 
 the lighting of the dove. Therefore without 
 murmur I lay down the price of loving. I pay 
 the wages of the heart — the penalty of devo- 
 tion. I bow my head to the burden of human 
 care. I would not be compelled to bear Thy 
 cross ; I would take it freely, I would choose 
 it in love. Let me join the procession along 
 the Dolorous Way. Let me get a corner to 
 
HOW TO SEARCH FOB TRUTH. 45 
 
 cany of Thy mighty load. Let me follow, 
 however far off, up the steep of Calvary. 
 Let me, at however remote a distance, be a 
 spectator of Thy passion hour. When the 
 multitude have laid their hands upon me, the 
 day of crucifixion shall be the day of love. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 How to Search for Truth. 
 
 1 John i. 5 v. 
 " God is light." 
 
 Light; what is it? It is not something to 
 search for; it is something to search by. No 
 man by searching can find out God ; but, if 
 he take God without searching, he will find 
 everything else. My evidence for God is what 
 He shews me. I must have a torch to begin 
 with. The room is dark and I have lost 
 something — the key to my own nature. I 
 cannot find it till I have struck a light. 
 There must be light in my hand before I come 
 in — light on the threshold, light at the very 
 door. My progress must not be from the 
 
46 8EAR0HMG8 IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 dark into the clear but from the clear into the 
 dark I mast take the wings @f the morning 
 ere I set out on my pilgrimage. It is one 
 thing to travel to the uttermost parts of the 
 sea in search of morning ; it is another thing 
 to go there on the wings of morning. If there 
 is light beforehand, it will reflect itself upon 
 the sea. The children of the day are those 
 who meet the day before the night. God is 
 His own interpreter ; in God's light shall we 
 see light. 
 
 My Father, come to me in life's dawn. 
 Help me to find the lost key. All things 
 without Thee are mystery, nay, they are im- 
 possible ; how shall they prove Thee when 
 Thou art needed to prove tit em ? The manger 
 will not lead me to the star; but the star 
 can lead me to the manger. If Thou art 
 love, then, Thy best gift must be sacrifice; 
 in that light let me search Thy world. It 
 has pains wrapt up in every pleasure, and 
 who shall explain them ? Onty Thyself — the 
 Spirit of sacrificial love. AVe make all things 
 in our own image, and Thou hast made the 
 world in Thine. It is not faultlessly fair ; 
 but its spots are from the plan of the Artist. 
 
THE POWER OF PROPHECY. 47 
 
 Let me see the Artist ere I gaze on the 
 picture. Be Thou Thyself my light into every 
 darkness. Go before me into Galilee. Illu- 
 minate the mystery of sorrow. Vindicate the 
 rights of pain. Reveal to me that Elijah's 
 chariot must be a fire-chariot. Teach me that 
 the Cross is Divine. Show me that the valley 
 of the shadow belongs to the paths of righteous- 
 ness. Meet me at the tabernacle door ere I 
 begin the sacrifice. I shall go to life's altar 
 with exceeding joy when Thou shalt send forth 
 Thy light. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The Power of Prophecy. 
 
 Proverbs xxix. 18 v. 
 " Where there is no vision the people perish." 
 
 The greatest help to goodness is a bright 
 prospect. The prayer we are all breathing is 
 " Give us this day our bread for to-morrow. " 
 We make the child good by promises of the 
 coming gold; but we are all children. The 
 darkest eclipse to any soul is the eclipse of 
 the approaching sun. I can stand every present 
 
4- SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 cloud, if only there is a rent prophetic of the 
 blue ; but, where there is no prophecy, I go 
 down the hill. Often have I thought of these 
 words of the Master, c< TVhile the bridegroom 
 tarried they all slumbered and slept." The 
 danger to us all is commonplaceness — the sense 
 that nothing is coming. The midnight cry is 
 not half so dangerous ; it wakes the pulses of 
 life. But, to hear no voice at all is an awful 
 thing. I would rather have the flood without 
 the rainbow than the dry land without the 
 rainbow. The flood has always its ark ; it 
 braces me for flight, it teaches me to soar. 
 But the level plain with no height to come, 
 the endless road with no goal to gain, the 
 changeless day with no morn to rise — this is 
 my soul's despair. 
 
 M} T Father, open to me the windows of 
 that great deep — to-morrow. Lend me a ray 
 of the future to light me through the present. 
 I have been told that Thou hast given earth 
 to prepare for heaven ; nay, Thou hast given 
 heaven to prepare fur earth. I have been 
 inverting the order of Thy benefits, oh, my 
 Father. I have been asking the passing hour to 
 make me ripe for eternity ; it is the vision of 
 
THE POWER OF PROPHECY. 49 
 
 eternity that must ripen me for the passing 
 hour. I cannot live a day without Thy morrow; 
 it is from the hills that my aid cometh. I 
 never move freely on the lower plain till I 
 have seen the higher. I need Thy rainbow 
 for the workshop and for the plough. It is 
 when I dream of Thee that I am most practical ; 
 it is when I cease to dream of Thee that my 
 task is badly done. Send Thy dream into my 
 day. Send Thy vision of beauty into the 
 workshop of Nazareth. Send Thy light of 
 Bethlehem into the shepherd's fold. Send Thy 
 transfigured glory into the building of my 
 human tabernacles. Let me sweep my earthly 
 room by the light of Thy morning star ; I 
 have no patience for man without the vision 
 of Thee. 
 
50 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The Comfort of Judgment. 
 
 1 Peter iv. 17 v. 
 
 "For the time is come that judgment must begin at 
 the house of God." 
 
 There was a time when men thought very dif- 
 ferently. It was once believed that evil fell 
 most heavily on the wrong-doer. That was 
 because the Pure Soul had not yet appeared. 
 When the Pure Soul appeared there came a new 
 revealing ; the penalties of life passed me by 
 and fell on Him. And, ever since, to those that 
 bear His spirit it has been the same. The 
 thunderbolts of God strike loudest on the good. 
 Conscience makes not cowards of us all ; it 
 makes cowards of the whitest. I have read that 
 the dead in Christ rise first to judgment. Why 
 not? The pure mirror is most dimmed by the 
 breath. The good ear is most jarred by the 
 discord. The keen eye is most sensitive to 
 the cloud. The men on the left have no fear 
 of judgment — " When saw we Thee hungry 
 and did not minister unto Thee?" The men 
 
THE COMFORT OF JUDGMENT. 51 
 
 on the right have no salve for a wounded con- 
 science — "When saw we Thee athirst and gave 
 Thee drink? " Only Christ's Spirit can convince 
 of sin. 
 
 My Father, is the picture of my life worth 
 Thy criticism ? Thy criticism is my conscience. 
 Do I say " the picture is beautiful " ? Then I 
 am no artist, no member of Thy house, Thy 
 royal academy. All membership there begins 
 with judgment. I search my soul for the com- 
 fort of pain — the pain of self-condemnation. 
 How shall I find it ? Who shall create within 
 me the beginning of the art of love? What 
 shall waken me into discontent with my own 
 picture ? One thing alone, my rather. Let me 
 gaze on a perfect model. Bring me into Thy 
 house but for an hour, and point me to the por- 
 trait of Jesus. Let me look at the matchless 
 beauty, at the stainless purity, at the spotless 
 splendour of the humanly divine. Let me see 
 the strength in gentleness, the courage in tender- 
 ness, the charity in righteousness, that has left 
 its impress here. Let me catch a glimpse of the 
 love undying in death, unsinking in the sea, 
 unconquered in the cross. Then shall I fall 
 prostrate before Thy judgment seat. Then shall 
 d 2 
 
52 SEABGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 my complacency be consumed like filthy rags. 
 I shall call to the rocks to hide me, and to the 
 mountains to cover me from the sight of my own 
 picture. And in the cry I shall find peace — the 
 artist's peace. I shall know by contempt of self 
 that my eyes have rested on the perfect beauty. 
 I shall tell, by the shadow of judgment, that 
 within Thy house I have seen the dawn. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The Safeguard of Joy. 
 
 Luke ii. 10 v. 
 
 " Fear not : for, behold, I bring you good tidings of 
 great joy which shall be to all people." 
 
 " Good tidings to you which shall be to all." I 
 would fear very much if they were only for me. 
 I would rather have a solitary grief than a 
 solitary joy, oh! my Father. If I must be im- 
 prisoned within myself, let it not be by the 
 gates of pearl and gold. My chariot of fire 
 would burn me if I ascended alone. How could 
 I tell my joy to my brother if it were not a 
 universal joy ? I can tell my grief to the glad, 
 but not my gladness to the grieving. I dare 
 
THE [SAFEGUARD OF JOY. 53 
 
 not spread my banquet at the open window, 
 where the hungry are passing by. Therefore, 
 oh ! my Father, I rejoice that Thou hast sent 
 into my heart a ray of glory which is not alone 
 for me. I rejoice that Thou hast given me a 
 treasure which I need not hide from my brother. 
 I rejoice that the light which sparkles in my 
 pool is not from the candle, but from the moon. 
 The candle is for me, but the moon is for all. 
 Put out my candle, oh ! my Father. Extin- 
 guish the joy that is proud of being unshared. 
 Lower the lamp which shines only on my own 
 mirror. Let down the lights that make a wall 
 between myself and the weary. And over the 
 darkness let there rise the star — Bethlehem's 
 star, humanity's star, the star that shines for 
 one because it shines for all. Let me say : 
 " How glad the shepherds will be, how glad the 
 sages will be, how glad the manger will be ! " 
 When I see the common star I shall rejoice 
 with exceeding great joy. 
 
54 
 
 XXL 
 
 The Concealment of Sorrow. 
 
 Matthew vi. 17, 18 v. 
 
 " But thou, when thou fastest, anoint thine head, and 
 wash thy face ; that thou appear not unto men to fast, but 
 unto thy Father which is in secret." 
 
 There are times when grief itself must be sacri- 
 ficial — self-concealing. There are seasons in 
 which sorrow has to put on the appearance of 
 brightness. And there is no burden in the 
 world equal to that. It is hard enough to 
 suffer ; it is harder still to hide suffering ; but it 
 is hardest of all to simulate joy in suffering. 
 To have a smile on the face when there is a 
 tear in the heart, to have a ripple in the voice 
 where there is a deadness in the soul — it re- 
 quires the highest love. It is something to 
 comfort one who is bearing a burden un- 
 shared by you ; but to comfort one when you 
 bear the same burden — this is divine. To 
 conceal the breaking of your own heart lest 
 another's heart should break, to keep up 
 under a load lest a brother should be borne 
 
THE CONCEALMENT OF SORROW. 55 
 
 down, to anoint the face in sorrow that a 
 comrade in pain may be relieved — it is to wear 
 the smile of God. 
 
 My Father, glorify me with that smile. I 
 am bearing one cross with my brother; let me 
 help him to bear. Let me appear not unto 
 men to fast. Let me give a semblance of light- 
 ness to the load. Let me bury my sorrow from 
 the eye that has a common ground for tears. 
 Let me bring grapes of Eshcol, even from the 
 scenes of terror; let me carry the olive-branch 
 from the very waters of the flood. Ere I go 
 out to my afflicted brother I would wash my 
 tears in the fountain of Thy love ; I would lay 
 them where those of Magdalene were laid — 
 at the feet of Jesus. I would go into Thy 
 presence-chamber before I enter my house of 
 bereavement ; all the plaints of my soul I would 
 unburden to Thee. I would leave them there 
 till the evening. I would bury my dead by day 
 in the love of the living ; I would let the angel 
 of ministration sit on the stone. I would cover 
 the place of my weeping with the wings of 
 helpfulness ; I would deny myself my cross in 
 the presence of Thine. If Thy hand shall bury 
 my sorrow, its sepulchre shall be the sepulchre 
 
56 SEABCHINGS IX THE SILENCE. 
 
 of Moses ; do man shall see the spot ; it shall 
 appear only to Thee. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Work in Grief. 
 
 Matthew xvi. 24 v. 
 
 " If any man will come after me, let him take up his 
 cross and follow me." 
 
 To take up one's cross and "follow " is a very 
 arduous thing. It is easy to take up one's cross 
 and stand ; easier still to fold it in the arms 
 and lie down ; but to carry it about — that is 
 the hard thing. All pain shuns locomotion. It 
 is adverse to collision, adverse to contact, adverse 
 to movement. It craves to nurse its own bitter- 
 ness ; it longs to be alone. Its burden is never 
 so heavy as when the bell rings for daily toil. 
 The waters of XTarah seek repose. If I could only 
 rest under my cloud I might endure; but the 
 command is too much for me — " Go, work to-day 
 in my vineyard." If I could go without my cro^s, 
 it would be something ; but I cannot. I can 
 no more escape from it than I can escape my 
 own shadow. It clings to me with that attrac- 
 
WORK IN GRIEF. 57 
 
 tion which repulsion sometimes gives. It says, 
 " Where thou goest I will go, and where thou 
 lodgest I will lodge." With such a companion 
 I would rather lodge than go ; it is hard at once 
 to follow and to bear. 
 
 Son of Man, that hardness was Thine. 
 Thine ever was a carried cross. . Thou never 
 hadst where to lay Thy head in rest. The 
 multitude thronged Thee with their trifling 
 sorrows when a mighty grief was at Thine own 
 door. They complained that the wine had run 
 down in Cana when Thou wert thirsting for 
 a draught of love. They murmured, at the 
 scant bread of the wilderness when Thou wert 
 hungering for a human heart. They wept the 
 withering of a slender gourd when Thou wert 
 weeping over the millions of Ninevah. And 
 yet, Thou hadst pity on the gourd. While 
 deep was calling unto deep within Thee, Thou 
 didst not forget the shallow stream. The voice 
 of Thy ocean drowned not the murmur of my 
 brook. My puny cry was overheard by Thy 
 soul in its sorrows, and Thou earnest into my 
 world, carrying Thy cross. Let me follow Thee. 
 Let me carry my cross into my brother's world. 
 Though it seem a poor grief compared to 
 
58 SEARCHINGS IN THE 8ILENCE. 
 
 mine — only a child's cry for the bread that 
 perisheth — give me Thy divine power of locomo- 
 tion. Help me to empt} r myself into that which 
 to me is a trifle. Help me to go down from the 
 wilderness inio Cana — from my own depths into 
 my brother's shallows. When I have seen them 
 with the microscope of love they shall cease to 
 be shallows ; I shall behold them with his weak 
 eyes, I shall magnify them with his weak heart, 
 and, in the power of Thy mighty sympathy, I 
 shall lift my own cross, and come. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The Retarding of God. 
 
 Acts iii. 20, 21 v. 
 
 "Jesus Christ, whom the heaven must receive until the 
 times of restitution of all things." 
 
 Is not this a strange saying — that Christ must 
 become invisible until things are put right? 
 Would we not have expected that God would 
 reveal Himself when things are going wrong ? 
 Why should the heaven be silent when the earth 
 is in confusion ? — Because discord cannot hear 
 music. The heavens keep many things to them- 
 
THE RETARDING OF GOD. 59 
 
 selves just because the earth is not prepared for 
 them ; if there were more restitution below, there 
 would be less reticence above. Art thou com- 
 plaining of the silence of Grod ? Lament rather 
 the silence of man. The stars in the Kingdom 
 of thy Father are not seen without the eye of 
 the heart. The voices of the celestial multitude 
 are not heard without the ear of the soul. The 
 touch of the heavenly messengers passing by is 
 not felt without the hand of the Spirit. Why 
 speakest thou of the silence of God, when thine 
 ear is dull and thine eye is dim and thy hand is 
 blunted ? It is thou that imprisonest heaven, 
 not heaven that imprisons thee. Thy Father is 
 retarded in the wings of His love. He calls, but 
 thou nearest not. He beckons, but thou seest 
 not. He touches, but thou art insensible of His 
 pressure. He beats against the bars, but thou 
 deniest him the liberty of the earthly air. He 
 cannot reveal Himself till He has restored thee. 
 
 Eestore my soul, oh God ! There are "green 
 pastures around me for which my eye has no lens, 
 there are quiet waters beside me for which my 
 ear has no chord; restore my soul. There are 
 unknown beauties sleeping in every flower, there 
 are unheard harmonies singing in every breeze ; 
 
60 SEARCIIINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 restore my soul. There are goodness and mercy 
 following me in all valleys, there is a rod and a 
 staff supporting me in all shadows ; restore my 
 soul. The path on which I go is already the 
 path of Thy righteousness ; open Thou my eyes 
 that I may behold its wonders. The place I call 
 dreadful is even now the house of the Lord ; the 
 heavens shall cease to hide Thee when Thou 
 hast restored my soul. 
 
 XXIY. 
 
 Foresight of Possibilities. 
 
 Luke xv. 20 v. 
 " When he was yet a great way off his father saw him." 
 
 It is a divine thing to see merit in advance ; onty 
 love can do it. It is easy to recognise Moses 
 when he comes down from the splendours of the 
 mount ; but to detect him in the ark of bulrushes 
 — that is the hard thing. And eveiy Moses was 
 once in the ark of bulrushes. The mightiest 
 soul that breathes began as a waif on the banks 
 of life's river — a poor, puny, helpless babe. It 
 is only by the faith of others that any of us is 
 
FORESIGHT OF POSSIBILITIES. 61 
 
 hid from the storm — the faith that worketh by 
 love ; what eye but this can see the treasures of 
 Egj^pt through the squalor of the Nile ? There- 
 fore it is, that I seek the judgment rather of God 
 than of man. I want to be read by one who 
 can see beneath the facts — who can discern the 
 meridian in the dawn, and the land of promise 
 in the desert sand. I want to be photographed, 
 not as I am, but as I shall be. I want to be 
 taken in the light of to-morrow — in the light of 
 my coming possibilities. I want to have imputed 
 to me the beauty which shall be mine when the 
 day- star shall rise in my heart. Who shall see 
 the rose in the bud ? Who shall hear the bells 
 across the snow? Who shall detect the music 
 and dancing in the place where men feed the 
 swine ? My brother is too shortsighted for that ; 
 I must arise and go to my Father. 
 
 Oh, Thou whose infinite love has made Thee 
 infinitely far-seeing, I come to Thee. They tell 
 me that I am saved by my faith ; rather it seems 
 to me that I am saved by Thine. It is Thy 
 faith in me, not mine in Thee, that has made me 
 great. I am justified by Thy faith, oh ! my 
 Father. Behold me in Christ — in the light of 
 the coming day. Look upon me, not as I am, 
 
62 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 but as I shall be in the new environment. Listen 
 to the music of my life, not as it sounds in the 
 poor, cracked instrument, but as it shall sound 
 when, with rich stops and intervals, the new 
 organ comes. Accept the deeds of my body as 
 they would shine in the resurrection body — with 
 the taint of corruption expunged, and a stream 
 of heredity from Thee. View me through the 
 telescope of love — not as I appear in the distance, 
 but as I would be when at Thy side. I could 
 wish no brighter epitaph on my tomb than 
 this : <l When he was yet a great way off, 
 his Father saw him." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The Impersonality of Love. 
 
 1 Corinthians xiii. 5 v. 
 " Love seeketh not her own." 
 
 I believe he means, love averts its eye from 
 the personal burdens of the heart — crosses the 
 line of rail that divides my pain from your 
 pain. Do you know how difficult that is ? 
 Some people seem to think that the mere fact 
 
THE IMPERSOXALITY OF LOVE. 63 
 
 of pain makes us sympathetic ; apart from 
 Christ, it makes us selfish. If I have one 
 ailment and you have another, it is very hard 
 for me to pass from mine to yours. I am 
 far more apt to say " If I had only your 
 ailment, it would be nothing ; why make you 
 this ado and weep ? " There is nothing in 
 grief which saves from selfishness, any more 
 than in joy ; Christ alone can save. But 
 Christ can. Love traverses the lines of pain 
 — passes over from my grief to your grief. 
 Pride says " My brother deserves to suffer ; I 
 had a right to expect better things." But, to 
 the eye of love, sorrow, when once it comes, 
 is always sacred. It may have been deserved, 
 it may have been the wages of sin, it may 
 have been the child of corruption, before it is 
 born its parentage may be deprecated ; but 
 the moment it is born it is to Love's eye like 
 Melchisedek — without father or mother or 
 descent. It stands for itself alone. It is 
 reverenced as old age is reverenced — because the 
 gold has been supplanted by the grey. The 
 ruins of my wall have come from peace, and 
 yours from the violence of war ; but the ivy 
 of my heart must cling to yours, and ask not 
 
61 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 whence they came. Love, divine love, seeketh 
 not her own. 
 
 Jairus, ruler of the synagogue, let me 
 question thee. Art thou murmuring at thy 
 daughter's interrupted cure ? The Master was 
 on His way to thy house when He was met 
 by another suppliant. Has God's providence 
 circumvented thee, Jairus ? Nay, it has given 
 thee a double blessing. Thy cure is not com- 
 plete without the interrupting suppliant. The 
 seemiug stop was an advance. The halt in 
 the mercy of thy God was a boon to thee. 
 It was a part of thy miracle. It enlarged 
 thy love. It sent thee over thine own wall 
 to the ruined wall of thy neighbour. It told 
 thee thou wert not the only sufferer. It made 
 thy tear trickle to a sister's grave. It lifted 
 thee beyond the sickness of thy house into 
 the sickness of other houses. It took thee out 
 of thine own chariot and put thee in God's 
 chariot of fire, and it brought thee back in 
 the evening — a larger, richer, greater man. 
 Love possesseth more than its own. 
 
65 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The Argument from the Heart. 
 
 1 Corinthians xv. 17, 18 v. 
 
 " If Christ be not raised, then they also which are fallen 
 asleep in Christ are perished." 
 
 "If the highest life be extinguished, what is 
 become of your dead ? " It is to me the 
 most unique passage in the Bible. It is the 
 one instance in which the argument for future 
 life is built on the affections of the heart 
 alone. I find it elsewhere on other founda- 
 tions. I find it built on the life of God. I 
 see it constructed on the needs of conscience. 
 I meet it reared on the ladder of aspiration. 
 But I would have missed something if the 
 words had been unspoken — " If the highest life 
 be extinguished, what is become of your dead ? " 
 It would have been the lost chord in the 
 organ of sacred sympathy — the one unappro- 
 priated spot in the field where God touches 
 man. I am glad that the chord has not been 
 lost. I am glad that from the sympathetic 
 touch of my God the green spot in my heart 
 
 E 
 
66 8EAUGHING8 IN THE SILEXGE. 
 
 is not omitted. I am glad that, amid the 
 many demands for my future, He allowed one 
 place to the cry of my love — cc If Christ be 
 not raised, they also that are fallen asleep 
 have perished." 
 
 My soul, be not forgetful of thy human 
 love. It has its message for eternity. Thy 
 Father has an argument addressed to thy 
 heart alone — " If the highest life be ex- 
 tinguished, what is become of your dead? 
 He calls thee to Heaven with earthly music ; 
 He appeals to the interest of thy human love. 
 Would He point thee to that which He knew 
 to be a shadow? Would He incite thee to 
 lament the loss of thy earthly love, if He 
 knew this love to be itself not worth pre- 
 serving ? Why callest thou it earthly ? Are 
 there two kinds of love ? Is the water in 
 the ba}' diverse from the water of the sea ? 
 Is it not only the sea imprisoned ? Thy 
 heart is but thy Father's love imprisoned — 
 thy Father's love circumscribed by rocks and 
 shallows. It has been shut in by the cliffs 
 of time, and its voice has been reduced to a 
 murmur. Yet even its murmur has the music 
 of the everlasting main, and even its broken 
 
THE HOPEFULNESS OF ST. PAUL. 67 
 
 strength is mightier than the strength of man. 
 Earth has not made it ; earth has un-m&Ae it, 
 narrowed it. Why should not the loss of 
 earth restore it? Why should not death break 
 the embankment and let love go free? Why 
 should not the murmur rise again into the 
 ocean's tone ? Why should not the liberated 
 heart say to the parent sea " I and my Father 
 are one " ? Love itself must be dead, if the 
 love of man should perish. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The Hopefulness of St. Paul. 
 
 Romans v. 4 v. 
 11 Experience worketh hope/' 
 
 Does it ? I would have expected Paul to say 
 just the contrary. If this is a world of sin and 
 misery, ought it not to seem blacker as we pass 
 through it ? And yet the facts appear to make 
 for Paul. Who are they that take the gloomiest 
 view of life ? Is it the aged, the infirm, the 
 wayworn ? No ; it is the young — the men who 
 are setting out upon their journey. Youth is 
 e 2 
 
68 SEARCHING^ IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 called the age of hope — and so it is ; but it is not 
 hope for this world. It is the dream of a fairy 
 scene far away. For things as they are, youth 
 has no mercy; they are too prosaic, too common, 
 too unclean. Paul himself was a pessimist in 
 youth ; his hopes were for other worlds than 
 ours. To be with Christ was to be " caught up 
 in the air" — borne beyond the scene. But, as 
 the road advanced, the shadows faded. The 
 song of the earth-birds became beautiful with 
 the winding of the way. The fields of time 
 grew greener with the westering of life's sun. 
 The light of Damascus left the air and began to 
 illuminate the housetops, and the experience 
 that threatened to work despair became the 
 parent of hope. 
 
 And so, my Father, Thy world is not so bad 
 a place after all. It looks gloomier at the enter- 
 ing, than at the ending, gate. Thou hast a 
 special harp for those that have walked upon the 
 sea. In the days of my youth I sang to the 
 scenes of fancy, but my latest harp shall be for 
 reality. I shall sing to the praise of the six 
 days' creation when I have reached the Sabbath. 
 Put Thy new song in my mouth, oh ! my Father 
 — the song of Moses and the Lamb, the song of 
 
THE HOPEFULNESS OF ST. PAUL. 69 
 
 the desert and the Cross. Reveal to me the 
 gold beneath the dust, the fire within the flint, 
 the Howers around the clay. Reveal to me the 
 beauty of common things, nay, of painful things. 
 Reveal to me the romance of real life, the 
 heroism of daily toil, the power of prosaic 
 sacrifice. Show me the prospect from the 
 west gate of the temple — the gate near to 
 the setting sun. I have looked long enough 
 from the east — the delusive light of morn- 
 ing. I have been seeking a heaven beyond 
 experience, and the chords of my harp have 
 been broken ; they shall be strung to a 
 nobler strain when experience itself worketh 
 hope. 
 
70 
 
 XX VIII. 
 
 The Will for the Deed. 
 
 Ephesians vi. 15 v. 
 
 " Your feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of 
 peace." 
 
 " Shod with the preparation of the gospel," 
 " shod with preparedness to rim on the message 
 of peace/' — is that all we should expect from 
 the walk of Christian life ? To prepare to run 
 seems a small thing. Why does not Paul say 
 that the feet of the soldier of Christ have been 
 hardened by the actual running — strengthened, 
 not by the preparation, but by the proclamation, 
 of the gospel ? Because, if he had said that, he 
 would have cut off the larger part of the army. 
 It is only a limited number of Christ's soldiers 
 who are allowed to serve in the field ; the most 
 part have to be content with readiness to serve. 
 The souls who do great things in the world are 
 the minority ; the mass can only will to do 
 them. I may say, " How beautiful on the 
 mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good 
 tidings," and yet my own feet may be moveless. 
 
THE WILL FOR THE DEED. 71 
 
 I may be forbidden to join the band of active 
 workers. I may be an invalid. I may be 
 weighted with the care of an invalid. I may 
 be struggling with poverty. I may be a victim 
 of nerves. I may be cumbered with much 
 household service. I may be hopelessly 
 commonplace. In all these things my Father 
 says to me " Stay at home." But, spite of all 
 these things, I have the will to go ; I would go 
 if these did not forbid me ; I do go in spirit 
 every day. I carry messages with the feet of 
 my heart. I am armed with the preparation to 
 be a Christian soldier — with the readiness to 
 serve if service were possible. I have given to 
 God my will to give, and He has accepted it as 
 my uniform ; He has ordered me a soldier's pay. 
 Isaac, thou son of Abraham, art thou lament- 
 ing the want of thy father's armour ? Art thou 
 sighing that, while he conquered nations, thou 
 art only permitted to dig wells ? Nay, but the 
 sigh is itself a panoply to thee. Thy feet are 
 shod with the preparation, the readiness to go. 
 Thine is the red fire of Mount Moriah, though 
 it is all within. Thine is the resistance unto 
 blood, though the fight is seen by none. Thine 
 is the sacrifice unto death, although thou didst 
 
72 SEARGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 not die. In thy wells of water God beholds the 
 possibilities of the deep sea. In thy petty 
 strifes God hears the roar of the great battle. 
 In the troubles of thy tiny pool God imputes to 
 thee the wrestling of the angel. Thy sphere is 
 narrow but thy heart is wide ; stand forth and 
 take thy crown — the crown of intentions un- 
 fulfilled, the prize for mighty deeds designed to 
 do. Thy monument is side by side with 
 Abraham's : his has the inscription — " the man 
 who journeyed " ; thine has the tribute of a 
 larger hope — "the man who was prepared to go." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The God of Jacob. 
 
 Psalm xlvi. 7 v. 
 "The God of Jacob is our refuge." 
 
 Why the God of Jacob ? Why not the God of 
 Abraham, or the God of Isaac ? Because Jacob 
 was the smallest man of the three. He was 
 the least likely to have a Divine refuge. He 
 is the type of the largest number — of the most 
 hopeless number. He is one of the waifs and 
 
THE GOB OF JACOB. 73 
 
 strays of nature. He is always doing wrong 
 and running away. He is constantly pulled up 
 from the descent of the precipice. He is pulled 
 up on the hunting-field ; he is pulled up at 
 Bethel ; he is pulled up at Padan-Aram ; he is 
 pulled up at Peniel; he is pulled up even at 
 Goshen, when his love is becoming unjust. A 
 strange man, not all light nor all dark, but 
 living, like his own ladder, between two worlds, 
 and with a touch of both ; a man of great aspir- 
 ings and small fulfilments, dreaming of steps 
 unto heaven, and sleeping on an earthly stair. 
 It is something to know that there is a Divine 
 refuge for such a man ; he is so like our com- 
 mon clay, so unheroic, so human. He soars not 
 with Enoch, he floats not with Noah, he mounts 
 not with Moses ; he walks upon the rugged 
 earth, and stumbles on the stones. He is one of 
 our own. He belongs to our streets, and lanes, 
 and alleys. He meets us in the wrangling of 
 the mart. He joins us in the burdens of the 
 day. He represents the struggle for existence 
 everywhere. We feel that if there be guidance 
 for him there must be guidance for the million. 
 We say instinctively, " the Grod of Jacob is our 
 refuge." 
 
74 SEARCHING* IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 God of Jacob, I bless Thee for my dreams 
 — my dreams of Thee. It is in my dreams of 
 Thee that Thou art my refuge Often have I 
 wandered through the desert on no other 
 strength than that of the heart's dream. Often, 
 when the way was long and the night was cold 
 and the pillow was stony, the dream has con- 
 quered all. Often hast Thou sent to me a peace 
 that passed understanding. It came where it 
 had no right to come — on the steps of poverty, 
 down the ladder of humiliations. It came when 
 life was low, when fortune was low, when hope 
 was low. It came without a reason — shining 
 by its own light, refusing explanation, defying 
 scrutiny. One moment I had said, " How 
 dreadful is this place ! " ; and the next I 
 cried, " This is the gate of heaven ! " Thou 
 hast followed me with inaudible steps ; Thou 
 hast brightened me with invisible sunbeams ; 
 Thou hast nourished me with intangible food ; 
 Thou hast strengthened me with unaccountable 
 comfort. I have soared without wings ; I have 
 sailed without ship ; I have climbed, though 
 shrunk in sinew. The man is perfected in 
 weakness whose arms " are made strong by 
 the hand of the mighty God of Jacob." 
 
75 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The Wants of Man. 
 
 Revelation vii. 16 v. 
 " They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more." 
 
 My hope for above is my poverty below. If 
 want be unsatisfied desire, man is the poorest 
 being in the world. He is the only being in 
 the world that has less than he needs. Our 
 Lord says that the other creatures of the earth 
 have more than they need. " How many hired 
 servants of my Father have bread and to 
 spare ! " There is a superfluity of riches in 
 the creation below man; it has bread and to 
 spare. Why has the bird such fair plumage, 
 when it has so little sense of beauty ? Why 
 has it so sweet a song, when its ear for music 
 is so low? Why has it so powerful a wing, 
 when its aspirations are so small ? It is decked 
 with a loveliness it sees not ; it is gifted with a 
 melody it hears not ; it is endowed with a 
 freedom it appreciates not. It is one of nature's 
 millionaires ; its possessions are above its wants. 
 But with thee, my soul, it is otherwise ; thy 
 
76 SEABGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 wants are beyond thy possessions. Thou hast 
 the sense of beauty without the plumage ; thou 
 hast the ear for music without the song ; thou 
 hast the desire for wings without the power of 
 flight. Thou art not suited to thy surroundings ; 
 thou hast a large pitcher and a tiny well. Thy 
 love is long amid the fleeting, broad amid the 
 bounded, high amid the insignificant, deep amid 
 the pools. Thy swallows have no summer, thy 
 larks have no dawn, thy eagles have no Arma- 
 ment, thy doves have no nest. Thou art a 
 voice crying in the wilderness, and thy way is 
 not prepared. 
 
 Son of Man, prepare a place for me. There 
 are many mansions in the house of Thy Father, 
 but none has yet taken me in. I am hungry 
 and thirsty, I am homeless and friendless, I am 
 footsore and weary, but no mansion has yet 
 opened for me. All other things have places 
 prepared for them — all but my heart. The eye 
 has its light, and the ear has its voices, and the 
 hand has its labours ; but my heart has not yet 
 its love. It is powerless, for want of an object ; 
 it waits imprisonment to set it free. Prepare a 
 mansion for my heart, Thou whose name is Love. 
 My unplaced heart is the one miracle of creation 
 
THE CRUCIFIXION OF THE CROSS. 77 
 
 — the only tiling that violates the law of the 
 Father. Annul the miracle, and give me peace. 
 Give me the harmony with my surroundings 
 that other things enjoy. Break the solitude of 
 my spirit in the universe of life. Find for me a 
 Sabbath of rest amid the mornings and evenings. 
 Build me a tower that shall reach the height of 
 my desires — unto heaven. Send me a promised 
 land, whose reality shall not dim the expectant 
 vision of Moses. At the beautiful gate of Thy 
 temple I shall hunger no more. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The Crucifixion of the Cross. 
 
 Revelation vii. 14 v. 
 
 " Washed their robes and made them white in the 
 blood of the Lamb." 
 
 Robes that are washed in blood would be expected 
 to come out red; why should the result be so 
 unlike the process? — Because the process of 
 sacrifice which makes me pure must leave no 
 trace of itself. The blood which washes out my 
 stains would, if perpetuated, be itself a stain. 
 
73 SEARGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 There can be no cross in my completed life. 
 There is a shadow in its dawn, but not in its 
 day. There is a struggle in faith ; there is a 
 struggle in hope ; but there is no struggle in 
 love. There are some cures which leave a scar ; 
 the disease is gone, but the red mark is left 
 which tells of pain. Not all blood washes white. 
 There are struggles in which I conquer, but from 
 which I yet come down with the shrunk sinew ; 
 the battle is over, but, even in the daybreak, 
 the wound remains. I have won the fight, but 
 I have lost youth's elastic spring ; I halt upon 
 my thigh. But the cross of Christ leaves on me 
 no print of the nails. It heals its own scar. It 
 dries its own blood. It wipes its own tears. It 
 not only redeems, it restores my soul. It has 
 no after-effects — no lameness, no sight of men 
 like trees walking. There is no sense of languor, 
 no feeling of soreness, no memory of pain. The 
 cross of yesterday becomes the crown of to-day ; 
 the thorn of my winter is made the flower of my 
 spring. The heart's bleeding is staunched when 
 law is one with love. 
 
 Son of Man, the shedding of Whose blood 
 ended in perfect peace, let the way of Thy 
 sacrifice be mine. Wash me in Thy blood into 
 
THE CRUCIFIXION OF THE CROSS. 79 
 
 Thy whiteness. Thou hast transformed the red 
 blossom of Calvary into the white bloom of 
 Olivet ; make it so also with me. I would not 
 have a thorn in my flesh as the price of my healing. 
 I would not see the bloodstains on the ground 
 when my wound has lost its danger. It is not 
 enough to have my sin crucified ; I must have 
 my crucifixion crucified — the red must be washed 
 white. My cross can cleanse my soul ; but who 
 shall cleanse my cross ? Thou canst, immortal 
 Love. Breathe on me, and my sacrifice shall die. 
 Breathe on me, and I shall receive Thy spirit. 
 Breathe on me, and Thy air shall become my air. 
 It shall no longer stifle me ; it shall no more 
 be foreign to me ; I shall live in it, move in it, 
 have my being in it. My old law of sacrifice 
 shall become my new life of joy. I shall wear 
 my cross, Thy cross, like a flower ; I shall cany 
 Thy burden like a birthright. When I began 
 my journey my garments were dyed with blood ; 
 when I reach the heights of Olivet I shall walk 
 in white raiment. 
 
80 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Seeking the Highest. 
 
 Matthew xix. 14 v. 
 " Suffer little children to come unto me." 
 
 " Suffer the lowest to come to the highest " ; 
 that is not the world's mode of thinking. The 
 world thinks we gain most by meeting those on 
 our own plane. It would send the little ones of 
 the earth to be judged by the little. It would 
 bid the incipient artist go to the commonplace 
 critic. It would tell the fallen soul to repair to 
 the previously fallen. Not so says Christ. He 
 says to the labouring and heavy-laden of every 
 department, " Come unto Me"; He says to 
 those who toil amongst them, " send them to 
 Me." Ye who have completed your first piece 
 of workmanship in art or in life, carry it to the 
 judgment of the highest. Do not go to one a 
 little above yourselves. He will sneer at your 
 imperfections. He is too near the line of his 
 own deliverance. He does not want to be re- 
 minded of his yesterday. He would fain forget 
 that he stood lately on the same step of the 
 
SEEKING THE HIGHEST. 81 
 
 stair, and therefore he will disparage the step ; 
 he will treat with undue severity your height 
 below himself. But, would you get recognition 
 for the small thing you have, go to the top of 
 the profession. Let your motto be, " I will lift 
 up mine eyes unto the /tills, whence cometh mine 
 aid." It may seem a bold thing for a sinful 
 man to say "My safety cometh from the Lord, 
 AVho made heaven and earth " ; but it is not 
 more bold than true. If you would have safety, 
 ignore all steps but the final one. Pass by the 
 converts of last week. Pass the climbers be- 
 tween earth and heaven. Pass the spirits of 
 just men made perfect. Pass the angel and the 
 archangel. Pass the cherubim and seraphim be- 
 fore the throne. Pause not till you reach the 
 throne itself. Enter within the blaze of the 
 burning purity, and spread your workmanship 
 in the light of God. And the fire will not con- 
 sume it, the light will not wither it, the Master 
 will not despise it. He will see what the inter- 
 mediate beings cannot see — the oak in the acorn; 
 He will discern in the primal cloud the promise 
 and potency of life. Oh, Magdalene, why 
 standest thou in the house of Simon the lejDer ? 
 Thinkest thou that the leper's own spots will 
 
 F 
 
82 SEARCHING,? IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 make him mild to yours ? They will not ; they 
 will intensify his criticism. Come up to the un- 
 spotted. Ascend to the stainless. Mount to 
 the highest. Pour not out the treasures of thy 
 repentance at the feet of the half -pure ; they 
 will laugh at the ointment of Spikenard, they 
 will scorn the idle tears. Approach the throne, 
 and thou shalt find thy mercy-seat. Come into 
 the sunlight, and thou shalt meet thy dawn. 
 Look up to the hills, and thy valleys shall be 
 illuminated. In the Kingdom of Christ it is 
 the extremes that join together. " Suffer the 
 little ones to come unto Me." 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Christ's Sympathy with Man. 
 
 Mark xiv. 28 v. 
 " I will go before tliee into Galilee/' 
 
 Jesus, Thou art always on before me ; 
 nowhere so far in advance as in Galilee. I 
 have never come near to Thee in Galilee — 
 the land of human sorrows, the region of the 
 shadow of death. I am only learning in the 
 
CHRIST'S SYMPATHY WITH MAN. 83 
 
 latest times the imitation of Thy work for man. 
 Thou hast seen further than I into the cause 
 and into the cure. I had thought that religion 
 wanted only a soul ; Thou hast claimed for 
 God the redemption of the hody. I had 
 thought that the life of faith demanded the 
 surrender of earthly comforts ; Thou hast 
 required for that life the restoration of these 
 comforts. I had thought that the hospital was 
 lor this world, and the Church for the world 
 to come ; Thou hast made the hospital a 
 temple to the Father's praise. In the culture 
 of the past Thou art the only modern. None 
 stood heside Thee in Galilee ; Thou troddest 
 alone the winepress of human pain. None felt 
 with Thee the sympathy for man as man. 
 They felt for man as Greek, as Jew, as Roman ; 
 but not as man — not as hopeless, friendless, 
 landless. It was reserved for Thee to lead the 
 way to Galilee — to the men without a country 
 and without a home. Thou hast burst all 
 boundaries but those of sorrow. Thou hast 
 descended below all accidents — below race, and 
 clime, and kindred. Thou hast gone down 
 beneath all qualities — beneath beauty, and 
 virtue, and fame. Thou hast broken the 
 f 2 
 
81 SEARCHWGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 barriers of caste ; Thou hast passed the fences 
 of respectability ; Thou hast travelled beyond 
 the confines of extenuating circumstance. Thou 
 hast reached the last motive for charity — the 
 right of hunger to bread. Thou hast invited 
 man to come to Thee without a }:>lea, nay, 
 with the very plea of destitution. Thou hast 
 summoned him in his rags, in his tatters, in 
 his nothingness : Thou hast accepted him 
 without merit and without excuse ; Thou hast 
 asked him for no vindication but a cry. We, 
 of latter days, have claimed the gospel of 
 charity as our own. We have written an 
 inscription in golden letters, inviting to our 
 feast the labouring and heavy-laden. We have 
 brought it to Galilee with shouts of exultation ; 
 we have called it the symbol of our modern 
 advancement. But lo ! as we have gone to 
 hang it up on the wall, the wall is already 
 occupied with another placard, and it is in 
 words identical with ours. Oh, Son of Man, 
 Thou hast been before us. Thou hast outrun 
 our philanthropy ; Thou hast anticipated our 
 benevolence ; Thou hast forestalled our charity. 
 Thou hast modelled our infirmaries ; Thou hast 
 planned our orphanages ; Thou hast sketched 
 
ASKING TN Oil 11 1ST 'S NAME. 85 
 
 our asylums ; Thou hast devised our houses of 
 refuge ; Thou hast projected our homes of 
 reform. Thou hast vindicated the claims of 
 the returned convict ; Thou hast asserted the 
 sacredness of infant life ; Thou hast given a 
 hand to the climbing steps of woman. Thou 
 hast outstripped both Peter and John in the 
 race to the ancient sepulchres of humanity ; at 
 the end of all our progress we have met Thee 
 in Galilee. 
 
 XXXIY. 
 
 Asking in Christ's Name. 
 
 St. John xvi. 24 v. 
 
 " Hitherto have ye asked nothing in my name ; ask 
 and ye shall receive." 
 
 The Master is wearying for the development of 
 the pupil. He seeks it in the progress of his 
 prayers. He measures the value of his prayers 
 not by what he wants but by his reason for 
 wanting it. " Ye have asked nothing in my 
 name/' means " Ye have asked nothing in my 
 interest." It makes no difference that Adam 
 asks an apple, and John the right hand in the 
 
86 SB AEG RINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 Kingdom; they both ask equally amiss, for 
 each desires only his own joy. The fault in 
 Adam is not that he seeks the apple but that 
 he seeks it from the wrong garden. The same 
 fruit may be got from either of two gardens — 
 Eden or Gethsemane. At the gates of Eden I 
 seek it for myself; at the gates of Gethsemane 
 I desire it for another. The one is a request 
 in my own name ; the other is in the name 
 of Jesus. 
 
 Name above every name, purify my desires. 
 It is b}' my desires that Thou measurest my pro- 
 gress ; teach me to pray. It is not new desires 
 I want ; it is a new name in which to bank the 
 old treasures — Thy name instead of mine. Men 
 have called me a worldling in the bygone time 
 because I have sought so much for gold. Yet, 
 it is not less of gold I would seek now ; it is 
 less of self. I feel as if I needed the wealth 
 of this world more than I ever did ; but now 
 I need it for Thee. It is not a change of 
 money ; it is a change of investment. I put 
 it in Thy name ; I bank it for Thee. I would 
 not have less worldly toil. I would not be 
 seen more seldom in the exchange. I would 
 not relax the wheels of industry nor abate 
 
ASKING IN CHRIST'S NAME. 87 
 
 the ardour of enterprise. I want a change 
 of thought, not of theatre. I would send my 
 merchandise over a mightier sea than ever 
 before it traversed — the ocean of Thy love. I 
 would make the once mammon of unrighteous- 
 ness a heavenly friend. I would plant schools ; 
 I would build colleges ; I would raise temples ; 
 I would endow hospitals ; I would improve the 
 dwellings of the poor; I would supply the 
 destitute with a home ; I would provide the 
 fallen with a refuge ; I would fill up that which 
 Thou hast left behind. Forbid that I should 
 be too unworldly to pray lc Command that these 
 stones be made bread." It was once the 
 tempter's prayer, but Thy Last Supper has made 
 it sacramental. Hitherto I have asked it only 
 for the wants of my own wilderness ; when I 
 have heard the cry of the multitude in the 
 desert, I shall breathe it again in Thy name. 
 
XXXV. 
 Charity for Surmounted Things. 
 
 Matthew xviii. 10 v. 
 " Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones." 
 
 It is not broad to despise the narrow. What do 
 I mean by a man of large sympathies ? " One 
 who can advance/' yon say. Yes ; but, I think, 
 still more, one who can retreat. It is a very 
 easy thing to extend towards to-morrow ; it is 
 a very hard thing to contract towards yesterday. 
 Most of ns have an impulse to go on ; few_ of us 
 have a wish to go back. When Paul becomes 
 a man he puts away childish toys ; that is 
 natural ; that is right ; but that is also simple. 
 The arduous thing is to remember that the 
 childish toys are not childish for children — that 
 they are the very poems of the opening years. 
 Do not break the child's image. It is to him no 
 graven image ; it stands for a higher likeness 
 than anything in heaven, or earth, or sea. Has 
 he worshipped the golden calf instead of the 
 thunders of Sinai ? Yes ; but it is not the gold 
 he worships ; it is the mystery. The toy was 
 
CHARITY FOB SURMOUNTED THINGS. 89 
 
 once as mysterious to you as is the thunder 
 now. You wondered what was inside of it ; you 
 broke it open to see. Its gold was its mystery ; 
 its glory was its unseenness ; its brightness was 
 its veil. Judge it not by its discovered delusion. 
 Judge it in the light of those who have not 
 yet broken it open, and found emptiness 
 within. " Take heed that ye despise not one 
 of these little ones." 
 
 Christ of love, give me room in my heart for 
 earth's little ones. I have room for the heights, 
 but not the vales, of humanity ; let me descend 
 with Thee into the vale. I have been despising 
 those to whom Thou speakest in parables. 
 Eemind me that it is Thou who speakest in 
 parables — that the crude image covers a faith 
 Divine. Forbid that I should break the image 
 either by logic or laughter. If even Thine 
 angel-reapers feared to pluck up the wheat with 
 the tares, much more may I. I cannot break 
 the casket without destroying the gem. Let me 
 touch the casket tenderly ; it is the body of a 
 soul — Thy soul. Let me vaunt not my powers 
 of flight before the face of my walking brother ; 
 his walk is, like Enoch's, a walk with Thee. 
 Let me travel by his side along the dusty way. 
 
90 SEARGHIXGS IN THE SILEXGE. 
 
 Let me see with his eyes, feel with his heart, 
 think with his mind. Let me speak to him 
 through his own sj^mbols. Let me appeal to 
 him through his own experience. Let me tell 
 him that beneath the forms his faith and mine 
 are one — the same in substance, equal in power 
 and glory. When I stand on the mount of Thy 
 love, the height shall dissolve the difference 
 between the great and the little ones. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 The Accompaniment of Prayer. 
 
 Psalm xlii. 8 v. 
 
 •'•' In the night his song shall be with me, and my prayer 
 unto the God of my life." 
 
 " His song and my prayer " — a duet of divine 
 harmony. In every hour of night the two 
 ought to come together ; my prayer should 
 accompany God's song. I should not wait for 
 the song to come as an answer to my prayer ; I 
 should pray along with the singing. How 
 many acts are helped by simultaneous music. 
 Men march to battle with the strains of melody 
 
THE ACCOMPANIMENT OF PRAYER. 91 
 
 iii their ear. Their march is a great prayer, but 
 it is not enough without the song. I cannot 
 live upon my wants ; I cannot even pray upon 
 my wants ; I must have hope in order to pray. 
 No man ever cried to his Father who had not in 
 his ear the refrain of an old song. It is by the 
 bow and not by the cloud that I see the exit 
 from the flood. Prayer is the child of expect- 
 ancy, not of despair. It comes from the smile 
 of Groci. It rises on the wings of the morning. 
 It is born, not of tears, but of latent joy. It is 
 in the night, but not of the night ; it is in spite 
 of the night. My prayer reposes on the song 
 of God. 
 
 Father, sing in my heart that I may pray. 
 I cannot pray till I have heard Thy song. My 
 cry will not come to Thee when I am in the 
 depth of despair ; it needs a ray of hope to make 
 it audible. Sing in my heart a song of hope. 
 There are moments in which Thou speakest only 
 in song — songs without words. Such a moment 
 I ask for my prayer. I do not ask a revelation ; 
 I do not ask a lifting of the night ; I only ask 
 that lightening of the heart which, like the 
 angel of Peniel, refuses to be denned. Music 
 proves nothing; but it helps me to prove all 
 
92 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 tilings. Give me Thy music, oh, my Father — 
 the brightness without a reason, the lightness 
 without a cause, the drawing of the curtains 
 where no hand is seen. Give me the nameless 
 strength, the indescribable joy, of Jesus — the 
 joy that could subsist through sorrow, the song 
 of the Lamb. There was music in His heart 
 when there was no light for his eye. His was a 
 song without words — without explanation of its 
 being. I ask no more from Thee. Give me but 
 the heart's music in the night, though the night 
 itself be silent — music to pray with, music to 
 march with, music to weep with. I ask no 
 more, but I need no less. Thou hast required 
 the prayer of faith ; and what is faith but song 
 — a song in the night ? Thou hast required the 
 prayer of faith because faith is joy, and joy 
 alone can pray. Night may shew knowledge 
 unto night, but only day can utter speech to 
 day. Let me hear Thy song, and Thou shalt 
 hear my prayer. 
 
XXXYII. 
 
 The Practicalness of Christ's Cross. 
 
 '2 Corinthians iv. 10 v. 
 
 " Always bearing about in the body the dying of the 
 Lord Jesus, that the life also of Jesus might be made 
 manifest in our body." 
 
 What an unhealthy state of mind ! you say — 
 to be ever fondling the idea of death. How 
 can it manifest life to bear death in my body? 
 Will it not sap my energy ? Will it not make 
 me a dreamer ? Will I not lose all interest 
 in the present world, if I am always thinking 
 of passing from earth to heaven ? Yes j but 
 this is no common death of which the apostle 
 speaks ; it is the dying of the Lord Jesus. 
 The dying of the Lord Jesus was not the 
 passing from earth to heaven ; it was the 
 passing from heaven to earth. Every step of 
 His dying was a step downwards. He took 
 the servant's form. He took the human like- 
 ness. He took the fleeting fashion of a man. 
 He took the image of the humblest man. He 
 went down deeper than humility. He lost 
 
94 SEARCHIXGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 His personality in love. He became one with 
 the poor, the outcast, the erring. He felt the 
 pains that dwelt in other bodies, the griefs 
 that lived in other souls, the sins that slept 
 in other hearts. At last He touched the lowest 
 ground, and, therefore, the common ground — 
 He completed His dying in the Cross. It was 
 the final stage of His union with man. It 
 brought Him into the heart of the world. It 
 made Him in the deepest sense a citizen of 
 time. 
 
 Say not, then, oh, my soul, that to bear 
 Christ's dying within thee is to lose thy hold 
 of earth ; it is to double that hold. It is to 
 come from high thought into menial action. 
 It is to empty thyself into the commonplace. 
 It is to descend into what men call reality. It 
 is to leave the green fields of speculation for 
 the thorny paths of practice. It is to give 
 up thy poetry for other people's prose, to resign 
 thy sunlight for thy weak brother's candle. 
 Art thou prepared for this sacrifice, oh, my 
 soul? It wants not less but more love of the 
 world. When Jesus died he went to Galilee. 
 Only in death did He touch the uttermost 
 earth. If thou wouldst bear in thy body His 
 
THE PRACTICALNESS OF CHRIST'S CROSS. 95 
 
 dying, thou must love not death but life. 
 Nothing but the preciousness of life could 
 prompt the dying of the Lord Jesus, or prompt 
 thee to follow that dying. Thou canst not 
 reach it by dreaming ; thou must put away 
 thy dream. Thine eye must be fixed on the 
 rude multitude. Thine ear must be caught 
 by the ciy of sorrow. Thy hand must be 
 held by the clasp of pain. Thou must dismiss 
 the thought of delectable mountains, or of 
 harps on the glassy sea. Thou must consider 
 the sea that is not glassy, the mountains that 
 are not delectable, the sounds that are not 
 music. Thine must be the love of the prosaic 
 present. If thou wouldst long to depart and 
 be with Christ, it must be, like Him, to get 
 nearer to the earth, closer to the wants of 
 man. To leave the world that is beyond for 
 the world of the passing day — that is the 
 dying of the Lord Jesus. 
 
96 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Revelation before Death, 
 
 Luke ii. 26 v. 
 
 " It was revealed unto him by the Holy Ghost, that he 
 should not see death, before he had seen the Lord's Christ." 
 
 Why should a revelation like this have been 
 such a comfort? Was not death itself to 
 usher in a far greater sight ? Was it not 
 like telling a man that he would not see the 
 sun until he had seen a candle ? Was not 
 old Simeon on the road to the perfect day — 
 the day of unblemished beauty? How could 
 it add to his bliss to be told that ere he entered 
 the garden he would receive a single rose ? 
 Because every scene requires a preliminary 
 revelation. Nothing is beautiful to me unless 
 I recognise it as a memory. Its whole sweet- 
 ness is its appeal to my past. I only greet 
 with the eye what has once lain near to the 
 heart. It would not bring me a step nearer 
 heaven if death were abolished. That which 
 separates me from heaven is not death but life. 
 If I were lifted to God's throne in a chariot 
 
REVELATION BEFORE DEATH. 97 
 
 of lire, heaven would still be distant from me, 
 unless it were otherwise brought nigh. If I 
 have never held in my arms one treasure of 
 the eternal sea, I may stand on the shore of 
 that sea and feel no thrill. I want the grapes 
 of Eshcol ere 1 journey to the promised land. 
 Not as a stranger would I go even up the 
 ladder of Jacob. I want the angel to Ascend 
 before I ascend. I want heaven to come to 
 me before I go to heaven. I want an olive- 
 branch from the new world to be carried into 
 the Ark while it is yet on the waters, that when 
 I touch the summit of Ararat I may recognise 
 its peace. 
 
 Our Father, which art in heaven, reveal 
 Thyself to us ere we are translated to Thee. 
 We have been making too much of the bridge 
 of death. We have said, " first death, and 
 then revelation " ; Thou say est, " first revela- 
 tion, and then death." Thou wouldst not have 
 us taste of death until we have seen the kingdom 
 of Christ. Let the power of His Eesurrection 
 precede the fellowship with His sufferings. 
 Let the vision of Mount Nebo anticipate the 
 promised land. Teach us beforehand the lan- 
 guage of the new world. Send us in advance 
 
 G 
 
9S SEABGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 the robes of the upper sanctuary. We would 
 not be unclothed even by death, but only clothed 
 upon. We would have something to carry with 
 us when we leave the sun and moon behind 
 us. We would have a fragment of Thyself in 
 our emptied hand. Give us a gleam of 
 Thy light when the windows of the sense are 
 darkened. Give us a breath of Thy love when 
 the breathing of our hearts is low. Give us 
 a whisper of Thy voice when the voices of 
 earth are faint. Put the child-Christ in 
 the arms of the dying Simeon. Let us come 
 to the tomb through the garden, and forget 
 the fading by reason of the flowers. Let us 
 be led by the hand of life through the valley 
 of the shadow of death. Our departure shall 
 be no severance, if, ere we go, we shall 
 meet with Thee. 
 
99 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Religious Investments. 
 
 Ecclesiastes xi. 1 v. 
 
 " Cast thy bread upon the waters ; for thou shalt find it 
 after many days." 
 
 What a dangerous investment ! Was there ever 
 a bank less likely to give safe interest ? Yet, in 
 the spiritual world, speculation is the law of 
 God. If I would save my fallen brother, I must 
 give without security. The beggar stands at 
 nrv door, and says he is starving. Is he starving ? 
 What if he be an impostor ? What if my gift 
 shall be squandered at the nearest inn? Truly 
 my way to charity is in the sea, and my path 
 through the deep. None the less is it the way, 
 the path, for me. Am I forbidden to say " Let 
 there be light " until the waters be gathered 
 into one place and the dry land appears ? How 
 do I know that light itself is not needed to dry 
 the waters ? How do I know that my gift 
 may not be the turning-point in the man's life ? 
 Does my Father keep His forgiveness until He 
 sees the fruits of the Spirit ? No ; He says 
 g 2 
 
100 8EABGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 over the chaos, " Let there be light." He sends 
 out His sunbeams into the dark. He sends 
 them out on speculation. He makes an invest- 
 ment of His love in a bank most perilous ; He 
 risks His heart upon the storm. Oh ! Love, 
 divinely speculative, Love that hast not waited 
 for the assurance of reward, Love that hast 
 perilled all upon the merest possibility, let me 
 mould myself in Thee. Many a dove has been 
 sent from my ark, and has come back no more. 
 If I listened to the voice of reason, I would say, 
 " Let me send no further gifts ; they will be lost 
 on the face of the waters." But Thou, oh Love, 
 art earlier than reason ; Thou art before all 
 things. Thou lingerest not for the ceasing of 
 the storm ; the stillness follows Thee, and does 
 not precede Thee. Thy smile rises in the 
 tempest. Thine eye beams in the night. Thy 
 heart glows in the winter. Thou lightest the 
 waves while yet they are troubled; Thou givest 
 in advance Thy gold. Make me in Thine own 
 image once more. Give me the power to specu- 
 late — to risk like Thee. Give me the charity 
 that can live when prophecy has failed and 
 knowledge ceases — that can believe in the fallen 
 when there is no sign, and love them when there 
 
UNCONSCIOUS GIFTS. 101 
 
 is no certainty. The bread I shall cast upon the 
 waters may not be found till after many days ; 
 but in the very moment of my casting I shall 
 find Thee. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Unconscious Gifts. 
 
 Psalm cxxvii. 2 v. 
 " He giveth unto His beloved in their sleep." — (R.V.) 
 
 The most beautiful gifts are those of which their 
 possessor is unconscious. God gives to many of 
 us in our waking state, but not to the highest, 
 not to the best beloved. Talent is got by waking, 
 but not genius. Genius is like the nightingale 
 — unconscious of the beauty of its own song. 
 Even so is there a genius of the spirit. There 
 are souls that win their virtue in the school of 
 stern experience ; God gives to them in waking. 
 But there are others, like the garden of Eden, 
 who need not a man to till the ground. They 
 yield their fruit spontaneously. They are beauti- 
 ful, not because they ought, but because they 
 must. They can no more help being kind than 
 the bee can help making its hive. They are 
 
102 SEARCHING? IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 not under the law, but under grace, and so they 
 do everything, not legally, but gracefully. The 
 flowers of their hearts are wild flowers ; God 
 alone has tended them ; they have bloomed in 
 the light of His smile ; they have called no 
 man master. These are they to whom the 
 Father giveth in their sleep. 
 
 My Father, give me the blessing of those 
 that "sleep in Jesus." I do not need to die 
 that I may sleep in Jesus ; I have but to love. 
 Make me unconscious of myself in the great 
 sleep of love. Take away my sense of merit by 
 removing my sense of struggle. Let me cease 
 to say to myself, " I mean to work for others " ; 
 let me work without saying it, without knowing 
 it. Make the doing of good by me an act of 
 genius — a thing of spontaneous beauty. Let 
 me cease to ask myself if I am breathing rightly 
 the air of Thy Spirit ; such a question is itself 
 an impeding of the breath. Teach me that the 
 health of Thy countenance is like all health — ■ 
 only known by its loss. I would not purchase 
 its knowledge at such a price. I would be a 
 child in the kingdom of Thy Son — happy, with- 
 out counting its happiness ; guileless, without 
 seeing it is pure. Nay, I would be as Thy Son 
 
INCOMPLETENESS WITHOUT CUBIST. 103 
 
 Himself — ever on the bosom of the Father in 
 a sleep of self-forgetfulness. None can reveal 
 Thee hut those who lie on Thy bosom — who 
 become unconscious of every thought of self. If 
 I would see the King in His beauty, I must lose 
 sight even of my highest grace ; Thou givest to 
 Thy beloved only in their sleep. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Incompleteness without Christ. 
 
 Colossians i. 28 v. 
 " Perfect in Christ Jesus." 
 
 Ciirtst is not a miracle ; He is that which 
 takes away the miracle. I am a miracle without 
 Him. I am the only unfinished house in the 
 city of God. There is no creature on the earth 
 so great as I ; but there is none so unfinished. 
 I am better than the flower of the field and the 
 bird of the air ; but I am not nearly so complete. 
 I am less perfect as a man than is the flower 
 as a flower. The (lower has no want that is 
 not met by nature ; but I have one. If there 
 be no Christ, I have a sense without an object ; 
 
IW SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 my faith is vain. I have an object for my 
 e} T e ; I have an object for my ear ; I have an 
 object for my hand ; but I have no object for 
 my faith. I have the belief in a perfect ideal 
 of beauty; I have a faith that, somehow, some- 
 where, I shall find it. Has that faith been a 
 dream ? Is my life a sunflower without a sun ? 
 Is there nothing corresponding to the beauty 
 which I seek ? Do I ever find the form than 
 which I can imagine no fairer ? I gaze on 
 some favoured spot, and for a moment it seems 
 divine ; I shut the eyes, and there rises in 
 fancy a scene more beauteous still. I am un- 
 finished — most unfinished where I am greatest. 
 Nature has left me incomplete. I am a bee 
 without a hive. I build, but there is no edifice ; 
 I plan, but there is no order ; I paint a picture 
 of beauty, but the original never comes. 
 
 Be still, my soul ; Nature is not all — not 
 all for thee. Thy picture has been realised. 
 There has come to thee one exceptional hour 
 which has filled up that which is behind. 
 There has stood before thee a form whose 
 beauty has surpassed thy painting. If thou 
 shouldst close thine eyes a hundred times, thou 
 canst imagine no fairer. He has outstripped 
 
PERFECTION NOT DESTRUCTIVE OF DESIRE. 105 
 
 fancy ; He lias outstripped His own star. He 
 lias made thee what the flower is, what the bird 
 is — complete. He has given thee what thou 
 hadst not before — a wing for thine own atmos- 
 phere. He has made thy promise a fulfilment, 
 thine April a June. He comes not to humiliate 
 thee, but to save thee from humiliation — to 
 break the miracle of thine own unflnishedness. 
 He justifies thee to thyself — justifies thy claim 
 to high predictions, and thy right to noble aims. 
 Nature has broken the pitcher at the fountain ; 
 but thou art perfect in Christ Jesus. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Perfection not Destructive of Desire. 
 
 James i. 4 v. 
 " Perfect and entire, wanting nothing." 
 
 Is that desirable — to lose all sense of desire ? 
 Is not the cure worse than the disease? How 
 can it be a joy to me to have nothing left to 
 wish for ? Nay, but there is no such fear. 
 Perfection is not an absence of desire ; it is an 
 absence of want. The satisfaction of a desire 
 
106 SEARCHING 8 IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 is not its death, but its unimpededness. To 
 fill any craving of my heart is not to remove 
 the craving ; it is to remove that which hinders 
 it. Think you that the longing of love is less 
 warm when it has found its object ? Not so. 
 The wish of my heart is not killed in being 
 gratified ; it lives on in its joy. It is far more 
 apt to be killed by starvation than by fulness. 
 Tf I want for a long time, the appetite goes ; 
 it cannot exist without exercise. Neither can 
 my heart's love ; it will die by long denial. 
 To be overflowing, it must be satisfied. Its 
 longing will never be so great as in the moment 
 of realisation. Its hunger will never be so 
 deep as in the hour of repletion. Its craving 
 will never be so strong as in the day of fruition. 
 I shall not cease to desire when I have ceased 
 to be in want. My heart shall rest from its 
 flight; but it shall rest upon its wing. 
 
 Son of Man, I do not fear to be made 
 perfect in Thee ; I do not fear that when I have 
 gained my promised land I shall weep for my 
 lost wants. The more I possess Thee, the 
 more I must desire Thee. It is the posses- 
 sion of Thee that makes me hungry ; it is the 
 sight of Thee that makes me athirst. I cry for 
 
VEViFECTION NOT DESTRUCTIVE OF DESIRE. 107 
 
 earthly food before I have tasted it ; but I 
 must taste before I can cry for Thee. Nothing 
 but the vision of beauty can create my thirst 
 for beaut}-. It is from the supply of my want 
 that my desire comes. My prayer begins, not 
 where Thou art missing, but where Thou art 
 present ; it comes from the fulness, and not 
 from the emptiness, of my soul. It is my want 
 that dims my power of wishing, which is my 
 power of prayer. My hope is impeded by fear. 
 My faith is clogged by doubt. My love is 
 blunted by uncertainty. Take away my wants, 
 and Thou shalt perfect my wishes. My hope 
 shall become boundless. My faith shall become 
 cloudless. My love shall become flawless. 
 There shall be no restraint upon the longings 
 of my heart — nothing to say to my wish, 
 " beware what you ask." My desires shall no 
 longer soar in the nighty but in the day ; the} r 
 shall see where they go, and, therefore, they 
 shall go more buoyantly. I shall seek Thee 
 with a perfect will when I shall want 
 no more. 
 
108 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 The Struggling Conscience. 
 
 Genesis xxxii. 24 v. 
 
 "There wrestled a man with him until the breaking of 
 the day." 
 
 When conscience wrestles with me, it is always 
 in the form of a man. It is my higher self 
 that strives with me — the Christ within. We 
 have all a higher self — a photograph which 
 Grod took in some pure moment. We have 
 left it behind, but it follows us. Tt meets us 
 in our silent hours. It confronts us with the 
 spectacle of what we might have been. It 
 refuses to let us go until it has blessed us. 
 It is the same thing as Paul felt when he 
 spoke of the spirit lusting against the flesh. 
 The spirit was his better photograph, his Christ, 
 his hope of glory. It is to all of us our hope 
 of glory. It is not the actual man that makes 
 us feel immortal; it is the ideal man — the 
 man that might have been. That is the reason 
 that to me conscience is precious even when 
 it wounds. It is no foreign hand that strikes 
 
THE STRUGGLING CONSCIENCE. 109 
 
 me ; it is my higher self, my inner man, my 
 likeness as God sees it. It is the image of 
 me that is hnng up in heaven — the picture on 
 which my Father gazes to avert despair. It 
 is not only with me that the man wrestles ; he 
 wrestles with the Father for me. He pleads 
 my future possibilities. He suggests my coming 
 glory. He tells what I would be in less vile 
 raiment. He shows what I may be with the 
 ring and the robe. He reveals how I shall 
 look at the breaking of the day. 
 
 My Father, behold me in Thy Son. Let 
 the Divine Man wrestle for me in Thy heart. 
 See in Him my shield ; look on the face of 
 Thine anointed. When Thy heart is grieved 
 for me, turn to the Man on Thy right hand. 
 He is my true self — Thine ideal of myself. 
 He is the likeness of what I shall be at day- 
 break ; keep Thine eye on my daybreak, oh ! 
 my God. Let the sight of Him be my hiding- 
 place from the storm, and my covert from the 
 tempest ; it will avert the tempest of Thy 
 sorrow. In the hour of evil, a man cries in 
 my heart, " thou shalt not " ; let His cry 
 answer for me. Impute to ine the inner Christ, 
 the better self. The groanings of my spirit 
 
110 SEAROHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 are the voice of Thy Spirit ; let them intercede 
 for me. Judge me by the Man whom Thou 
 hast ordained — the wrestling man. Judge me 
 by the high resolve, the lofty aim, the kindling 
 thought. Judge me by the eager wish whose 
 flight the flesh cannot follow, by the strong 
 will whose stroke the hand cannot second. 
 Judge me by the pain that succeeds to failure, 
 the wound that conies from sinning, the remorse 
 that waits on doin^ wrong. Judge me, not 
 hy the breaking of the mirror, but by the 
 sight of the face I have seen in breaking it; 
 for the face is the higher man — the Man 
 Christ Jesus. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The Temptation to Silence Conscience. 
 
 Genesis xxxii. 26 v. 
 "And lie said, Let me go, for the day breaketh." 
 
 It is at daybreak that our angels nee away. 
 The struggles of conscience are most felt at 
 night. In the silent hour, when the day has 
 gone to rest, and the pulse of the great city 
 lies still, my heart wakes to its own significance ; 
 
TEE TEMPTATION TO SILENCE CONSCIENCE. Ill 
 
 I realise what an awful thing it is to be a 
 human soul. But when the morning comes, 
 I lose my sense of importance, and, with it, 
 my feeling of solemnity. I cease to be a 
 solitary man — an island of life in the darkness. 
 I clin^ to the visible garment of the outer 
 universe. I become one of the vast multitude. 
 I lose my separate conscience, and, along with it, 
 my separate struggle. The angel that wrestled 
 with me when alone, deserts me in the crowd. 
 The vows of night are cancelled by the rising 
 sun. The songs of night are drowned by the 
 wheels of merchandise. The prayers of night 
 are ended with the breaking of the day. 
 
 My Father, help me to retain my night- 
 angel. May I refuse to let him go till he 
 has blessed me for the day. Teach me that the 
 struggles of my angel, though they come by 
 night, are not meant for night. Why should 
 he leave me with the light of morning? Is 
 there more of earth in the morniug than in the 
 night ? Then, I need him more, I need Thee 
 more, oh, my Father. It is for moments most 
 unlike Thee that I most require Thee. It 
 is easy to feel Thy presence in the void — in 
 the solitude of night, where no other presence 
 
112 SEAROHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 comes. But to feel Thee where there is no void, 
 to perceive Thee in the heart of other things, 
 to behold Thee among the forms which men call 
 common and unclean — this is indeed to he 
 religious. It is easy to know Thy face when 
 I see nothing between me and the stars. But 
 when, like Peter, I see let down from heaven 
 a great sheet filled with prosaic fare, it is hard 
 to believe that it comes from Thee. It is easy 
 to recognise Thee when I am on the wing ; it 
 is hard to feel Thy presence when I halt upon 
 my thigh. It is for the noontide that I need 
 Thee, oh, my Father. Leave me not when 
 the romance of life leaves me. Leave me not 
 when the solemn stars have faded into the 
 light of common day. Leave me not when the 
 gate of the temple called Beautiful has closed, 
 and I stand with lame feet upon the dusty 
 way. Thou hast followed me into the silence, 
 and I shall follow Thee into the crowd ; I will 
 not part with Thee at the breaking of the day. 
 
113 
 
 XLV. 
 The Enlargement of the Soul. 
 
 2 Corinthians vi. 13 v. 
 " Be ye also enlarged." 
 
 How shall I enlarge my heart? When I want 
 to enlarge ray field, I know what to do ; I 
 break down the fences that mark it off from 
 other fields. But the evil of my natural heart 
 is that it has already too few fences — too much 
 of its own ground. If I would enlarge my 
 heart, I must do it in the opposite way from 
 the field. I must curtail my own extent by 
 giving more space to the fields of others ; I 
 must put up new fences, to shut out my self- 
 nature. The enlargement of my heart is love, 
 and love is a limiting of myself. It is a 
 setting up of other kingdoms within my own 
 domains. Love takes the half of my field and 
 gives it to my brother, and then against myself 
 it writes over it the words, " no trespassing." 
 The enlargement of my heart is the death of 
 selfish freedom — the death which Paul says " is 
 gain." It is the captivity to Christ, yea, the 
 
 H 
 
114 SEARGEINGS IN THE SILENOE. 
 
 captivity of Christ. Often have I thought of 
 these words, " He saved others ; Himself He 
 cannot save." They were meant for a reproach, 
 but they were the grandest compliment ever 
 paid to love. It is the glory of love that it 
 can say, " I cannot." It is the glory of love 
 that it can empty itself into a servant's form, 
 and he compelled by its own nature to obey. 
 It is the glory of love that it " constraineth 
 us," forceth us, maketh prisoners of us. It is 
 the glory of love that it has a crown of thorns 
 — thorns of sympathetic pain, which it is power- 
 less to escape, and bound to bear. It is the 
 crown for which Jesus prayed when He said, 
 " Glorify Thy Son." 
 
 Son of Man, who hast reached Thy highest 
 glory in the inability to save Thyself, grant 
 me this enlarging powerlessness. Raise up in 
 my heart that Divine barrier called Love. Shut 
 the door upon my selfish nature. Put a wall 
 of compassion in the middle of my soul. Make 
 it impossible for me to hurt my brother, to 
 trespass on the ground of my brother. Nay, 
 that is a small thing ; make it essential for me 
 to enter the service of my brother, to become a 
 worker in his field. My heart is not free until 
 
WHY GOD HIDES HIMSELF. 115 
 
 it is imprisoned ; it only says " I can " when it 
 says " I must." Put Thy gold fetters on it, 
 that it may expand. Bring it down from the 
 wing into the cage, that it may have room to 
 grow. Take away its freedom of indifference. 
 Make it the slave of something, of somebody. 
 Give it an aim to live for, to die for. Give it 
 a yoke to bear, that it may find rest. Enclose 
 it in human bonds, that it may learn to throb. 
 When the bars of Thy love shall encircle it, 
 it shall be enlarged indeed. 
 
 XLYI. 
 
 Why God Hides Himself. 
 
 Habakkuk iii. 4 v. 
 " There was the hiding -of his power." 
 
 My Father pretends to be not omnipotent. It 
 is the most beautiful fiction in all the world. 
 It gives me what I call the freedom of the 
 will. He puts me on an open plain, and tells 
 me to walk alone. He never really lets me go, 
 never loses hold of the fringe of my garment ; 
 but He hides the guidance of His hand, and 
 h 2 
 
116 SEARGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 makes it appear as if He were not there. He 
 stands at a seeming distance, and says "Come." 
 He makes me think that I am all by myself. 
 He does not let me see His everlasting arms 
 around me. He does not let me feel the 
 encircling care lest I dash my foot against a 
 stone. He does not let me know that I am 
 guarded utterly, jealously, all round. He 
 conceals His supporting arm in a mist ; He 
 leaves a margin for my own choice. If I 
 need the fire by night, I need still more the 
 cloud by day. So much vision would destroy 
 my manhood ; it would compel me to come in. 
 I must not be compelled to come in ; I must 
 come of my own accord. I must not be driven 
 from forbidden fruit by the flaming sword and 
 the cherubim. The stars are so driven ; there is 
 compulsion into the way of light. But into 
 the way of life there is no compulsion. I am 
 not a star ; I am a soul. I may not be driven ; 
 I must choose. God must hide himself amid 
 the trees of the garden that I may feel myself 
 to be free. 
 
 Therefore, I am glad, oh, my Father, that 
 Thou hast not wholly revealed Thyself; I am 
 glad there is a cloud as well as a bow. Men 
 
WHY GOD HIDES HIMSELF. 117 
 
 praise Thee for Thy many voices ; they ought 
 to praise Thee for Thy silence too. Thy silence 
 is precious to me ; it gives a voice to my heart. 
 In Thy silence my heart finds room ; faith 
 soars, imagination speeds, hope beckons, will 
 longs, conscience cries. Thy silence is my 
 music ; Thy shadow is my revealing ; Thy 
 night is my day. When I see not Thy hand 
 of retribution, I awake to the majesty of un- 
 aided virtue. When I hear not the sound of 
 Thy last trumpet, I listen to the judgment 
 of the still, small voice. When I read not 
 Thy writing on the wall, I consult the tables 
 of my own book of life. The ceasing of the 
 thunders of Sinai has left room for the sighing 
 of my love ; I am glad that Thou hast hid 
 the fulness of Th}^ power. 
 
118 
 XLTII. 
 
 Man Revealed to Himself. 
 
 1 Corinthians xiv. 25 v. 
 " And thus are the secrets of his heart made manifest." 
 
 Made manifest to whom ? Xot to others, hut 
 to the man himself. Nothing hides a secret 
 from me like my own heart. I know more of 
 my friend than I do of myself. Truly was it 
 said that the heart is deceitful above all things. 
 It keeps a secret drawer which itself cannot open. 
 There are no surprises like the surprises of my 
 own soul at news of itself. There are treasures 
 lying latent in my heart, of whose possibility I 
 do not dream. I never can dream of my own 
 riches until I am touched b} T a kindred soul. 
 Till the kindred soul appears, my sleep is un- 
 broken. But with the sight of that other face, 
 the spell vanishes ; I first dream, then wake. I 
 am like a deaf-mute restored to hearing. I find 
 that the blank space was a foaming cataract 
 waiting for the unsealing of the waters. The 
 silence was peopled with imprisoned passions. 
 There were tempests of love longing to be 
 
MAN REVEALED TO HIMSELF. 119 
 
 uttered, floods of emotion ready to be poured, 
 torrents of tenderness eager to flow. They 
 waited for the angel to roll away the stone, and 
 then they revealed themselves — revealed within 
 the sepulchre a living man. 
 
 Thou Light and Life of men, to Whom the 
 secrets of all hearts are open, my heart is a 
 sepulchre until it finds Thee. It is not to know 
 my future that I most need to find Thee ; it is 
 to know my present. When I meet Thee, I 
 discover myself. The books of my life are never 
 really opened till I see Thee on the throne. Thou 
 art to me what the light is to my picture on the 
 wall. It has hung for long hours in a dark 
 room, and I myself did not see it. But the 
 breaking of Thy day has fallen upon my picture, 
 and, for the first time, I have beheld myself. 
 And, now that I behold myself, I know that all 
 along, I have been in search of Thee. I did not 
 see Thee when I was under the fig-tree ; but 
 now that Thou hast shaken the leaves, I know 
 that I was waiting for Thee. I know it because 
 Thou art not wholly new to me. I seem to 
 have heard Thy voice before. It comes to me 
 like a refrain, like a memory. It wakes echoes 
 in my past ; it makes me say, " When did I 
 
120 SEAMCHING8 IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 hear that song ? " Thou hast swept the chords 
 of my harp, and revealed its music. Thou hast 
 touched the strings of my love and evoked its 
 passion. Thou hast lighted the room of my 
 conscience, and displayed its ideal portrait ; and 
 lo ! it is the likeness of Thyself. The secrets of 
 my heart are made manifest in Thee. 
 
 XLVIIL 
 
 Provision in Advance. 
 
 John x. 3 v. 
 " To liini the porter openeth." 
 
 When a man approaches the right door, he does 
 not need to open it himself; it is done for him. 
 There is always someone behind the right door 
 ready to let me in. I may knock for ages at 
 the wrong one ; I may beat with clubs of iron 
 against opposing gates ; if they are not the gates 
 for me, they will not yield. But when I come 
 to the true gate, the porter opens it in advance. 
 I never require to knock ; the barriers recede 
 from before me. I do not carve my openings 
 in life ; they are made before I come up — made 
 
PROVISION IN ADVANCE. 121 
 
 by what men call accident. Pharaoh's daughter 
 would have walked by the banks of the Kile 
 though I had not been drowning. The ram 
 would have been caught in the thicket though I 
 had never climbed the steep of Moriah. The 
 door that lets me in may have opened to let 
 another out. " Then, it all happened quite 
 naturally," you say; "there was no Providence 
 in it." Yes, it all happened quite naturally, and, 
 therefore, there was a Providence in it. What is 
 Providence ? It is the weaving of my life into 
 another life ; it is the music of footsteps moving 
 different ways. The shepherds come to watch, 
 aud the angels come to sing ; but the watchers 
 and the singers meet face to face, and each enters 
 by the other's door. 
 
 I thank Thee, oh, my Father, that the doors 
 of my life are not left to be opened by me. I 
 thank Thee that behind the right door the porter 
 ever stands. Thou hast set before me, not a 
 door to be opened, but " an open door.'' When 
 I come up, I shall find it already ajar, and I shall 
 enter easily in. It is the distance that appals 
 me. My door seems a closed one till I 
 reach it. The struggles of my heart are 
 struggles of anticipation. I need faith, not for 
 
122 SEARGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 the moment, but for the prospect. When the 
 door is distant, the opening is invisible. Be it 
 so, my Father ; Thou hast promised me my 
 bread for each day, but not my bread for to- 
 morrow. Yet, let me believe that to-morrow's 
 door has been opened to-day. Let me believe 
 that, while I was yet afar off, my Father saw 
 me. Let me believe that the Ararat of my peace 
 was prepared below the flood. Teach me that 
 the fulness of my time is not my struggle, but 
 my facility. Teach me that, if my hour 
 were come, the water would become wine 
 spontaneously. Teach me that, if the door has 
 opened to the instinct of the bee, it must have 
 opened still wider to my soul. I have lost a 
 sense in becoming man. Give me the bee's un- 
 consciousness of self, that I may be filled with Thy 
 Divine instinct, and led without struggle to the 
 ivory gate and golden. I shall know the true 
 door by one direction ; it is the door that is 
 already open. 
 
123 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Instinctive Christians. 
 
 2 Peter iii. 14 v. 
 "That ye may be found of Him in peace." 
 
 There are two sets of minds in the Christian 
 life — those who find Christ, and those whom 
 Christ finds. Those who find Christ are active; 
 those who are found by Christ are passive. The 
 one have a hard struggle ; the other enter the 
 gates " in peace." There are some whose ex- 
 perience is that of the wise men of the east ; 
 they search for the star, and discover it after 
 many days. There are others like the keepers 
 of the flock of Bethlehem ; the} r are engaged in 
 their own work, and the star comes to them. 
 The men of the east are men of talent; they 
 plan, and they succeed. But the keepers of the 
 flock are men of genius ; they never need to 
 plan ; they are illuminated in a moment. In 
 the midst of their daily toil there is suddenly 
 with them a multitude of the heavenly host 
 singing " gloiy." They are like the great 
 masters iu music ; their work costs them little 
 
124 SEARCHING^ IJS r THE SILENCE. 
 
 trouble. They are born to love ; they are made 
 to sacrifice ; they are bound to say the right 
 thing at the right time. The garment of good- 
 ness becomes them, sits gracefully on them. It 
 is a garment, not of heaviness, but of praise. 
 The men who are found by Christ take the 
 kingdom by violence. 
 
 Son of Man, I would like to be one of Thy 
 men of genius — one of those who are found by 
 Thee. I would like Thy life to be my starting- 
 point rather than my goal. I would rather fly 
 with Thee than to Thee. I do not want to wait 
 for Thy rest till the end of the journey; I want 
 to journey on Thy wing. I would have rest 
 before I start — rest to help my start, rest to 
 sustain my start. It is by Thy rest I would 
 travel ; I would walk by rest, run by rest, fly by 
 rest. If I come first to seek Thee, I shall be 
 weary when I find Thee ; however short the 
 way, it is too long without Thee. Shall I ask 
 the wings of a dove, that I may fly away and be 
 at rest ? Nay ; let me get Thy rest, and then 
 I shall have the wings. There is no power of 
 motion like the repose in Thee. The brooding of 
 Thy Spirit is a rushing, mighty wind ; it will 
 carry me beyond myself — into the life of my 
 
THE RETRIEVING OF YESTERDAY. 125 
 
 brother. Come, then, to me, oh, Dove of the 
 Firmament. Wait not till I seek Thee, amid the 
 troubles of the wilderness. Descend upon me at 
 the dawn. Light upon me when the heavens 
 are opened, and the waters of youth are spark- 
 ling. Abide on me when it is morning and 
 the day is yet to begin. Spread Thy wings 
 over me before I go out into the temptation. 
 Bring Thy message of peace, and I shall be 
 strengthened for every war. I shall find my- 
 self when I am found by Thee. 
 
 L. 
 
 The Retrieving of Yesterday. 
 
 Isaiah ix. 3 v. 
 " They joy before Thee according to the joy in harvest." 
 
 The kind of joy which I would like to have in 
 the presence of God is the joy of harvest. What 
 is the joy of harvest? It is a resurrection joy. 
 It is not the gladness which comes from getting 
 anything new; it is the satisfaction of seeing 
 the rising of buried things — the bursting from 
 the ground of what I believed to be dead. 
 
126 8EARCHINGS IX THE 8ILENGE. 
 
 There is no joy to me like that. It is far more 
 than being lifted out of my trouble ; it is the 
 lifting of my trouble itself. It is good to be 
 taken from the fearful pit, and from the miry 
 clay ; but it is not the highest thing. The 
 highest thing is to find that the miry clay itself 
 contained gems of gold. It is much to be 
 delivered from my past ; but it is more to have 
 my past vindicated, justified — to be able to say, 
 " It was good for me to have been afflicted." I 
 do not think that Job's was a perfect compensa- 
 tion. He was cured of his ailments, and he 
 received new houses and lands. It was a joy, 
 but it was not a harvest joy. It did not explain 
 the years of famine. It did not make up for 
 the time of waste. It did not say why the 
 night had been. You may tell me that the 
 night is far spent, and the day is at hand ; it is 
 well, but it is not sufficient. I want to know 
 that there are songs in the night itself. I want 
 to feel that I have not been wasting time. I 
 want to believe that even my desert moments 
 have been a march to the promised land. I 
 would have the joy of reaping the buried grain 
 — the joy of harvest. 
 
 Oh ! Thou, who art come to seek and to save 
 
THE RETRIEVING OF YESTERDAY. 127 
 
 lost things, buried tilings, T lift mine e}'es to 
 Thee. Many have offered me a golden morrow ; 
 Thou alone hast offered to retrieve my yesterday. 
 Many would give me a new garden ; Thou alone 
 rememberesi the treasure hid in the old ground. 
 Give me back my past, oh, Lord. Restore to me 
 the waste places of my heart. Reveal to me the 
 meaning of my failures. Teach me the track of 
 the path I deemed trackless. Show me the 
 angel sitting on the tomb of my buried self. 
 Show me that the man with whom I wrestled 
 at Peniel was a man from heaven. Show me 
 the vision of beauty that hovered over my pillow 
 of stone. Show me that there was manna in my 
 desert, which even Canaan did not hold. Then 
 shall mine be a harvest joy, a resurrection joy, 
 the joy of gathering the buried past. Then 
 shall my heart be satisfied that the travail ol 
 the soul was autumn's gain. Then shall my 
 monntain view indeed be beautiful, for it shall 
 be seen from the place of my former valley. 
 The joy of harvest is the joy of redeeming 
 love. 
 
128 
 
 LI. 
 
 The Blessing of Conflict. 
 
 Psalm Ixxviii. 5 v. 
 
 " For He established a testimony in Jacob 
 
 which He commanded our fathers that they should make 
 them known to their children." 
 
 What is the testimony of Jacob? It is his 
 witness to the power of sorrow. His whole 
 life is such a witness. He lies at night on a 
 couch of stone, bemoaning his hard lot ; and 
 he has such a dream as never came from bed 
 of down. He wrestles amid the shadows with 
 a great calamity ; and, when the day breaks, lo ! 
 it is an angel. He gets a bodily imperfection, 
 in the shape of a shrunk sinew. He fears it 
 will lower his influence among a sensuous race. 
 And, behold ! it heightens it — heightens it so 
 much that men call him by a new name — Israel, 
 the Prince of God. That is the testimony of 
 Jacob; that is the testimony which the Psalmist 
 bids us spread from sire to son. Tell your 
 children, he says, that the new name, reached 
 by straggle, is the law of all life. Tell them, 
 
THE BLESSING OF CONFLICT. 129 
 
 on the very threshold of the dawn, that the 
 experience of Jacob is to be their experience. 
 Tell them to include in their dream of life the 
 couch of stone, to find a place for the daybreak 
 in the midnight struggle, to see the mercy of 
 God in the impotent limb. Tell them that if 
 they would ascend to heaven, it must be " on 
 stepping-stones of their dead selves," for the 
 ladder will not bear the weight of a selfish 
 heart, and the gold of the New Jerusalem is 
 only seen by averted eyes. 
 
 Son of Man, teach me what it is to be made 
 for Thee. I have begun life with the vision of 
 Jacob's dream, but without the vision of Jacob's 
 couch ; I have seen the shining, but not the 
 shade. Eeveal to me that what I call the shade, 
 Thou callest the shining. Reveal to me that 
 the night in my hemisphere is the day in Thine. 
 Reveal to me that the strait gate and the 
 narrow way must needs be the gate to glory. 
 I used to think my sacrifices were sent to pre- 
 pare me for heaven by contrast ; tell me it is 
 not so. Let me see that the gate to heaven is 
 sacrifice, because heaven itself is sacrifice. Teach 
 me the harmony between the way, the truth, and 
 the life. Show me the symmetry between Thy 
 i 
 
130 SEARCHING,? IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 Cross and Thy Crown. Let me learn that the 
 divineness of love means the divineness of pain. 
 Let me learn that eternal life is the power of 
 perpetually dying. Let me learn that the 
 flowers of Paradise are the blossoms of early 
 tears — the daybreak vision of what was sewn 
 by night. So shall I hear the testimony of 
 Jacob. 
 
 LII. 
 
 The Power of Prospect. 
 
 2 Samuel xxii. 13 v. 
 
 " Through the brightness before Him were coals of fire 
 kindled." 
 
 There are two kinds of brightness — memory and 
 hope. Memory is the glass of old age ; it is the 
 brightness behind. Hope is the glass of youth ; 
 it is the brightness before. Memory sees a 
 glorified past, with its clouds transmuted into 
 gold; hope beholds a radiant future, with no 
 clouds to be transmuted. Memory is beautiful, 
 but it is not kindling ; it stirs not the fire of 
 enthusiasm ; the vision of a brightness behind 
 me is allied to tears. But hope makes me glow. 
 
TTIE POWER OF PROSPECT. 131 
 
 The vision of to-morrow fires me. It is not 
 brighter than yesterday; hut yesterday is past, 
 and this is coming. The record of the past can 
 make me grateful, but only the sight of the 
 future can make me strong ; in " the brightness 
 before " are coals of fire kindled. 
 
 My Father, give me back my youth. Give 
 me back that glow of expectation which lived in 
 to-morrow, and had no yesterday. Give me back 
 the glass of hope which swept the coming 
 horizon and saw no cloud therein. Give me 
 back the sight of the jasper sea, and the view of 
 the emerald rainbow, and the glimpse of a world 
 without night. Let Thy Christ make me a 
 child again — a child on fire with promises. If 
 His flame shall kindle my bush, no earthly care 
 shall consume it. The plagues of Egypt will 
 not ; the waters of Marah will not ; the 
 thunders of Sinai will not ; the dearth of the 
 desert will not ; the sunset of Nebo will not. 
 If the Promised Land be before me, clouds and 
 darkness shall in vain be round about me ; their 
 elements shall melt with fervent heat in the 
 brightness of hope's gloiy. 
 
 i 2 
 
132 
 
 MIL 
 The Power of God's Presence. 
 
 Isaiah lxiii. 9 v. 
 " The angel of His presence saved them." 
 
 Strange that men should be saved by a presence ; 
 it is such a quiet thing. Salvation might be 
 thought to require something strong, potent, 
 compelling ; we are surprised at an influence so 
 gentle. Yet, I think, the most potent thing in 
 the world is just a presence. What is it that 
 determines the rank in society? It is the 
 answer to the question, "Who are there?" 
 What is it that brings condolence to an hour of 
 bereavement? It is just the saying of one to 
 another, " I am with you." It is not what is 
 spoken ; it is not what is done ; it is the sense 
 that some one is there. So is it with my Father. 
 I am not anxious to know the why, but only the 
 where, of God. It matters little to me for what 
 purpose He walks upon the storm, nor is it of 
 deadly consequence whether or not He shall say, 
 "Peace, be still." The all-important thing is 
 that the feet upon the sea should be His feet — 
 
THE POWER OF GOD'S PRESENCE. 133 
 
 His, and not another's. Tell me that, and I ask 
 no more. There is all the difference in the 
 world between a silent room and an empty room. 
 There is a companionship where there is no 
 voice. Is it not written, " In Thy presence is 
 fulness of joy?" In the very sense that my 
 Father is there, though He speak not, though 
 He whisper not, though He write not His 
 message in a book, there comes to my heart a 
 great calm. 
 
 Eeveal Thy presence, oh, my God. I want 
 Thy presence even more than Thy power. The 
 stilling of the waves is something ; but it is not 
 the main thing. The main thing is that Thy 
 way is in the sea and Thy path through the deep. 
 I would rather have the bow in the cloud than 
 the cloudlessness without the bow. I would 
 rather have the storm with Thee than the calm 
 without the sign of Thee. I would rather have 
 the cross with Thy presence than the crown in 
 Thine absence. Art Thou in the thunder, and 
 the earthquake, and the fire ? That is all I 
 want to know. I ask not the revealing of Thy 
 truth ; I ask the revealing of Thee. Keep Thy 
 mysteries in the great deep ; bury Thy purposes 
 in the vast silence ; conceal, if Thou wilt, the 
 
134 SEARCHING S IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 meaning of my terrors and my tears; but tell 
 me — oh ! tell me, -that the room which is silent is 
 not empty. Tell me that in the midst of the 
 furnace is one like unto the Son of Man. Tell 
 me that amid the lightnings of Mount Sinai sits 
 the form of the Law-giver. Tell me that the 
 burning bush of Horeb was lit by the torch of 
 love. I am not afraid of any judgment-day 
 where Thou art on the throne ; the angel of Thy 
 presence is enough for me. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Looking Through the Crystal. 
 
 Revelation xxii. 1 v. 
 
 " And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear 
 as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the 
 Lamb." 
 
 It is a clearness of revelation that is here spoken 
 of. The crystal is an emblem of revelation. 
 Men have looked into it to know the future. 
 What St. John wants to know is the present. 
 His mystery is not heaven, but earth ; it is 
 Patmos, with its separating sea. The revelation 
 
LOOKING THROUGH THE CRYSTAL. 135 
 
 lie wants is an unfolding of the secret of 
 sorrow. And where does he find this crystal 
 river of revealing? Strangely enough, in God. 
 We are often apt to explain why there should 
 he a mystery in sorrow by saying that God's 
 ways are above us. St. John says it is only 
 by looking at God's w T ays that the mystery of 
 sorrow vanishes. It is " from the throne of God 
 and of the Lamb " that the river of revelation 
 flows. " The throne of God and the Lamb " — 
 what is that ? It is the power of sacrifice. 
 The plan of the world is as clear as crystal 
 when I see the Lamb on the throne. As long 
 as I think sacrifice a blemish, nothing can 
 explain it. If heaven is incompatible with 
 pain, the crystal can never be clear. But if 
 pain be on the throne of God, if sorrow be 
 a necessity of love divine, my view is luminous. 
 If the river that makes glad comes from the 
 fountain of sacrifice, if the pleasures at God's 
 right hand are born of self-surrender, I can 
 see with satisfaction the travail of my soul. 
 I may well drink of the river of His pleasures. 
 
 My Father, let me see the source of Thy 
 stream. I am not afraid of anything that it 
 has carried from the be^innin^. When I first 
 
136 SEARCIIIXGS IX THE SILENCE. 
 
 saw the dark places in the river, I thought 
 they had come in somewhere during its course. 
 But if I am told that they are there from 
 the days of the stream, it makes all the differ- 
 ence. Nothing impure can come from Thee. 
 The source of the stream is Thy Throne. If 
 sacrifice be on Thy Throne, the winter is past. 
 I am not anxious to trace the river forward to 
 its ocean j I would rather trace it backward 
 to its rise. They tell me that my pain will 
 issue in glory ; but has it issued from glory — 
 from Thee? Reveal Thy Christ, oh, God! 
 Eeveal the divinity of sacrifice. Eeveal that 
 the Lamb was slain from the foundation. Eeveal 
 that not Eden, but Gethsemane, was the world's 
 garden. Eeveal that the red, and not the white, 
 blossom was the goal in Thy heart which made 
 the dawn in my life. The veil of my temple is 
 not sorrow, but its seeming accident alness ; rend 
 Thou my temple -veil. I shall have a front 
 view of the universe when I see the Lamb on 
 the Throne. 
 
137 
 
 LV. 
 Light in Christ. 
 
 Jolm i. 4 v. 
 'The life was the light of men.' 
 
 Christ has illuminated the world, not by what 
 He did, but by what He was ; His life is the 
 Light of Men. We speak of a man's life-work ; 
 the work of Jesus was His life itself. When I 
 want to get light from others, I consult their 
 books ; when I want to get light from Christ, I 
 hang up His picture. It is not what He says 
 that I chiefly treasure. The Sermon on the 
 Mount is grand ; but the Preacher is greater. 
 It is good to be told that the pure in heart shall 
 see God; but the vision of heaven in a pure 
 man's face outweighs it all. They tell us that 
 the Easter morning has revealed His glory ; 
 rather would I say that His glory has revealed 
 the Easter morning. It is not resurrection that 
 has made Christ ; it is Christ that has made 
 resurrection. To those who have seen His 
 beauty, even Olivet can add no certainty; the 
 light of immortality is as bright on His Cross 
 
138 SEAR CITINGS IN TEE SILENCE. 
 
 as on His Crown. " I am the resurrection " are 
 His own words about Himself — not " I teach," 
 not "I cause," not "I predict," but "I am." 
 He thought it almost superfluous to say " In 
 My Father's house are many mansions " ; His 
 life should have been itself our light. " If it 
 were not so, I should have told you." 
 
 My soul, art thou in doubt about thy 
 future ? Art thou searching for a testimony of 
 Christ on the nature of angels? Thou art 
 looking too far. Not His testimony, but His 
 life, shall be thy light. What shall be thy 
 proof of the spring? Not the primrose, not 
 the swallows, not even the sunshine, but the 
 breath within thee of the opening year. No 
 man by searching can find the ivory gate that 
 leads to immortality. There is no method but 
 the method of Jesus — life. He came to the 
 Crown when He was following the Cross j He 
 found the gate of heaven when he was seeking 
 the door of earth. So shall it be with thee, oh, 
 my soul. Is the ivory gate dim to thee ? Do 
 not strive to clear thy sight. Forget the gate 
 in the going. Turn thine eyes to the day and 
 to the dust. Turn thine ears to the cry in the 
 desert. Turn thine hands to the labour of the 
 
GOD 'S SIGHT OF OUR BEGINNINGS. 139 
 
 toiling'. Turn thy heart to the wants of the 
 weary. And, lo ! in the unexpected scene 
 the ivory gate shall shine. The door to God 
 shall open through the dust ; the road to Olivet 
 shall glitter in the gloom ; and, where the rivers 
 of humanity meet, thou shalt find the way to 
 Paradise. To live the life of Jesus is thy 
 only light. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 God's Sight of Our Beginnings. 
 
 Psalm cxxxix. 2 v. 
 " Thou imderstandest my thought afar off." 
 
 Love is longsighted ; Divine love is the longest 
 sighted. It sees me when I am standing on the 
 very boundary -line between the good and the 
 bad. What is that boundary-line ? It is the 
 wish to be. There is a time when I have no 
 virtue but a longing, no gift but an admiration, 
 no soaring but a sigh. I have only drawn the 
 curtains and looked out upon the world of life, 
 and. confessed that it is better to be out than in. 
 No common eye would see in me any difference 
 from other men. Who can tell where the last 
 
140 SEARGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 plant ends and the first sentient life begins? 
 Often have I thought of these words, " two shall 
 be grinding at the mill ; one shall be taken and 
 the other left." The two are wondrously alike ; 
 the locality is the same, the occupation is the 
 same, the outer deed is the same. What makes 
 the difference? To each the mill of the universe 
 utters one sound ; both hear the voice of the 
 grinding. But to each it is a separate voice. 
 To the one it is only the mill ; to the other it is 
 the music of the mill. One hears but the 
 monotonous hum of daily toil ; to the other the 
 mill is saying " bright fields beyond." 
 
 And that, oh, my Father, is what Thou 
 nearest, what Thou seest in me. It is a signal 
 at the very end of the line ; but Thou readest it 
 afar off. Saul is persecuting the Church, and 
 men are flying from him ; but Thou seest in 
 him the signal of need ; Thou knowest that he 
 cries for the Christ whom he disclaims. All 
 men can greet me when my light from heaven 
 comes ; but to Thee my beginning is the dark- 
 ness on the face of the deep. In the very 
 warrings of my spirit Thou canst read my 
 attraction to Thy Christ. Thou canst see my 
 couscious blindness long before I reach 
 
CHILDHOOD AT THE LAST. 141 
 
 Damascus. Thou knowest that my journey 
 to Damascus has been itself a groping, my 
 loudness the loudness of despair, my courage the 
 fear to pause and think. Men hear the grind- 
 ing, but Thou nearest the music. I would 
 rather have Thee than my brother to write my 
 epitaph. My brother waits for Damascus ; 
 Thou findest me at Jerusalem. If I die on the 
 road to Damascus, I have no chance from my 
 brother ; but even then, Thou shaft see the Paul 
 beneath the persecutor. Unto whom can I go 
 but unto Thee; Thou understandest my thought 
 afar off. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Childhood at the Last. 
 
 Luke xv. 24 v. 
 " And they began to be merry." 
 
 Began ! "Was the life of joy only beginning 
 now ? The prodigal had expected to find 
 merriment in his youth ; he had left his father's 
 house with a view to find it. And had it only 
 come at the end of the day, when youth was 
 gone and the shadows were lengthening? Yes, 
 
U-2 SEAIiCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 that is the order of the life of God. We speak 
 of the Wheel of Life ; that of the soul is not a 
 wheel, but a triangle. It is heavy at the base 
 and light afc the summit. It grows lighter as 
 we climb. The heavy heart is at the beginning 
 — on the ground-floor. As we ascend, the air 
 grows rarer, and, at the top, the soul is buoyant. 
 I used to wonder what was the meaning of these 
 words, " Except ye become as little children, ye 
 shall not enter into the kingdom." It seemed a 
 strange thing that the beginning should be the 
 most glorious time. But now the mystery is 
 clear. If the child is king, it is because the 
 child is latest. The years of time go from 
 youth to manhood ; but the years of eternity go 
 from manhood to youth. They are born in 
 conscious struggle, and they culminate in un- 
 conscious song. They bud in faith, and they 
 blossom in feeling. Their dawn is the repression 
 of doubt, but their meridian is irrepressible 
 morning. They begin with the knowledge of 
 good and evil ; they reach their maturity in the 
 joy of the Lord. 
 
 Son of Man, it is after Thy judgment the 
 words are spoken, " Enter ye into the joy of your 
 Lord." Thy judgment must come first. I must 
 
CHILDHOOD AT THE LAST. 143 
 
 begin by opening the books and reading the 
 register. It is hard reading ; it is reading for a 
 man, not for a child. But I know that the 
 child is coming afterwards, and the book for the 
 child. I know that the days of unconscious 
 play shall be, not my first, but my latest days. 
 I know that Thy morning comes after Thy 
 evening ; make haste with Thy morning, oh 
 Lord. I am travelling, not to age, but to youth 
 — not from joy to peace, but from peace to joy. 
 I have begun in the mists of manhood ; I have 
 trusted where I cannot trace. One day I shall 
 be a child, and see; and then the trees of the 
 forest shall clap their hands. Come, with the 
 light heart of youth. Come, with the wings of 
 the morning. Come, with the river of Thy 
 pleasures. Make me free ; make me buoyant ; 
 make me gushing ; make me a child of Nature ; 
 make me a breath of spring. Give me the rose 
 in late autumn, and the song of the swallow in 
 November. I have entered by the strait gate ; 
 I have journeyed by the narrow way ; when I 
 reach the Father's house I shall begin to be 
 merry. 
 
144 
 LVIII. 
 
 God in the World. 
 
 John xiv. 22 v. 
 
 " How is it that Thou wilt manifest Thyself unto us, 
 and not unto the world 1 " 
 
 Jude was really asking a very common question 
 — how can two men look at the same object 
 and see differently ? Yet, they can, and they 
 do. You and I go up together into the temple 
 of Nature — you, with a measuring-rod ; I, with 
 a prayer-book. You count how long it will 
 take to walk round it; I how before a mys'ic 
 presence. You estimate the weight of the corn 
 — you buy and sell in the temple ; / am thrilled 
 with a sense of beauty, humbled by an im- 
 pression of mystery. Yet, we have gazed on 
 the same form. To both it has one size, one 
 colour, one shape. Why do you call it the 
 world, and I, the other world ? It is because 
 we have brought different worlds into the 
 temple. We draw out of the vision exactly 
 what we put in. You have put in the seats of 
 the money-changers, and you get out the seats 
 
GOD IN THE WORLD. U5 
 
 of the money-changers again, accompanied by 
 a scourge of small cords. / have put in my 
 belief in the omnipresence of beauty, and I 
 get out its presence from this spot of ground. 
 Nature has manifested herself to me as she has 
 not done to the world. 
 
 Who shall see the beauty of Thy face, oh 
 Lord ? It is a beauty of the spirit, and can 
 only be read by the spirit. It is not space that 
 veils Thy brightness from any man ; it is the 
 thoughts of the heart. That which we call 
 the world is within us ; it is not in the air, 
 but in the soul. The world of revelation is not 
 beyond the grave ; it is beyond the mire. Not 
 by wings of angels, but by purity of heart, 
 shall we find Thee. We speak of Thee as 
 behind the veil ; Thou art only behind the 
 veil of selfishness. Rend the veil of selfishness, 
 and we shall see Thee. We ask not change of 
 place, but change of soul. We are now in the 
 midst of Thine eternity ; reveal Thyself, oh 
 God. We are gazing on Thy palace, and we 
 think it a stone wall ; reveal Thyself, oh God. 
 Eeveal the Eternity in Time, the Spirit in 
 Matter, the Gospel in Science, the Church in 
 the World. Eeveal the glory of common things, 
 J 
 
146 SEABGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 the strength of weak things, the hope of erring 
 things, the mystery of lowly things, lie veal 
 that, as we journey through the way we call 
 the world, we are, all the time, like Thy ser- 
 vant Abraham, wandering unconsciously in the 
 Promised Land. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 The Sin-bearer. 
 
 Isaiah liii. 6 v. 
 " The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all." 
 
 What a burdened conscience ! It must have 
 been the most burdened conscience in the world. 
 Yet, this man was personally sinless. How can 
 we account for the anomaly ? How can we 
 reconcile the burden with the blamelessness ? 
 Easily ; nothing can explain the burden hut 
 the blamelessness. Do you know what sin- 
 lessness is ? It is perfect unselfishness. And 
 do you know what perfect unselfishness is? It 
 is the breaking of the partition between my 
 life and other lives. You have a large room, 
 beautifully furnished, and a little ante-room, 
 separated by a wall, and badly furnished. You 
 
THE SIN-BEARER. 147 
 
 break clown the wall and make them one room ; 
 and you have lost the prestige of your furniture. 
 The large room has taken in the little one with 
 all its imperfections ; it has borne its sins. If 
 it were to become conscious, it would be aware 
 of blemishes within it not its own. So was it 
 with the Divine Man. He broke the middle 
 wall of partition between His room and your 
 room. He destroyed the barrier between the 
 large and the small apartment ; He made of 
 twain one. He allowed your mean furniture to 
 blend with His costly adornments. He felt 
 your life to be a part of His life. He was 
 mesmerised by love. He looked at His brother's 
 temptations, and said, " They did it unto Me." 
 He bore in His own body the pain of other 
 bodies. It was not the sense of pity ; it was 
 the sense of identity — the identity of love. It 
 was His unselfishness that gave Him a universal 
 conscience — " the Lord hath laid on Him the 
 iniquity of us all." 
 
 Son of Man, let this mind be in me which 
 was also in Thee. It is the sameness of mind 
 that is the test of communion. Thou art never 
 so near to me as when I think like Thee. 
 Break the partition between my room and my 
 j 2 
 
1-48 sEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 brother's room. Grive me the sense of one 
 apartment — of membership in the same bocty. 
 Destroy mere pity ; it is the barrier-wall from 
 which I look down. Give me the identity of 
 love. Lend me Thy sense of a common life. 
 Create within me the pain of my brother — not 
 the pain for him, but the pain that should be 
 in him. Inspire me with the remorse which he 
 should feel. Impel me to the sacrifice which 
 he should bear. Force me to discharge the 
 debts which he should pay. I shall be nearest 
 life when I have most of Thy death. Thy 
 hand shall be laid very tenderly upon me when 
 Thou hast laid on me my brother's sin. 
 
149 
 
 LX. 
 God's Architectural Plan. 
 
 Matthew xxi. 42 v. 
 
 11 Did ye never read .... the stone which the builders 
 rejected, the same is become the head of the corner?" 
 
 The book of each man's life is made out of 
 rejected articles. I take up to-day what I laid 
 down yesterday. The sighs of the past have 
 become the songs of the present; the winter 
 from which I fled has met me as my spring. 
 And the large world is like the small. It 
 has mistaken the plan of its own architecture. 
 It found at the beginning a stone which seemed 
 a blemish ; it was the stone of sacrifice. How 
 came it there? Men said: "It must have 
 been an accident ! — let the building go on 
 without it, let the workmen pass it by." 
 But the tower would not reach to heaven, 
 labour as they might ; and the toilers piled 
 in vain. Then they said " Let us try the old 
 stone — the rejected stone." And they picked 
 up from the ground the thing they had cast 
 away, and lo ! it fitted all the vast space 
 
150 SflAROHINGS IN TEE SILEXGE. 
 
 between earth and heaven. The accident 
 became the design ; the blemish was made the 
 bloom ; the interruption proved the finishing- 
 touch of the tower that climbed to God. 
 
 Son of Man, Thou symbol and soul of 
 sacrifice, Thou art the architectural plan of 
 this world. Without Thee, not only can we 
 do nothing; we cannot make out what has 
 been done. We have looked at the wrong 
 plan, and the world will not yield it, We 
 have figured skies without clouds, fields 
 without tares, laughter without tears. And 
 the real skies are not cloudless, the real 
 fields are not tareless, the real laughter is 
 not tearless. Hast Thou broken the rain- 
 bow of Thy promise? Nay, Thou hast 
 broken my bow, not Thine. Thy bow abides 
 in strength, for it is the bow in the 
 cloud. There are no drops so vindicated 
 as tear-drops. I have painted my sea without 
 the waves ; but Thou hast made the waves 
 for Thy feet. I have painted my world without 
 the mountains ; but Thy steps are beautiful 
 upon the mountains. I have painted my day 
 without a breeze ; but Thou ridest upon the 
 wings of the wind. I have painted my 
 
DOUBT. 151 
 
 morning without a night; but with Thee the 
 evening and the morning are one day. The 
 streets of Thy New Jerusalem are paved with 
 gold, but it is with gold tried in the fire. 
 The stone that sparkled on Olivet was hewn 
 on Calvary. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Doubt. 
 
 John xx. 13 v. 
 
 " They have taken away my Lord, and I know not 
 where they have laid Him." 
 
 To whom were these words spoken? To the 
 angels. What a strange audience ! One would 
 have said they were more fit for the ears of 
 a society of sceptics. Do not they breathe 
 a spirit of the deepest doubt — a despair of the 
 very body of Christ? Why is the doubt, why 
 is the despair, addressed to the angels ? Because 
 all honest doubt is prayer, and is borne on high 
 by heavenly messengers. To whom do I cry 
 when I am in doubt ? Not to man, surely. 
 I may proclaim my disbelief to a large 
 concourse of men; but, if I am honest, I am 
 
152 * SEARCHING S IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 speaking only at them, not to them ; my 
 real auditor is God. My cry is the cry to 
 touch the print of the nails. It sounds, below, 
 like a denial ; but, above, it is interpreted as 
 a supplication. Men on earth say, " he 
 blasphemeth " ; but the angels in heaven ex- 
 claim, " Behold, he prayeth." 
 
 My soul, art thou troubled with the 
 problems of the mind ? Art thou beating 
 against the bars that shut thee out from flight 
 — the flight of prayer ? Nay, but the beating 
 is a part of thy flight, a part of thy prayer. 
 Thinkest thou the doubt is thy search for God ; 
 it is thy God's search for thee. Only through 
 God canst thou learn the barrier to God. No 
 man would feel imprisoned if he had not an 
 experience of liberty. Why do the wings 
 beat against the cage ? If there were nothing 
 seen outside of it, there would be no beating ; 
 the cage would be the universe. But when 
 the beyond appears, thou art frantic to be 
 free. It is the sun that makes thy shadow ; 
 it is the music that makes thy silence ; it is 
 the power of flight that makes thy fetters 
 known. Thy sense of bondage is the vision 
 of the beyond ; it is God that makes thy want 
 
CHRIST'S LOVE OF LIFE. 153 
 
 of God. Thy cry is a prayer. It is not yet 
 the prayer of faith, but it is the prayer for 
 faith. It brings nothing in its hand but the 
 sense of its emptiness ; yet God shall take the 
 hand and fill it with His own. He can read 
 the Christ beneath the cry. The Christ is 
 still thy Lord, though, it may be, thou knowest 
 not where they have laid Him. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Christ's Love of Life. 
 
 John x. 17 v. 
 
 " Therefore doth My Father love Me, because T lay 
 down My life, that I might take it again." 
 
 " That I might take it again." The beauty of 
 Christ's sacrifice is not its despair. Despair is a 
 spectacle which the Father never loves to see. 
 How could He ? Does an artist love to see his 
 work despised? Life is God's work, and He 
 deems it beautiful. How could He love a man 
 because he wished to lay it down ? The desire 
 for death is not a " sacrifice of praise " ; it is a 
 criticism on the work of the Father. But if 
 
154 SEARCHrXGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 death is desired for the sake of life, it makes all 
 the difference. If death is sought, not because 
 life is sad, but because life is dear, then the 
 search for death is a tribute to the Father. So 
 was it with the Son of Man. None felt like 
 Him the glory of living. Life was so beautiful 
 that He was willing to die for it. Not in grief, 
 but in prospective joy, did He yield Himself to 
 the Cross. If He had despaired more, He would 
 have sacrificed less. It was the worth, and not 
 the worthlessness, of living that made Him die. 
 His dying was an act of praise to the Giver of 
 life ; therefore, the Giver of life loved it. He 
 laid existence down that He miff lit take it agrain. 
 My soul, dost thou know what this meaneth : 
 " Enter ye into the joy of your Lord " ? Thinkest 
 thou that the joy of thy Lord is something 
 which comes after the sacrifice ? No ; it is that 
 which prompts the sacrifice. Are not thy deepest 
 sacrifices prompted by a joy ? Whence thy 
 laborious nights of study ? They are from joy 
 — the joy of possibly seeing the opened heavens. 
 Whence thy self-denying poverty? It is from 
 joy — the joy of saving to make another rich. 
 Whence thy sojourn in lane and alley, in the 
 homes of misery and the haunts of sin ? It is 
 
CHRIST'S LOVE OF LIFE. 155 
 
 from joy — the joy of perhaps beholding the 
 spirits in prison set free. Do not wait for thy 
 Lord's joy until the battle is over and the 
 victory won. It is for the battle that thou 
 needest it. Nothing can conquer death but the 
 love of something in life. It is by the rose 
 thou shalt bear thy thorn. It is by the sun thou 
 shalt meet thy cloud. It is by the calm thou 
 shalt face thy storm. It is by the bread of 
 to-morrow thou shalt brave the hunger of to- 
 day. It is thy star that guides thee to thy cross ; 
 the flame that lights thy fire is the torch of 
 hope. If thou wouldst sustain the winter's cold, 
 thou must bathe first in the summer warmth. 
 Let not thy life go down till thou canst 
 take it asrain. 
 
156 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Enrichment by Christ's Poverty. 
 
 2 Corinthians viii. 9 v. 
 
 " He became poor, that ye through His poverty might 
 be rich." 
 
 All love is enriched by the poverty of its object. 
 My love to the Divine is no exception. If my 
 Grod comes to me in trappings of gold, it is a 
 light thing that I should follow him. If to be 
 good is to be on the sunny side, if virtue brings 
 to me a large dowry, a poor love may suffice to 
 make me her own. But if she come penniless, 
 landless, if her gold has become dim, if her 
 dowry has been proved a delusion, if she can only 
 ask me to share her struggle and her toil, the 
 love that can respond with consent must be 
 rich indeed. 
 
 Oh, Thou Divine Spirit, I bless Thee that by 
 Thy poverty Thou hast enriched my love. Often 
 in the days of old hast Thou come to me with 
 the purple, and the fine linen, and the sumptuous 
 faring ; and I was glad to be with Thee, not 
 because Thou wert beautiful, but because Thou 
 
ENRICHMENT BY CHRIST'S POVERTY. 157 
 
 wert profitable. I arose and followed Thee 
 because I left nothing. Bat now Thou appearest 
 in mean attire. The purple and fine linen are 
 exchanged for sackcloth and ashes. The crown 
 has been cast into the sea, the glory has been 
 buried in the dust, and, in its room, Thou 
 earnest a cross of great pain. My old nature 
 shrinks back from Thee ; Thou art no more the 
 spirit of its dream. But, as it sleeps, my heart 
 waketh. My new life rises on the ruins of the 
 old. My love becomes rich as Thou becomest 
 poor ; I find my star in Thy night. I come to 
 Thee in the gate of Golgotha ; I meet Thee in 
 the place of tears ; I join Thee in the valley of 
 humiliation ; I descend with Thee to the spirits 
 in prison. Where Thou goest I shall go. Death 
 itself shall not separate between Thee and me. 
 Death with Thee were worth eternity without 
 Thee ; pain with Thee were worth joy without 
 Thee ; hell with Thee were worth heaven with- 
 out Thee. Thou art the only pearl in my sea ; 
 Thou art the only gem in my sky ; Thou art the 
 only song in my soul. Pilate may divest Thee 
 of Thy robes, but he cannot rob Thee of Thy 
 beauty. My love can see Thy kinghood in Thy 
 cross ; Thy poverty has made me rich. 
 
158 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 The Spiritual in the Earthly. 
 
 John xx. 15 v. 
 " Supposing Him to be the gardener." 
 
 We often mistake Christ for the gardener — 
 attribute to mere physical beauty what comes 
 from faith alone. We speak of the glories of 
 Nature ; most of its glories belong to man. We 
 find a sense of infinitude in the breath of the 
 new-mown hay ; yet, truly, it is not in that, 
 but in thee. It has been said : " Thou weavest 
 for God the garment by which thou seest 
 Him " ; more justly might the words be spoken 
 of Nature. Her song is the echo of thy song. 
 She answers in refrain to thee — to thy sorrows 
 and to thy joys. Often have men exhorted thee to 
 follow the teachings of Nature, and to look on the 
 things beyond as an idle dream. Nay, but thy 
 vision of Nature depends on thy vision of grace. 
 In vain shalt thou seek in the flower the grace 
 which is not in thy soul. It is from the things 
 beyond the earth that earthly beauty flows. The 
 voice which thou nearest in the garden i s the 
 
THE SPIRITUAL IN THE EARTHLY. 159 
 
 voice of the Lord. That which uplifts thee in 
 the flower is just what the gardener has not 
 planted. It is the life below the stem, the 
 mystery beneath the root. It is the sense of a 
 presence which has escaped the eye, of a power 
 which has eluded the botanist. It is the feeling 
 that the gardener has planted something which 
 he has not seen — a seed from the life eternal, a 
 blossom from the breast of God. 
 
 Oh, Thou, whose Easter morning shines in 
 many disguises, help me to recognise Thee 
 everywhere. Let me not ascribe to the gardener 
 the work that is done by Thee. I often speak 
 of the noble lives led by men who do not know 
 Thee ; teach me that Thou knowest them. Tell 
 me that Thy presence is wider than our creed, 
 Thy temple bigger than our sanctuary, Thy love 
 larger than our law. Convince me that Thou 
 enfoldest that which does not enfold Thee. Let 
 me learn that Thou art the one " excellent 
 name in all the earth." Men call their excellent 
 things by other names ; they take Thee to be the 
 gardener. Hasten the time when the}' shall take 
 the gardener to be Thee ; they shall be nearer to 
 the truth of things. Hasten the time Avhen 
 "in the tiesh they shall see Grod " — see Him in 
 
160 SEABCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 the forms of earth, see Him in the duties of the 
 hour, see Him in the paths of life, see Him in 
 the progress of the day. Make Thyself known 
 to them in the breaking of the earthly bread ; in 
 the planting of the earthly flower let them gaze 
 on Thee. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 The Strength beyond Nature. 
 
 Psalm viii. 1, 2 v. 
 
 " Lord .... who hast set Thy glory above the 
 heavens. Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast 
 Thou ordained strength .... that Thou mightest still 
 the .... avenger." 
 
 The Psalmist says that when he considers only 
 the heavens, he cries : " What is man, that Thou 
 art mindful of him ? " So do all of us ; it is 
 a very bad thing to keep the eye exclusively on 
 masses of matter. Whenever you are oppressed, 
 he says, by the glory of the heavens, you ought 
 to remember that there is a " glory above the 
 heavens." Whenever you feel dwarfed by the 
 strength of nature, remember that there is a 
 strength which, though ascribed to the babe, is 
 
THE STRENGTH BEYOND NATURE. 161 
 
 higher than nature. What is that strength ? 
 It is the thing called meekness — the thing that 
 stills the avenger in the breast. We uncover 
 our heads in wonder before the stilling of a 
 natural storm. But the stilling of a soul-storm 
 is more wonderful far. In the most obscure 
 heart there is a tempest unrecorded — a tempest 
 before which nature itself would quail. Yet the 
 obscure heart conquers it, calms it, and is called a 
 weakling for its victory. We revere the strength 
 of the summer day because it holds the storm on 
 its bosom. But we forget the strength of many 
 a gentle spirit whose smile conceals the rain, 
 whose flower has hid the thorn, whose calm 
 restrains the torrent, whose meekness stills the 
 avenger within. 
 
 Son of Man, set Thy glory to me above the 
 heavens. Teach me the majesty of Thy meek- 
 ness. I do not ask a still nature ; what I want 
 is a stilling nature. I would not have a soul 
 where there is nothing to restrain. That is the 
 peace the world gives — the peace of spent passion, 
 the peace of exhausted energy. But not as the 
 world givest Thou. Thine is not a sea of glass ; 
 it is glass mingled with fire. I would not lose 
 the fire, oh, Christ of Calvary ; I would be calmed 
 
 K 
 
162 SEARGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 tli rough the fire — through the very burning of 
 my love. Beautifully was it written that the 
 meekest man started from the burning bush. I 
 need great strength to make me gentle. If I 
 would have Thy dove of peace, I must have Thy 
 vision of Jordan. Any clod of the valley can be 
 still; but only the sight of the mountain can 
 make still. The sea of my life is not calmed by 
 diminishing the waters, but by the print of 
 Thy footsteps treading thereon. I shall reach 
 Thy patience when I have possessed my soul ; 
 I shall still my heart when Thou hast made 
 me strong. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 The Finality of Christ. 
 
 Romans vi. 9 v. 
 " Christ being raised from the dead, dieth no more." 
 
 A bold assertion ; the man who made it must 
 have been a great man. In a world of change, 
 in an age of special changes, he declared that 
 the human race had reached finality. This faith 
 in the Crucified, he says, will be the last religion . 
 Men will never outgrow it, never get beyond it. 
 
THE FINALITY OF CHRIST. 163 
 
 Times shall change, manners shall change, 
 customs shall change, the order of life shall 
 change; but this faith shall abide. The heavens 
 shall pass away with a loud noise. A new 
 science of the stars shall dawn. The earth shall 
 move round the sun instead of the sun moving 
 round the earth. But there shall be no new 
 Christ in the firmament; His eye shall not grow 
 dim, His strength shall not be abated. A 
 thousand systems shall fall at His side, but 
 their crash shall not touch Him. He shall be 
 the survivor in the struggle for existence. He 
 shall have the dew of His youth when the world 
 is old. He shall have the last judgment. There 
 shall be no verdict after His, no appeal to the 
 Caesar of a future age. His feet shall touch the 
 final ridge of the mountains, and the beauty of 
 His tidings shall be a joy for ever. 
 
 Oh, Thou, who art the latest flower of the 
 garden, I am glad that I can rest in Thee. My 
 heart is weary of its wandering. Scarce has it 
 found an hour's repose. Oft has it sat down by 
 the wayside dreaming that its work was done ; 
 and a gleam from beyond has said, " Arise and 
 depart, for this is not thy rest." Therefore I am 
 glad that at last I see no beyond. Hope is 
 k 2 
 
161 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 beautiful, but satisfaction is better ; and I shall 
 be satisfied with Thy likeness. No likeness 
 shall ever eclipse it. I do not need to look 
 forward any more, not even to heaven. Heaven 
 is not beyond me when Thou art beside me. 
 Faith and hope are lost when love to Thee is 
 found. There is no morrow to Thy love, any 
 more than there is evening. Thou Thyself 
 mayst grow brighter ; but no brighter than 
 Thee shall come. When I have reached the 
 vision of Thee, I shall for the first time live in 
 the present — be a child of the hour. The 
 butterfly's wing shall be mine when I soar in 
 Thy air. Without Thee, my sigh has been for 
 to-morrow ; with Thee, my cry shall be, " Now is 
 the accepted time, now is the day of salvation." 
 
165 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 The Humility of Greatness. 
 
 John x. 4 v. 
 
 " When he putteth forth his own sheep, he goeth before 
 them." 
 
 There is a time in the Christian life when God 
 puts us forth — brings us out into the great 
 world. But our Lord says that this period of 
 advancement is the time when we feel most in 
 the rear — " when He putteth forth His own 
 sheep, He goeth before them." We never see 
 Christ so far in advance of us as in the time of 
 our own progress ; the man who comes nearest 
 to Him says that he follows afar off. No one 
 feels himself so little a leader as the great man. 
 Small men have no guiding star ; they walk by 
 their own light. But the sage will not journey 
 till he has seen his star. He is of all men the 
 humblest, the most reverent, the most fearful. 
 He uncovers his head beneath skies purer than 
 his own ; he bends before the mystery which he 
 sees, but cannot solve ; he prays beside the sea 
 whose margin his feet have touched. 
 
166 SEARGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 Son of Man, ever let me feel that Thou art 
 before me. Thou art always before me, but I 
 have not always felt it. I was very proud in 
 my small days. Ere yet I had been enlarged by 
 Thee, I had no shrinking in my nature. I pitied 
 the past, and proposed to set it right ; I pitied 
 the present, and purposed to excel it. But when 
 I was put forth, brought out, given a post in 
 advance, then it was that I felt humble. The 
 flower of my life turned to the sun when it began 
 to blossom ; in its ripeness it looked to Thee. 
 The proof of its summer was its sense of 
 impotence, of inability to stand alone. Never 
 let me lose this sense of impotence, this evidence 
 of the kindled flower. Never let me lose that 
 want of Thee which is the pledge that I am 
 nearing Thee. I am only Aspired when I have 
 aspired— sighed for something above me. When 
 I first saw Thee, I thought it was a light thing 
 to reach Thee ; I said, " Bid me that I come to 
 Thee on the waters." But now the stream has 
 become a river, and the river has widened into a 
 sea, and Thou art far before. Teach me it is a 
 message of hope, not despair. Tell me I am 
 never so close to Thee as when love throws its 
 seeming gulf between. Reveal to me that when 
 
CHRISTIAN UNION. 167 
 
 the hills look far away it is a sign that the rain 
 is over. It is the putting forth of my soul that 
 sends Thee on before. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Christian Union. 
 
 Isaiah lii. 8 v. 
 
 " They shall sec eye to eye, when the Lord shall bring- 
 again Zion." 
 
 And so, vision is the last thing ! I had always 
 thought that men must see eye to eye before 
 they were ransomed. Here, the ransom comes 
 first, and the agreement afterwards. And truly 
 it must be so. It is the captivity that hinders 
 union. We do not see eye to eye, because we 
 are all in separate cells. Each man's cell is to 
 him the universe. We see only one side of the 
 Christ — that which breaks our special chain. 
 I am oppressed by the fear of penalty ; you are 
 laden with the dread of being overlooked. 1 
 am weighted by the thought of the future ; 
 you are saddened by the clouds of the present. 
 I am in search of a power ; you are sighing 
 
168 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 for a tenderness. I am in terror for the cup of 
 Dives ; you are seeking for the cup of Greth- 
 semane. I disparage your Christ and your cry ; 
 I say it is not the gospel. It is not the gospel 
 for my captivity, and I forget your captivit}\ 
 I cannot see the whole Christ in my narrow cell ; 
 I see only the little hit that suits me. If I 
 could get out, I would behold his fulness ; if 
 God would break my door, I would see your 
 door. Fear casteth out perfect love, and, there- 
 fore, perfect light. The key which ojDens my 
 brother's prison does not open mine ; I want 
 mine to be opened, and I quarrel with the key. 
 I cannot preach your gospel till I have lost my 
 own chain. We shall see eye to eye when the 
 Lord's freedom has returned to Zion. 
 
 My Father, let me not wait for the union 
 of the eye. I bless Thee that there is an earlier 
 union. I bless Thee that the marriage of the 
 heart precedes the marriage of the mind. I 
 bless Thee that men can meet in love ere they 
 are able to meet in faith. I cannot see Thee 
 eye to eye with my brother ; but the very 
 difference may unite us. Is it not written 
 that there is a " fellowship in the mystery"*? 
 I thank Thee for that fellowship. My brother 
 
THE BLEMISHES REVEALED BY LIGHT. 169 
 
 and I can be united by the thing we do not see. 
 Help him and me to feel that each of us looks 
 only on a fragment. Unite us by the limits of 
 our eye. Join us by the clouds over our vision. 
 Bring us together at our sunset — where each 
 of our lights goes down. Put our hands in one 
 in the spot where our experience is severed. 
 Let us walk together through the night till the 
 time comes when we shall walk by day. Let 
 us meet at the barriers of the life till we can 
 bask in the revelations of the soul. When the 
 gates are opened, we shall see eye to eye. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 The Blemishes Revealed by Light. 
 
 Genesis xxxii. 31 v. 
 
 " As he passed over Penuel the sun rose upon him, and 
 he halted upon his thigh." 
 
 What a strange combination ! — darkness and 
 light. As he passed over the place of his 
 former struggle he had a double experience — 
 11 the sun rose upon him," and, "he halted upon 
 his thigh." There was at one and the same 
 
170 SEARCHING,? IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 moment a blaze and a blemish — glory around 
 his head, and weakness in his walk. Was there 
 a contradiction in the sight ? No ; it is the 
 law of the Divine life. Our halt is never felt 
 till the sun rises, not clearly seen till the sun 
 rises. There are no blemishes so marked as the 
 blemishes of a purified soul. When the whole 
 pool is stagnant, the special impurity is not 
 seen ; but when the cleansing is far advanced, 
 one speck becomes marvellous. I never look so 
 humble to my fellow-men as when the sun of 
 Penuel is over me. Its very brightness shows 
 the faults in my form. Men talk more of my 
 one evil deed than of the ninety-and-nine evil 
 deeds of those that never saw Penuel, that 
 never knew the rising of the sun. They say : 
 " He must be a hypocrite. How can the 
 lambent flame enwrap the lame figure? Can 
 the head of the image be of gold when the feet 
 are of contemptible clay ? " 
 
 Yes, it can ; and for this T thank Thee, oh, 
 my Father. I thank Thee that the halting in 
 my step does not imply that the sun is not 
 risen. Often have I been distressed by the 
 survivals of my dead self; I have met on the 
 mountain what I fancied I had left in the 
 
THE BLEMISHES REVEALED BY LIGHT. 171 
 
 valley. Yet, I am not therefore disloyal to 
 Thee, untrue to Thee. Two lives are in me — 
 the old and the new. In the city of Thy New 
 Jerusalem there are vacant spaces that tell of 
 an olden time. They tell of a time when there 
 was no city, when it was all open-country and 
 silent fields. Gradually, Thy city is breaking 
 my solitude. Step by step the silent fields are 
 being invaded, and the voices of the crowd are 
 filling the waste places of my heart. Thou hast 
 not yet come up with me, oh, my Father j Thy 
 New Jerusalem is only building, and the wastes 
 wait for Thee. To-morrow, they shall be vocal. 
 To-morrow, a multitude shall clap their hands 
 where the trees of the forest once stood. To- 
 morrow, the streets shall be paved, and the 
 feet shall tread unspotted over the miry clay. 
 To-day, the halting and the sunshine are side 
 by side. When Thy city shall reach its 
 bounds, I shall traverse, as well as see, the path 
 of gold. 
 
172 
 
 LXX. 
 
 A Prayer for Enemies. 
 
 Psalm ix. 20 v. 
 
 " Put them in fear, Lord, that the nations may know 
 themselves to be but men." 
 
 " Put them in fear " — is that a prayer for an 
 inspired book ? Is it humane to ask that my 
 enemies may be put in fear ? Yes, if it is to 
 make them human. The Psalmist asks Grod to 
 teach his enemies " that they are but men " — to 
 teach them pity for others by showing them the 
 weak point in themselves. He feels that they 
 want sympathy because they want experience. 
 No man can bring help to the clouded heart 
 unless he has made the clouds his chariot. It 
 is only through sorrow that I can comfort 
 sorrow. The shut door of my experience is the 
 door that shuts me in. The tears which I shed 
 for my brother must be tears of memory. Their 
 fountain must lie in the yesterday of my heart. 
 If I have no yesterday, I have no tears. I 
 cannot put myself in my brother's place unless I 
 have been in his place. My pity is an echo of 
 
A PRAYER FOR ENEMIES. 173 
 
 my past, and where there is no past there is no 
 pity. If the halls of memory are silent, the 
 voice of sympathy is dead. The night that 
 appeals to my compassion must be painted on 
 the canvas of a vanished day. 
 
 Therefore, oh, my Father, I am not afraid to 
 pray for the unsympathetic " put them in fear." 
 I am not afraid to say, " make them more 
 humane, by teaching them to be more human." 
 I am not afraid to wish them the good gift of 
 Thy chariot-clouds. I know that Thy clouds 
 would enlarge them — give them more driving 
 room. I know they would carry them further 
 down the road of humanity, further up the 
 steep of Calvary. I know they would bear them 
 through gates that have long been closed — gates 
 of the heart, that keepeth its own bitterness, and 
 forbiddeth a stranger to intermeddle therewith. 
 Shall I not wish such enlargement, even to my 
 foe ? Is not this the enlargement, my Father, 
 that Thou wishest for Thy foe — this heart of 
 mine, alien to love ? It is for this Thou sendest 
 into my days so many pillars of cloud ; Thou 
 wouldest make me a pillar to the clouded. It 
 is for this Thou puttest fear within me — that I 
 may know myself to be only a man. It is for 
 
174 SEARCHWGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 this Thou spreadest the canvas of sorrow — that 
 my brother's night may be pictured in my soul. 
 It is for this Thou lendest the labour and the 
 ladenness — that I may learn the secret of giving 
 rest. I bless Thee for Thy gift of sympathetic 
 fear. 
 
 LXXI 
 
 The Flower Below the Thorn. 
 
 Matthew xiii. 7 v. 
 
 " Some fell among thorns ; and the thorns sprung up, 
 and choked them." 
 
 The seed fell among thorns ; it fell into a heart 
 which had not been emptied of its troubles. If 
 the seed had been there first, it would have made 
 all the difference. There is a place for the 
 thorn. Every rose has its thorn ; but the rose 
 is in the bud, and the thorn is on the surface. 
 Christ had His thorn — His crown of thorns ; 
 but peace was at the root, and they could not 
 mar His beauty. It is not a question of whether 
 I shall or shall not have trouble. I must have 
 trouble ; I cannot escape it ; I may not safely 
 pray to escape it. My life without the cross 
 
THE FLOWER BELOW THE THORN. 175 
 
 would be a poor life, a maimed life, a worthless 
 life. But my cross is not to be my first visitor. 
 It is to have something below it, underlying it, 
 bearing it. I am to wear my thorn where 
 Christ wore it — on a heart of love. No one can 
 forbid the thorn to occupy, if only the flower 
 shall preoccupy ; trouble may visit my house, if 
 the Master has first come in. But do not let 
 the trouble lie below. Do not let it be next the 
 heart, closest to the breast. Do not let there be 
 nothing beneath it, nothing to support it. Do 
 not let it rest on the threshold and bar the 
 entrance to the soul. Everything depends on 
 the entrance ; be sure you plant your flower ere 
 you admit your thorn. 
 
 Come, then, into my heart, Thou Rose of 
 Sharon ; be the first visitor of all my year. Let 
 my thorn fall upon Thy life — not Thy life upon 
 my thorn. If Thou fallest on my thorn, Thy 
 fragrance shall be broken ; I shall see no beauty 
 that I can desire in Thee. But if Thou shalt 
 lie next to my heart, I can let my thorn fall on 
 Thee. It will not break Thy fragrance ; it may 
 even catch Thy fragrance ; it may become a part 
 of Thee. Come into my heart ; come and 
 anticipate the thorn. Come with the star of 
 
176 SEARCHINGS IX THE SILENCE. 
 
 the morning, ere the heat and the burden arise. 
 Come with the song of the lark, ere the wheels 
 of traffic are heard. Come with the glow of the 
 east, where the day is yet far from its setting. 
 Come with the promise of youth, where the 
 bow is apart from the flood. And the star 
 shall lift the burden, and the song shall help the 
 traffic, and the glow shall gild the setting, and 
 the bow shall assuage the flood. There is room 
 for my thorn above Thy seed ; let not Thy seed 
 fall upon my thorn. 
 
 LXXIL 
 
 The Cosmetic for the Soul. 
 
 Mark ix. 49 v. 
 " Every one shall be salted with fire." 
 
 To be salted is to be. preserved — kept young. 
 How to keep young, is a great problem. Oar 
 Lord says that the soul needs an opposite 
 cosmetic from the body. The cosmetic for the 
 body is to take care of one's self, to keep out 
 of danger, to avoid the path of trouble. But 
 
THE COSMETIC FOB THE SOUL. 177 
 
 the cosmetic for the soul is to take no care 
 of one's self, to seek the danger of another, 
 to court the path of trouble. Christ gives 
 youth as He gives peace — in a manner different 
 from that of the world. He makes us little 
 children by laying His hands upon us, by 
 giving us a new weight — the weight of love. 
 It is not by the heart's lightness but by the 
 heart's pressure that He makes us young. My 
 body groans beneath its burden ; but my 
 spirit groans when it has no burden. There 
 is no weariness to my spirit like the absence 
 of care. The oldest heart is the fetterless 
 heart. If it be not in bonds, it is in de- 
 crepitude. Its youth only comes when its 
 chain comes. Like the men of ancient Babylon, 
 it only ceases to be hurt when it passes through 
 the furnace. It is the true Phoenix- Bird ; it 
 rises out of its own ashes. It is born again 
 from the altar of sacrifice. It is renewed 
 by the flame that consumes it. It is salted 
 with fire. 
 
 Preserve me, oh Lord ; keep me young. 
 Thou hast an elixir that makes fair for ever; 
 its name is love. It makes fair by strange 
 methods; when I have tasted it, I shall be on 
 
 L 
 
178 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 fire. Martyrs have passed through the flames 
 to life eternal — life that never grows old. 
 Men tell me the need has passed away with 
 the days of persecution; teach me it is not 
 so. Teach me that the only persecutor of 
 my }^outh is the spirit of selfishness. Teach 
 me that the Herod who would kill the young 
 child within me is the same yesterday, and 
 to-day, and for ever. Teach me that the road 
 to life eternal is still through the fire. Teach 
 me that if I would be kept young, it must 
 be through the cares of love. Redeem me 
 from old age by the blood of Thy Cross. 
 Restore my morning by the setting of my 
 own sun. Bring back my spring-time by the 
 burial of my selfish seed. Renew my childhood 
 by an entrance into other lives. My heart can 
 only be preserved by sacrifice ; it shall resume 
 its youth in Thy everlasting fire. 
 
179 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Christ in Everything. 
 
 Revelation iii. 12 v. 
 " He shall go no more out." 
 
 Is there then to be no more liberty ? Is the 
 penalty of my conquest to be my own captivity ? 
 Am I to be imprisoned within the golden gate 
 that my own victory has opened ? Not so ; 
 you can go where you like ; the world shall 
 be yours. Why, then, is it said, " He shall 
 go no more out " ? Simply because there shall 
 be no more anything outside ; the whole 
 universe shall be enclosed in Christ. You 
 shall never get beyond your walls ; but your 
 walls shall enfold creation. You shall never 
 escape from God's presence ; but you shall 
 find God's presence everywhere. The tree of 
 knowledge shall be no longer forbidden ; the 
 tree of life shall be no longer barred. You 
 shall walk to the limits of earth, and find it 
 an Eden. The Cross of Christ shall be in 
 every street; the altar of sacrifice shall be 
 l 2 
 
180 SEARGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 in every pleasure. There shall be nothing 
 secular to you, nothing worldly, nothing 
 frivolous. You will not need to fly from the 
 old scenes into the sanctuary ; the old scenes 
 shall themselves be the sanctuary. You will 
 not need to shut joxiy door on the world when 
 you go up to pra}^; the world shall itself be 
 your house of prayer. You shall worship when 
 you work ; you shall pray when you practise ; 
 you shall love when you labour. Your ledger 
 shall be a book of devotion ; you shall be at 
 Church on 'Change. Your social call shall be 
 a ministrant visit — a healing of present wounds. 
 The songs you sing shall all be sacred songs — 
 not from their subject, but from their motive ; 
 you will sing to make glad. The days } r ou 
 spend shall all be Sabbath days ; you shall not 
 cease from work, but you shall cease from 
 worry. The pastimes you enjoy shall all be 
 sacrificial pastimes — the sympathy with another's 
 joy. You will be found in many a scene 
 beneath you, many a surmounted pleasure. 
 You will learn that joy as well as sadness 
 was made for the Cross of Jesus. You shall 
 throw yourself into the interest of others — ■ 
 interest which perhaps has long since faded 
 
THE GAIN OF LOSS. 181 
 
 from your ascending day. You shall bring 
 trifling things within the gates of gold by the 
 very act of bending to them. The feast of 
 Cana is a trifle to you; but it is something 
 to somebody. If you can throw yourself into 
 that lower experience, you have put Christ in 
 Cana. If you can remember that the trifle 
 of to-day was the treasure of yesterday, and 
 see your brother's world in the light of long 
 a g°> vou ma y dwell in the things of time, 
 and not go out from Jesus. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 The Gain of Loss. 
 
 Philemon i. 15 v. 
 
 "Perhaps he therefore departed for a season, that thou 
 shouldest receive him forever." 
 
 There are possessions which only become our 
 own when for a time we have lost them. 
 There are joys which never abide with us till 
 they have passed through the cloud. We, like 
 Philemon, are enriched by our bereavements. 
 We often hold a faith just because we have 
 
182 SEARCHINQS IN THE SILENGE. 
 
 been born to it ; and its value is unknown. 
 But a cloud comes and receives it out of our 
 sight; and suddenly it becomes precious. We 
 awake to the knowledge that there has been 
 a diamond in our hand. We find that we 
 have been rich without knowing it. We would 
 give all the world to get back what yesterday 
 we deemed of no price. And in that very 
 desire we are richer, better than we were 
 before. It is better to know the preciousness 
 of faith, even while not having it, than to 
 have it and not know its preciousness. It is 
 better to ciy for a Christ whom you believe 
 to be absent than to stand in His presence and 
 count it a worthless thing. And the very 
 cry will bring Him back j for what is thy 
 need of Him but Himself within thee? The 
 cry will bring Him back — no longer to be 
 ignored, but to be cherished; no longer to be 
 an appendage to life, but to be life itself; no 
 longer to be a Sunday guest, but to abide 
 with you forever. 
 
 My Father, help me to realise the gain of 
 my losses. I speak of the silver lining in the 
 cloud ; teach me that the cloud itself is the 
 silver lining of my life. My life is colourless 
 
THE GAIN OF LOSS. 183 
 
 until Thy cloud comes. It is in the moment 
 of departure that I recognise my angel; the 
 wings are revealed in the act of disappearing. 
 Men say Thou art manifested by what Thou 
 givest; I think Thou art more manifested by 
 what Thou withdrawest. The veil is never so 
 rent from my heart as in the hour when Thou 
 claimest back Thine own. Thy gift becomes 
 most glorious when Thou coverest it with Thy 
 hand; it is expedient for me that my Christ 
 should go away. Thy gifts are too near me 
 to be seen by me. Therefore, Thou hast sent 
 a cloud over the mountain of radiance. Thou 
 hast trained my love by loss ; Thou hast 
 educated my faith by shadow ; Thou hast 
 taught me morning by night. Thou hast 
 made me to stretch out my hands to clasp 
 that which was unfelt before. Thou hast hid 
 Thyself behind the curtain, that I may learn 
 to cry for Thee. I basked at first in Thee, 
 like an unconscious flower; Thy winter broke 
 the flower, and made me a man. I woke to 
 Thee by the blast of my own wailing — the 
 wailing for an absent joy. I could not take 
 Thy blessing till it had departed for a while. 
 
184 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 The Answer to Prayer. 
 
 Psalm xx. 6 v. 
 
 '•' Xow know I that the Lord saveth His anointed : He 
 will hear him from His holy heaven with the saving 
 strength of His right ban 
 
 Tim deepest answer to prayer is not a voice — 
 nut a "' yes ' 01 a "no " ; it is the support of a 
 hand. This is not the common view. I cry 
 to God in the night, and strain through the 
 silence for a message. I never doubt that the 
 answer shall be a voice, never dream that the 
 reply shall be aught but a consent or a denial. 
 I have a>ked the removal of a trouble ; I assume 
 that it will either be granted or refused. Not 
 so thinks the Psalmist. His best hope for 
 prayer is neither the one nor the other. He 
 says that God answers His anointed souls, not 
 by a voice, but by a hand — not directly, but in- 
 directly. There comes from the silent skies no 
 peal of music ; there flashes through the outward 
 dark no gleam of glory ; but into the heart there 
 steals a strange strength, an unaccountable peace. 
 
THE ANSWER TO PR AY Eli. 185 
 
 Perhaps it was not felt at once. You were in 
 search of another kind of answer, and may not have 
 recognised its coming. It seemed to grow up 
 naturally, to be a bit of yourself, to have nothing 
 superhuman in it. It was not like an answer to 
 prayer at all — it was so woven with your ordinary 
 life. Yet, it was God's own messenger, the 
 response to your cry of yesterday. You spoke 
 to Glod through one door, and He answered you 
 by another ; you opened at the front, and He 
 came in at the back ; you asked to be lifted into 
 heaven, and He gave you more power to live on 
 earth ; you craved melody for the ear, and He 
 sent you, instead, the saving strength of His 
 right hand. 
 
 Son of Man, I accept the answer that was 
 given to Thee. Thy cup did not pass, but Thy 
 angel came. Thy angel came by the back door, 
 when Thou wert weeping at the front. He came 
 before Thy tears were ended. The answer to 
 Thy prayer entered Thy heart unseen. It was 
 born in the hour of sorrow ; it grew up while 
 Thy tears were falling; but when it was full- 
 grown, there was a great calm. Let me believe 
 that Thy angel is mine. "When I pour forth 
 my soul in strong crying and tears, let me believe 
 
186 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 that the answer is already come. I am looking 
 too far to find it. I seek it in the clearing of 
 the cloud ; I expect it in the spilling of the cup ; 
 my eye is all on the front, and I forget the 
 postern door. Let me remember Thee — Thy 
 Grethsemane, Thy triumph. It is not a new 
 cup I need; it is a new hand. I want some- 
 thing to keep the cup from trembling, yea, 
 from spilling. I want power to hold it calmly, 
 steadily. I want a hand to repress the shaking 
 of my hand. I want none of its drops to fall 
 idly, ineffectuall}'. I want to receive Thy cup 
 in Thy garden — in the power of Thy peace. 
 My prayers shall all be answered when I am 
 answered like Thee. 
 
187 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 The Enforced Reign of Christ. 
 
 1 Corinthians xv. 25 v. 
 
 " He must reign, till He hath put all enemies under 
 His feet." 
 
 " He must reign ": it is not natural to Christ that 
 He should be a king. He feels more humiliation 
 in being a king than in being a servant. To serve 
 is His nature ; to reign is His necessity. Love 
 never finds pleasure in reigning. It can do it ; 
 it is often compelled to do it ; but it does not like 
 to do it. There is a time in which every father 
 must reign, in which love has no option but to 
 rule. The child is aiming deadly weapons 
 against itself, throwing destructive missiles in 
 the face of its brother. What can love do but 
 intervene ? It cannot allow the reign of love- 
 lessness ; it is bound to make for itself a throne. 
 Yet, it longs for other days. It longs to lay its 
 sceptre in the dust. It longs for the time when 
 the child shall forget its empire and remember 
 only its beauty. The sweetest morning to any 
 father is when there is nothing to reign over. 
 
188 SEAECHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 That is always his Easter morning. He wakes 
 and finds the offering already on his altar. The 
 flowers have come in spontaneously. The tasks 
 are done unbidden. The errands are run by 
 instinct. The wants are met by anticipation. 
 The law has given place to the prophets. The 
 Ten Commandments remain unspoken ; for the 
 heart of the child has seen the desire of the 
 parent afar off, and the parent says, "I need 
 reign no more." 
 
 Son of Man, I understand Thy reluctance to 
 be made a king. I understand how the crown of 
 David was Thy cross. Thou earnest to minister ; 
 it was stern necessity that made Thee reign. 
 None of Thy crowns is so thorny as the crown of 
 Thy power. Thy brow is more lacerated by the 
 symbol of empire than by any human pain. 
 Thy pain is the need to rule. Thy cross is 
 to feel Thyself upon the mountain. Thou art 
 weary of the high level, weary of the height 
 above Thy brothers. Thou wouldst fain come 
 down to the plain, down to the valley; nay, 
 rather, Thou wouldst fain that the valley would 
 come up to Thee. Thy mountain is Thy 
 solitude ; Thy empire is Thy loneliness. Thou 
 waitest for all to be one with Thee, to break Thy 
 
EXALTATION AND REVELATION. 189 
 
 pre-eminence, to make Thy kingdom void. 
 Thou waitest for all to feel with Thee, think 
 with Thee, speak with Thee, move with Thee. 
 Thou waitest to cast Thy crown into the sea, 
 and live in hearts responsive to Thine own. 
 Thou wouldst rather knock for admittance at the 
 door than stand for homage on the hill ; Thou 
 shalt enter into Thy glory when Thou shalt 
 cease to be a kina\ 
 
 LXXYII. 
 
 Exaltation and Revelation. 
 
 Acts ii. 33 v. 
 
 " Therefore being by the right hand of God exalted . . . 
 He hath shed forth this, which ye now see and hear.'' 
 
 Christ's influence came after His exaltation ; 
 His Spirit was shed when He was raised on high. 
 Is it not ever so ? It is gladness that makes us 
 diffusive. When the burden presses upon us we 
 cannot radiate the good that is in us. We may 
 send out our thought, but it is a weighted 
 thought ; it has no wings. Our exalted 
 moments are our revealing moments. We never 
 
190 SEABGHINGS IN THE SILEXCF. 
 
 shed so much light on ourselves as when trans- 
 figured by joy. Calvary is the time for bearing ; 
 Olivet is the time for revealing. We open not 
 our mouth in the world's judgment -hall ; when 
 oppressed and afflicted, we are dumb. But when 
 the oppression is lifted, when the affliction is 
 vindicated, when the spirit is exalted, then the 
 gates are unbarred and the procession of thought 
 comes forth. Grief itself is only revealed when 
 it touches the sunbeam. It has no expression 
 in its utmost depth. There is needed a gleam 
 of hope to wake it into tears. " My voice shalt 
 thou hear in the morning " is true of all reveal- 
 ings. It is from the morning of my heart that 
 my power of utterance comes ; I am only made 
 vocal by the dawn. ec Being exalted, He hath 
 shed forth this." 
 
 How shall I shed forth Thy Spirit, oh, Son of 
 Man ? Only when I have reached Thy joy. 
 Thy Cross is not attractive to men unless Thou 
 art lifted up on it. The world is not naturally 
 drawn to scenes of gloom. The contagious 
 presence is the joyous presence. It is not Thy 
 sorrow that I worship ; it is Thy peace in 
 sorrow— not Thy night, but Thy star. Forbid 
 that I should show Thy night without Thy star. 
 
EXALTATION AND REVELATION. 191 
 
 Forbid that I should magnify depression, or extol 
 the path of tears. Forbid that my brother 
 should see my faith as a thing that makes me 
 sad. Thou makest the clouds Thy chariot ; but 
 I love not Thy chariot, but Thee. Let me pass 
 behind the veil, that I may radiate Thy light. 
 Let me enter into Thy joy, that Thy Spirit may 
 have wings. Let me tread the green pastures, 
 that Thy footprints may be beautiful. Let me 
 scan the still waters, that Thy rest may be 
 revealed. Give me Thy songs in the night, 
 that the night- watchers may come to hear. 
 Give me Thy bow in the cloud, that the 
 cloud-bearers may come to see. Give me Thy 
 uplifting in my cross, that they who are 
 crushed by their cross may learn to hope. I 
 shall have power to shed Thy influence when 
 I am myself exalted. 
 
192 
 
 LXXVIIL 
 
 Thanksgiving. 
 
 1 Thessaloniaiis v. 18 v. 
 "In everything give thanks. " 
 
 Surely this is a hard saying ! Am I to thank 
 God for everything ? Am I to thank Him for 
 bereavement, for pain, for poverty, for toil ? I 
 may believe that the time will come when I sJiaU 
 thank Him; that is an act of faith. But am T 
 to turn faith into fruition? Must I celebrate 
 the victory before the battle ? Must I lift up 
 my hands over my dead and say, " Father, I 
 thank Thee that Thou hast taken away my 
 friend " ? Is it possible ? is it human ? is it 
 desirable ? Is it the will of Love that love 
 should violate its own law ? Is it pleasing to 
 my Father that loss should be pleasant to me ? 
 Is my heart to make no distinction between the 
 sunshine and the cloud ? Is not one half of my 
 joy just the absence of pain ? if I cease to shrink 
 from pain, how shall I keep my joy ? Is it good 
 that I should be told to give thanks for every- 
 thing ? 
 
THANKSGIVING. 193 
 
 Be still, my soul ; thou hast misread the 
 message. It is not to give thanks for every- 
 thing, but to give thanks in everything. It is 
 not to praise Grod for the night, but to bless Him 
 that the night is not deeper. Bethink thee; 
 thou hast never reached the absolute depth of 
 any darkness, never come to the step which has 
 no step below it. I have read 'of the Son of 
 Man that He gave thanks over the symbol of 
 His broken body. What does that prove ? 
 That He rejoiced in being sad? No, but that 
 He was not perfectly sad. It tells me that even 
 the Man of Sorrows had not reached the utter- 
 most sorrow. Not for the pain, but for the 
 mitigation of the pain, did the Son of Man give 
 thanks — not that His body was broken, but that 
 it was broken for me. In thine hour of sorrow, 
 give thanks like Jesus. Keep thine eye, not on 
 the step above, but on the step below — the step 
 to which thou hast not yet descended. Look 
 not up at the height thou has lost ; look down 
 on the depth thou hast not sounded. There 
 might have been no ram caught in thy thicket. 
 There might have been no dream dreamt 
 in thy dungeon. There might have been 
 no bush burning in thy desert. Herod 
 
 M 
 
194 XEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 might have come without the sages ; Bethlehem 
 might have come without the angels ; Judas 
 might have come without the Passover ; 
 Calvary might have come without the garden. 
 Thy Father has never allowed the utter- 
 most deep of misery to any human spirit ; 
 the cable may creak and strain, but it is 
 anchored within the veil. God never fills the 
 cup of Jesus to the brim ; there is always 
 a vacant space reserved for light and air. Is 
 it not written that He has put my tears into 
 His bottle ; the quantity of thy griefs is 
 measured ; there is a bound which they cannot 
 pass ? Thank God for that boundary, oh, my 
 soul. 
 
195 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 The Highest Type of Beauty. 
 
 Psalm xxiv. 6 v. 
 
 "This is the generation of them that seek Him, that 
 seek thy face, O Jacob." 
 
 The Psalmist says it was a time of religious 
 revival. Men were seeking God. They were 
 seeking Him in a particular way. They were in 
 search of the illumination that lit up the face 
 of Jacob when he saw God's face. Where was 
 that? It was at Peniel. It was Jacob's third 
 vision of God. He had seen Him at Bethel in 
 His dreadfulness ; he had seen Him at Maha- 
 naim in His providence ; but at Peniel he saw 
 Him in His communion. He beheld Him face 
 to face, and his own face caught the glow. It 
 was the nearest sight of God that mortal man 
 had ever won. It was nearer even than the 
 view of Adam in the garden. That was in the 
 cool of the day ; this was in the burden and the 
 heat. That was before the battle ; this was 
 after the fight. That was the gaze of innocence ; 
 this was the look of conquering virtue. It is 
 m 2 
 
196 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 something to see God when the heart is young, 
 when life wears the aspect of the garden flower. 
 But to get the vision when the heart is old, to 
 see the divine face after the human struggle, to 
 hear the voice of the Lord, not in the garden, 
 but in the city of earthly care — that is worth a 
 generation's search ; that is the communion of 
 Jacob. 
 
 My Father, there is a type of beauty which 
 I would like to possess — the face that has seen 
 Thy face. It is independent of feature. It is 
 Jacob after the struggle, and bearing the traces 
 of the struggle ; it can shine amid the halting 
 and the lameness of the outward man. It is 
 Thy fairest gift of beauty to a human form and 
 to a human soul, for it is the loveliness of love. 
 I can only reach it by gazing on Thee ; one 
 touch of self-remembrance would make the 
 picture void. And, should I reach it, it will 
 attract to Thee rather than to me. Men will 
 not call it fair ; they will term it good. It will 
 be recognised as belonging to Thy world, not to 
 mine. Even so, Father ; I desire it should 
 speak for Thee. I would take it for Thy cause ; 
 I would hold it for Thy glory. I would prize 
 it, not for its power to glitter, but for its power 
 
LOVE WITHOUT DISSIMULATION. 197 
 
 to gladden. I would keep it as a magnet to 
 draw the world to Thee. I would like it to be 
 seen best in the times of my struggle and my 
 weakness, for then it would be seen not to 
 belong to me. I would like it to be viewed as 
 something which was above me, and which, 
 therefore, any man might have. I would like- 
 it to tell the toiling that Thou canst meet them 
 in their toil. I would like the victims of human 
 struggle to know that Thou hast a beauty for 
 the faded flower, a garment of praise for the 
 spirit of heaviness, and that there is no light so 
 lovely as the light at evening-time. Therefore 
 it is that I seek the face of Jacob. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Love without Dissimulation. 
 
 Romans xii. 9 v. 
 " Let love be without dissimulation." 
 
 The words are commonly understood to mean, 
 " Don't pretend you love when you do not " ; I 
 would rather understand them to say, " Don't 
 pretend you do not love when you do.'' There 
 
198 SEARGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 are those who feign a love that they do not feel ; 
 but I would not call this love's dissimulation. 
 It is rather dissimulation from the absence of 
 love. But there is a dissimulation which be- 
 longs to love itself. There is a false shame, 
 which pretends it does not care for the object — 
 which tempts love to hide itself within the 
 heart. Why does Paul say, " I am not ashamed 
 of the Gospel of Christ " ? Because he knew 
 the tendency of man's heart to be afraid of its 
 own revealings. He knew that affection never 
 likes to display its treasures. He knew that 
 love has been taught to deem itself a weakness, 
 and to blush over its own ecstasy. Therefore, he 
 cries, " Oh, ye, who cherish tender sympathies, 
 hide them not from one another. Defraud not 
 your brother of his tribute from your soul. 
 Conceal not the warmth that is in you ; one day 
 you shall be glad that your heart did not hide 
 its gold." So says Paul, and I feel with him. 
 I feel that the sting of death is never so painful 
 as when I have kept back part of the price of 
 love. My friend is gone, and I did not tell him. 
 He walked side by side with me, and never 
 knew. I had the opportunity, and I have let 
 it go. I had the love, and I dissimulated that 
 
LOVE WITHOUT DISSIMULATION. 199 
 
 love. I intended I was cold, indifferent, un- 
 moved. I thought it was a strong thing, a 
 manly thing, to be made of iron. I suppressed 
 the overflowings of my spirit ; I closed the 
 gates, and shut them in ; and now they come 
 out in vain . There is nothing so sad to me as a 
 thought like that. Sometimes we have reflec- 
 tioDs as to whether we have used every remedy 
 for the body. Is there any remedy for the body 
 like love ? We call it a spiritual thing ; doubt- 
 less, but its power is over the physical. Tell 
 me that someone loves me, and you have given 
 me a new draught of life — water of life, as our 
 Lord calls it. How many an early victim would 
 have been kept alive by a deeper draught of 
 love ! How many a withered rose would have 
 bloomed ; how many a drooping flower would 
 have revived ! A little word by the wayside, the 
 pressure of a hand, the ring of a voice, the 
 glance of an eye, the beat of a responsive heart, 
 would have sweetened the waters of Mara and 
 revealed the promised land. Hast thou an 
 alabaster box ? break it, oh, my soul. Hide it 
 not; hoard it not. Wait not to garnish the 
 sepulchre ; pour it on the living head. Give it 
 to the weary limbs ; shed it on the throbbing 
 
200 SEARCHIKGS I/V THE SILENCE. 
 
 brow; shower it on the fainting heart. Thy 
 love was made to shine before the cross ; take 
 heed that it linger not behind. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Liberty in Christ. 
 
 Romans vii. 4 v. 
 '■ Ye also arc become dead to the law by the body of Christ." 
 
 Love always makes a man dead to law; laws 
 were made for weak love. Why are there 
 criminal courts ? Because Cain does not love 
 his brother. If Cain did love his brother, you 
 might abolish all the criminal courts to-morrow. 
 Imagine a message brought to Paul that all 
 the laws against crime had been suspended ; 
 would he feel more free to do what was wrong ? 
 He would simply be unaffected by the message. 
 He would say : " I have all along been dead 
 to these criminal laws. They have never been 
 a motive to me. It was not on their account 
 that I abstained from hurting my brother. I 
 regret the putting out of the candle for the 
 men who walk in the night ; but to me it 
 
LIBERTY IN CHRIST. 201 
 
 extinguishes nothing. It lias itself been long 
 extinguished by the blaze of the sun. It is 
 no magistrate's hand that has kept my hand 
 from my brother ; it is the grasp of love. 
 Whenever I would injure my brother's body, 
 there has floated before my sight another body 
 — the body of Christ. I have seen in Him 
 what a grand thing it is to be a man. I have 
 seen in Him what a beautiful structure this 
 human frame is. It has become to me a 
 temple, a place of reverence. I would not put 
 forth my hand to mar its symmetry. I need 
 no power to restrain me ; I ask no motive to 
 deter me ; I require no commandment to 
 prohibit me. Love is the flaming sword that 
 keeps the way to the tree of life ; I have 
 become dead to the law." 
 
 Oh, Thou Divine Love, whose human form 
 embodies all my dreams, the tree of life is safe 
 if I have Thee. I could not violate one leaf 
 in Thy presence. Men are crying out that the 
 safeguards are being withdrawn. The fires of 
 hell are less visible than they used to be. Be 
 it so : the fires of hell were never the flaming 
 sword of my garden. I do not think they 
 would have kept me from injuring any branch 
 
202 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 of the tree ; I was always dead to their law. 
 But when I saw Thee, I "beheld a more threaten- 
 ing flame. It burned in front of my heart. 
 It would not let me pass to hurt my brother ; 
 it menaced me with a pain compared to which 
 the old fire was feeble. Ever so stand, Thou 
 Son of Man. Stand in the breach, and protect 
 my brother by Thy love in me. Stand in the 
 scene of my passions and guard the old tree. 
 Then, though the thunder roll not, though the 
 lightnings flash not, though the storm has 
 ceased to be an avenger, though the subter- 
 ranean fires are almost lost to view, the flame 
 in my heart shall be an ample barrier to any 
 deed unkind. The fetters removed from my 
 hand shall enclose my spirit; I shall be taken 
 captive by love when I am loosed from law. 
 
203 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 The Condition of Beholding. 
 
 Hebrews xii. 14 v. 
 "Without holiness no man shall see the Lord." 
 
 It is not a threat ; it is a calm statement of 
 the law of beauty. Spiritual beauty can only 
 be seen by its possessor. Outward loveliness 
 can be seen by a deformed body ; but spiritual 
 loveliness is invisible to a deformed mind. It 
 would not help j^ou to get into the picture- 
 gallery ; it would not help you to put your 
 hand on the canvas ; it is not a distance of 
 sight, but of soul. You might stand under the 
 very eye of the portrait and call it a plain 
 face. So did the spectators in the great gallery 
 of New Testament pictures ; they admired 
 Barabbas and neglected Jesus. In Barabbas 
 they saw that which was familiar to them ; it 
 was in themselves, and therefore they recognised 
 it in him. His was a material beauty — strong, 
 muscular, athletic, the mirror of its age. The 
 age would easily have seen its lord in him ; 
 but the beauty of Jesus was of another kind. 
 
204 SE ARC RINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 It was not massive ; it was not muscular ; it 
 was not majestic; it was not such as we figure 
 in the leaders of armies. It was the beauty 
 of holiness, the beauty of self-restraint, the 
 beauty of the calm sea which hides within its 
 breast the capacity for storm. In such a face 
 they could not see the Lord. It was not their 
 ideal of lordship. It was not in their heart, 
 and, therefore, it could not be in their eye. 
 That which thou seest is the reflection of 
 thyself ; that which thou nearest is the echo 
 of thyself; that which thou admirest is the 
 image of thyself. Art thou a worshipper of 
 Barabbas ? it is because thou art Barabbas ; 
 thou beholdest in him thine own ideal of glory. 
 No man can be attracted to a side of the 
 gallery opposite to his own nature. Not by 
 thy sin but by thy holiness art thou drawn 
 to the face of Jesus. Even where thou comest 
 in the sense of sin, it is not sin that brings 
 thee. No man can see Christ's beauty but by 
 His beauty. Only love can behold love ; only 
 purity can discern purit}^; only that which is 
 Divine can gaze on the Divine. Not by 
 contrast but by resemblance is a man brought 
 to Jesus. Though He stands on the mountain 
 
THE ENTRANCE INTO THE CITY. 205 
 
 and tliou on the plain, it is His own light by 
 which thou seest Him. If thou art attracted 
 towards Him, it can only be by Himself. 
 Therefore, in thy dust and ashes, lift up thy 
 head. There is gold behind the dust ; there is 
 fire below the ashes. The vision of His beauty 
 is itself the prodigal's best robe ; only by 
 holiness couldst thou have seen His face. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 The Entrance into the City. 
 
 Revelation xxi. 12, 13 y. 
 
 " A wall great and high . . . and twelve gates ... on 
 the east, three gates ; on the north, three gates ; on the 
 south, three gates; and on the west, three gates." 
 
 The city of God seems here at once to repel 
 and to invite. It has a great and high wall 
 which fences it from the outsider. Yet it has 
 twelve gates of entrance within the wall — as 
 if it had no wish to ward off any one. On 
 which side are we to dwell ? Is it bard or 
 is it easy to be a Christian, a member of the 
 city of God ? We must look at both aspects ; 
 
206 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 there is a high wall, but there are twelve gates. 
 There is a barrier of self-sacrifice which 
 separates this city from every other city; and 
 that is the wall. But there is infinite diversity 
 in the sacrifice ; and that represents the gates. 
 The men in the city of God have all washed 
 their robes in Christ ; but they have not all 
 washed the same robes. Paul and Nathaniel 
 could never have got in by the same gate ; 
 each had to sacrifice in his own way. Paul 
 gave up his will with great struggle ; he had 
 a strong soul, and the old life died slowly. 
 Nathaniel yielded with little more than a sigh ; 
 he was born under the fig tree, and his heart 
 was not capable of storm. Shall their ex- 
 perience be the same ? How can it ? Within 
 the wall they will tell of separate worlds ; 
 Paul shall praise the thorn, and Nathaniel shall 
 extol the fig tree. 
 
 I thank Thee, oh, Father, that Thy city 
 has so many gates ; I thank Thee that 
 there is such provision for the twelve tribes 
 of man. The holy temple of Thy Christ 
 has doors on every side. Some open on 
 the rugged north, to admit by ways of 
 trouble. Some unbar to the sunny south, to 
 
THE ENTRANCE INTO THE CITY. 207 
 
 let in by quiet paths. Some have their 
 entrance from the east, to invite by the hope 
 of morning. Some have their opening from 
 the west, to kindle the torch of memory at 
 the light of the setting sun. Not all have 
 sought Thy Christ for one beauty. Some 
 have come in at Bethlehem, attracted by the 
 meeting of earth and heaven. Some have 
 entered at Calvary, drawn by the weight of 
 human sin. Some have found admittance at 
 Olivet, inspired by the vision of immortality. 
 And some have reached Thy temple by way 
 of Samaria ; they are captivated by the Christ 
 of human charity, caught by the brotherhood 
 of man with man. Within Thy holy city, 
 within Thy holy temple, these diverse minds 
 shall meet. Outside the gates they have 
 quarrelled, wrangled, denied each his brother's 
 door. But, within, the various colours make 
 one rainbow, and all the gates are gates of gold. 
 Each reveals his own gem ; each is enlarged 
 by gazing on another's, till from the blended 
 fragments there is woven Thy crown of light, 
 Thy light that has a place for every ray, the 
 fulness of Him that filleth all in all. 
 

 LXXXIV. 
 
 The Ripest Communion. 
 
 Psalin xxv. 1 v. 
 11 Unto Thee. Lord, do I lift up my soul." 
 
 There are three upliftings in the religious life 
 — hope, faith, and love. Hope is the lifting up 
 of the eyes ; it is the time of youth. There is 
 always a charm in unfinishedness when we are 
 young ; the unreached land is the desired land. 
 Faith is the lifting up of the hands ; it is the 
 time of manhood. Every lifting of the man's 
 hand is a seed sown in faith. He is in all 
 things a speculator; he trusts to the mercy of 
 the coming day. Love is the lifting up of the 
 soul: it is the time of age. I have always felt 
 that the autumn of life is the season in which 
 we first view things as they are. Hope and 
 faith are in the future ; love is in the present. 
 The eye looks forward ; the hand stretches on- 
 ward ; but the soul never moves from its place ; 
 it admires here and now. To have the soul 
 lifted up to God is what men commonly call 
 death. The Psalmist says we can reach it 
 
THE RIPEST COMMUNIOX. 209 
 
 without dying, can reach it to-day, this moment, 
 by one flight of love. Love is the true lifting 
 of the soul — the true death. It brings me from 
 time into eternity, from the changeful into the 
 abiding. It raises me into a world where there 
 is no future, no to-morrow, no wish to look for- 
 ward — where the Divine presence is fulness of 
 joy. It makes me independent of memory, 
 independent of hope, independent of change. 
 It restores to me the life of the butterfly ; it 
 magnifies the moment ; it bids the sun stand 
 still. It is the end of all climbing, the close 
 of all longing, the satisfaction of all aspiring, 
 the goal of all seeking — the rest that remaineth 
 to the people of God. 
 
 Son of Man, lift up my soul. There is no 
 need to wait for death ; death lifts not so high 
 as love. Love is the swiftest of all flights into 
 Thy presence. I know why John lay on Thy 
 bosom ; because he had the most rapid wing. 
 Hope is beautiful, but it cannot rest ; it will 
 not let Peter make a tabernacle for Thee. 
 Faith is beautiful, but it cannot rest ; it bids 
 Paul press forward for the mark of Thy prize. 
 But love reposes. It rests on Thy bosom 
 because it is Thy bosom — because it can dream 
 
 N 
 
210 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 of nothing beyond. The uplifted eye has an 
 expanse before it ; the uplifted hand has a work 
 before it; but the uplifted soul basks in Thy 
 present glory. It says Thy will be done. It 
 buries prayer in praise. It loses Thy rainbow 
 in Thy Ararat. It forgets the thought of to- 
 morrow in the rest of to-day. I shall say 
 " Now is the accepted time " when Thou hast 
 lifted up my soul. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 The Preparation of Man's Dwelling-Place. 
 
 John xiv. 2 v. 
 
 "In My Father's house are many mansions . . . I go 
 to prepare a place for you." 
 
 We have here the telescope and the microscope. 
 The one reveals the vast places of the universe 
 — the many mansions of the Father ; the other 
 fixes upon a unit in the void, " I go to prepare 
 a place for you." Often have I been startled 
 by the vastness of that sea in which my little 
 life is moviug ; I seem but a speck amid myriad 
 waves. Yet, it is not the distance that startles 
 
PREPARATION' OF MAN'S DWELLING-PLACE. 211 
 
 me. If you could give me wings by which in 
 a moment I could reach the end of the universe, 
 it would not bring me one step nearer rest. I 
 want to know what is at the end of the universe. 
 Is there a human soul there ? Is there any- 
 thing that can respond to my spirit ? Is there 
 aught that can love when I love, weep when I 
 weep, joy when I joy? Is there a pulse of 
 sympathy that can answer to the pulse of my 
 heart ? Is there a place prepared for me ? I 
 cannot get that place by going over the bridge ; 
 I can only get it by some one going over before 
 me. What I want is a heart already there, a 
 kindred soul to meet me, a human life to greet 
 me. The "going before" is itself the "pre- 
 paring." I want no gorgeous furniture in my 
 room of the Father's house. I am afraid the 
 furniture may be too gorgeous. I want some- 
 thing homely — like home. I seek an old glance 
 of the eve, an old ring of the voice, an old 
 clasp of the hand. I seek the ancient sym- 
 pathy that has linked man to man, the earthly 
 love that has knit heart to heart, the human 
 trust that has bound life to life. I seek in 
 eternity the image of time ; that is the place 
 I would have prepared for me. 
 
212 SEARCHIXGS IX THE SILENCE. 
 
 Let not thy heart be troubled ; in the vast 
 spaces there is a home for thee. The Son 
 of Man has gone before ; there is a region 
 prepared for humanity. There is a spot in 
 this stupendous universe where human nature 
 dwells. That spot is thy one comfort, thy 
 one glory. No other glory would make up 
 for it. There may be golden streets and pearly 
 gates and sapphire thrones. There may be 
 rivers clear as crystal, and. trees rich in foliage, 
 and flowers full of bloom. There may be suns 
 that never set, and hands that never weary, 
 and lives that never die. But about these 
 many things thy heart is not troubled. One 
 thing is needful, without which all were vain — 
 the sympathy of a brother's soul. Content 
 mayst thou be to have no revealing of the 
 many lights in the upper chamber, since thou 
 hast been allowed to gaze on one glimmer- 
 ing light of love — " I go to prepare a place 
 for you." 
 
213 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 God's Work and Man's Work. 
 
 Philippians ii. 12, 13 v. 
 
 " Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling : 
 for it is God which worketh in you both to will and to do 
 of His good pleasure." 
 
 There are two parts in every great work — a 
 working in and a working out. The working in 
 is always the Divine part. It is very easy to 
 work out an idea when once you have got it ; 
 but the mystery is the getting of it. What is 
 the mystery of the bee-hive ? It is not the 
 making of the hive ; it is the conceiving of it. 
 If you can tell me how the idea was worked in, 
 I will tell you how the plan was worked out. 
 The thing which wakes my wonder is the 
 instinct — the process toithin the bee ; I call it 
 (rod's work. So it is with my soul. I, too, am 
 helping to build a hive — a great home of 
 humanity, named the Kingdom of God. I know 
 not how it is done ; I know not even what part 
 of the building I am aiding to construct; I only 
 know that an impulse of life moves me. That 
 
214 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 impulse is God working within me. Whither it 
 tends I cannot see. The making of the hive 
 eludes me. I am travelling through the night — 
 carrying I know not what, to places I know not 
 where. Only, the impulse says " go," and I do 
 go ; I work out what God works in. I cannot 
 fathom His designs ; He has inspired me to the 
 work by designs less than His own. He sends 
 me to chase a butterfly when He means me to 
 win a kingdom. No matter, I work what I will 
 not ; I compass what I conceive not ; I perform 
 what I plan not. I do what is not in my dream 
 by the very effort to fulfil it. I seek, like 
 Abraham, a foreign country, and I find myself 
 in the land of Canaan. 
 
 Son of Man, help me to work out the plan of 
 Thy salvation. Even though it should be by 
 lower motives, guide me to build the hive. 
 Cause me to lay my stores of honey in the right 
 place — I mean, the right place for Thee. Put it 
 where its sweetness may refresh others, even 
 though its investment may be a failure to myself. 
 Fill me with fear and trembling at the solemnity 
 of my own position. Impress me with the 
 awfulness of being an unconscious worker for 
 Thee. Teach me the untold possibilities of my 
 
KINDNESS TO ANIMALS. 215 
 
 smallest action. Tell me that the stone which I 
 leave in the desert may be one day the centre of 
 Thy city — not because it has changed its place, 
 but because Thy places have come round it. Let 
 me consecrate by prayer my most common deed 
 ere ever it quits my hand, knowing that Thou 
 hast a motive behind my motive. It shall be 
 cast further than my utmost strength can 
 throw, for it is impelled by a purpose higher 
 than its own. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Kindness to Animals. 
 
 Genesis i. 26 v. 
 
 "And God said, Let us make man in our image, and 
 let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over 
 the fowl of the air, and over the cattle." 
 
 God never gives dominion to any creature which 
 has not reached His image. His image is love. 
 Other things belong to God ; but God is love. 
 No creature that has not love will be allowed to 
 have a permanent empire. The Father of Mercy 
 will not put the reins of government into a hand 
 
216 SEARGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 that has no heart. Dominion is a very solemn 
 thing; it may oppress, crush, destroy. The 
 Father must have a guarantee for its gentleness. 
 What guarantee can there be but His own image 
 — the possession of a nature tender as the 
 Divine ? Ye who torture the beast of the field, 
 have you considered the ground of your 
 authority ? Have you pondered why it is that 
 God has given you the dominion ? It is because 
 He meant you to have His image ere you began 
 to reign. If you have not a tender heart, you 
 have no right to reign ; you are a usurper. Is 
 it not written that Christ Himself has authority 
 to exercise judgment because He is the Son of 
 Man — because He has a soul of infinite tender- 
 ness ? Shall the disciple be above his Lord ? If 
 you would reign with Him, you must first suffer 
 with Him — feel the pains of sympathy for the 
 wants below. It is the meek who shall inherit 
 the earth ; God's dominion is for God's love. 
 
 My Father, fill me with love for thiDgs 
 beneath me. Forbid that I should be cruel to 
 the beast of the field. Give me the tenderness 
 that is born of reverence. Teach me to revere 
 the creation that is under me. Was not its life 
 a stream from Thy life ? Is not its life a 
 
KIXVNESS TO ANIMALS. 217 
 
 mystery to me even now ? Does it not accom- 
 plish without reasoning what I cannot do by 
 reasoning ? Let me uncover my head before the 
 mystery. Shall I bruise that which is so full of 
 Thee, which surpasses me even while it obeys 
 me ? I think I can understand why men of old 
 worshipped the animal. It was the sense of an 
 avenue of knowledge beyond all human avenues 
 — that there are more modes of Thy inspiration 
 than we dream of in our philosophies. Let me 
 take up tenderly that which I do know. There 
 are wants in beast and bird which to me are no 
 mysteries, for they are my own. Give me 
 fellowship with these, oh, my Father. Extend 
 my philanthropy downward. Let me enter into 
 sympathy with their hunger, their thirst, their 
 weariness, their cold, their frequent homeless- 
 ness. Let me give their wants a place in my 
 prayers. Let me remember them in the 
 struggles of the forest. Let me remember them 
 in the neglect of the city. Let me remember 
 them in the winter's frost and snow. Let me be 
 to them what Thou hast been to me — a protector, 
 a Providence. I shall be worthy to have Thy 
 dominion when I have reached Thy image. 
 
218 
 LXXXVIIL 
 
 The Order of Life. 
 
 Psalm xxvii. 5, 6 v. 
 
 " For in the time of trouble He shall hide me in His 
 pavilion; He shall set me upon a rock; and now shall 
 mine head he lifted up above mine enemies round about me." 
 
 There are three stages in the spiritual Hfe — the 
 pavilion, the rock, and the mount. It begins in 
 the secret of the pavilion. The troubles of the 
 world are at first concealed from it. Life appears 
 a more radiant thing than it really is. And it 
 is well it should be so. We would never enter 
 on the voyage if our first sight were not that 
 of the summer sea. By-and-by the illusion 
 vauishes. We come out from the pavilion which 
 hides the troubles of life. We pass from inno- 
 cence into struggle. We stand upon a rock — 
 the symbol of defence, the sign of resisting 
 strength. It is our ag;e of warfare, of battle, of 
 temptation. At last comes the final stage — 
 peace. Our head is lifted above our enemies ; 
 we are raised from the rock to the mountain, 
 and look down. The struggle is over ; the rest 
 
TEE ORDER OF LIFE. 219 
 
 of the pavilion is restored. But it is no longer 
 the rest of innocence. It is the calm of temp- 
 tation conquered, the peace of sorrow vanquished, 
 the silence of warfare passed. The quiet of age 
 is better than the quiet of youth. Youth can 
 hide me from my enemies ; but age can lift me 
 above my enemies. 
 
 Oh, my Father, lead me through this path 
 of Thine. Give me Thy pavilion in life's 
 morning. Hide from my opening eye the 
 storms of this world. Let me start with a 
 vision of its beauty alone. And yet, I would 
 not always dwell within Thy hiding-place. 
 Bring me in time from the pavilion to the rock. 
 I would know life as it is, by-and-by. I would 
 meet its clouds ; I would brave its storms ; I 
 would breast its billows. I would not have men 
 say, " It was easy for him to live ; he was hid all 
 his life within a pavilion." When I have seen 
 the world in rose-colours for a little while, I 
 would stand upon a rock and buffet the waves. 
 But neither would I end here, oh, my Father. 
 I know that there is a last state resembling the 
 first. There is a haven where men repose, not 
 b}' hiding, but by conquering. Lead me to that 
 rest. It is not the rose-coloured rest of the 
 
220 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 pavilion ; but it is better. It admits other 
 colours than the rose ; it brings in the whole 
 rainbow. It vindicates the seared and yellow 
 leaf. It tells me that youth is not the only fire 
 that can kindle the flower. It tells me that 
 there is a peace passing knowledge that can 
 come through knowledge. Thy dove on the 
 banks of Jordan is beautiful ; but the angels 
 that minister to the wilderness are more beauti- 
 ful still. Lead me to the rest that lies beyond 
 the rock. When Thou hast lifted up my head 
 above my enemies, I shall not need the secret of 
 Thy pavilion. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Reverence for the Past. 
 
 2 Corinthians iv. 12 v. 
 "Death worketli in us, but life in yon." 
 
 I understand the words to depict an old man 
 speaking to the new generation. He says : — 
 " I have had the nut to crack ; you will get the 
 kernel. I have had the labour ; you will have 
 the joy. I have had the toil of making the 
 
REVERENCE FOR TEE PAST. 221 
 
 fortune ; you will have the ease of spending it." 
 It is a wonderfully true picture of the beginning 
 and ending of things. The beginning of every 
 new life is hard on its possessor. The first man 
 of science is treated as a wizard ; the first social 
 reformer is called a revolutionary ; the first poet 
 is deemed mad. How many things were for- 
 bidden to our fathers which to us are the breath 
 of common air, and as easy as its breathing ! 
 Christ is one of these. To be a Christian was, 
 in Paul's days, to be a weakling. It was a thing 
 to be ashamed of ; it was not the fashion. But 
 Paul says a time is coming when it shall be the 
 fashion, when it shall be counted a shame to be 
 anything else. He says : — " Let the younger 
 generation know that what I sow they shall 
 reap. Let them know that there is a day 
 approaching when Christ shall be an atmosjDhere. 
 Let them learn that the precepts of the mount 
 shall ere long be the precepts of the plain. Let 
 them remember that the things which I speak 
 in whispers shall be uttered aloud — taught in 
 the schools, proclaimed in the temples, de- 
 manded in the market-place, desired in the 
 haunts of pleasure, expected in the hearth 
 and home. My strait gate shall be their 
 
222 SEARCHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 broadway ; my shadow their light ; my weak- 
 ness their strength; my straining their strain 
 of music. Death worketh in me, but life 
 in them. 
 
 My soul, art thou looking with contempt on 
 the dead past? It deserves a monument from 
 thee. Hast thou forgotten that the sun in 
 which thou baskest had its rising in blood? 
 Hast thou forgotten that thy life was death to 
 somebody ? Hast thou forgotten that thy 
 privileges were the pain of thy fathers ? Art 
 thou contrasting thy breadth with the narrow- 
 ness of the ancients ? If they had not been 
 narrow, thou wouldst not have been broad. 
 When Herod is seeking the young child to kill 
 it, what can men do but guard it ? There is a 
 time in which faith ought to lie in swaddling 
 bands. In its infancy it is helpless, speechless ; 
 and it is in the midst of foes. Ought it not to 
 be protected, isolated, fenced round and round ? 
 Yes ; and the men who did so should be 
 honoured. It could never have said, " All power 
 is given unto Me in heaven and on earth," if it 
 had not begun with the bands of Bethlehem. 
 Thou that art in the enjoyment of liberal things, 
 build a monument to the narrowness of thy 
 
RETROSPECT AND FORECAST. 223 
 
 fathers. Life works in thee because death 
 worked in them. 
 
 XC. 
 
 Retrospect and Forecast. 
 
 1 Corinthians xi. 24, 26 v. 
 
 " This do in remembrance of Me." " Ye do show the 
 Lord's death till He come." 
 
 What is the motive assigned for keeping this 
 feast ? Is it something in the past or some- 
 thing in the future ? It is both ; the avenue 
 is lighted at each of the gates. There is an 
 illumination of the past, " This do in remem- 
 brance of Me " ; and there is an illumination of 
 the future, " Ye do show the Lord's death 
 till He come." Do you deem it strange that 
 the mind should be drawn by two such 
 opposite motives ? Is it not ever so with our 
 memorials of the departed? When you go 
 to put flowers upon a grave, what is the 
 motive that prompts you ? — to keep memory 
 green ? Doubtless ; but is that all ? Why 
 do you wish to keep memory green? It is 
 
224 SEARCHINGS IN TEE SILENCE. 
 
 because you are looking forward as well as 
 backward. You are convinced the old days 
 will come again. If it were not for that 
 hope, you could not plant your flower; you 
 would rather let memory wither. Some have 
 written of the pleasures of memory, and some 
 of the pleasures of hope. But has it occurred 
 to either that the pleasures of memory are 
 the pleasures of hope ? Has it occurred to 
 either that these are twin sisters, who cannot 
 live apart ? When hope dies, memory cries out 
 to be killed ; she cannot abide alone. When 
 memory goes with her flowers to the grave, 
 hope calls from the shadowy land, " Occupy 
 till I come." If she did not hear that call, 
 she could not plant her flower. My Lord tells 
 me that when I build to His past I am 
 prompted by His future. It is the light of 
 Easter morn that leads me to the sepulchre ; it 
 is the gleam of resurrection that conducts me 
 to the broken body, "As often as ye eat this 
 bread, ye do show the Lord's death till He 
 come." 
 
 Therefore, my soul, be strong. When 
 there comes over thee the impulse to keep thy 
 memory green, remember it is from life, not 
 
RETROSPECT AXD FORECAST. 225 
 
 death, that the impulse comes. Memory may 
 plant the flower, but hope selects it. No 
 tribute of thy heart was ever paid to the dead ; 
 that which thou lovest is to thee always alive. 
 It may seem an act of pure remembrance ; but 
 its mainspring is not remembrance. Its main- 
 spring is the belief that the days will come 
 back again. It is not the broken body that 
 thou seest ; it is the body unbroken once 
 more. It is not the cross thou beholdest ; it 
 is the cross superseded. It is not the grave- 
 clothes on which thou gazest ; it is the grave- 
 clothes bound in a napkin. It is not the 
 stone on the sepulchre thou markest ; it is 
 the angel sitting on the stone. Thy voluntary 
 remembrance is an unconscious prophecy j thy 
 night is seen by the coming day. 
 
226 
 
 XCI. 
 
 The Thought for the Act. 
 
 1 Kings Yin. IS, 19 v. 
 
 " And the Lord said unto David, Whereas it was in 
 thine heart to build an house unto My name, thou didst 
 well that it was in thine heart : nevertheless thou shalt 
 not build the house." 
 
 A most remarkable passage. David wants to 
 build a temple to the Lord. God will not 
 let him ; He desires it to be reserved for 
 other hands. But He tells him that by reason 
 of the very thought he is counted one of 
 God's builders. David's temple was never in 
 stone and lime. It stood on no actual ground ; 
 it filled no visible space. It was only a 
 cathedral in the heart. Its walls were in the 
 imagination ; its arches were in the fancy ; 
 its pillars were in the mind ; its altars were 
 in the soul. Yet God says that this cathedral 
 of the heart shall be accepted as a real edifice. 
 He says that this shadowy structure, this 
 air-castle, this product of unfulfilled design, 
 shall have the value of a house in stone and 
 
THE THOUGHT FOE THE ACT. 227 
 
 lime. It shall have a price put upon it in 
 heaven equal to any finished building. The 
 architecture of the city of God is not limited 
 to houses made with hands. There are whole 
 streets within it which never existed outwardly. 
 There are temples which men meant to raise. 
 There are hospitals which philanthropy intended 
 to found. There are schools which benevolence 
 planned to institute. The structures that God 
 accepts are, for the most part, like Jacob's 
 ladder — built in a dream. We raise palaces 
 in our hearts, when our hands can only erect 
 mud dwellings ; but God keeps His eye on 
 the palaces not begun, and attributes not to 
 us the finished tenements of clay. He measures 
 my workmanship by the edifice in my soul. 
 
 Father, I have no temple built which is 
 worthy of Thee. There is nothing which 
 my hands have reared that I would be willing 
 to live hj. Whenever I make Thee a cathedral, 
 there rises up in my imagination another house 
 which puts it to shame. Take that other 
 house, oh, my Father. It is untouched by 
 hammer, or axe, or chisel ; it has as yet 
 neither a local habitation nor a name. It is 
 all in the spirit ; it is what I mean to do. 
 o 2 
 
228 SEARGHINGS IN THE SILENCE. 
 
 But Thou art the Father of spirits. The 
 topmost towers in Thy city are towers of 
 intention. My performance has never come up 
 to my thought. Solomon built Thee a house, 
 and David planned it ; but David's was a 
 grander house than Solomon's. My hand can 
 but feebly represent the movements of my soul. 
 Thou seest the " Paradise Lost " in the heart 
 of Milton, and it is more beautiful than the 
 one in the book. The temple in my heart 
 is Thy house not made with hands. It is 
 my true Babel ; it reaches unto heaven ; its 
 spire touches the sky. It is Thy New Jerusa- 
 lem ; come and dwell therein ; walk round 
 about it ; mark its bulwarks ; consider its 
 towers, and let the river of its pleasures glad 
 Thee. Thou canst not be gladdened by what 
 I do; but the river of Thy pleasures is the 
 aspiring of my heart. 
 
229 
 
 XCII. 
 
 The Comfort of Christ's Experience. 
 
 John xvi. 33 v. 
 
 " In the world ye shall have tribulation ; but be of 
 good cheer, I have overcome the world." 
 
 Christ spoke these words at a time when to all 
 appearance the world had overcome Him. He 
 was standing on the borders of death. There 
 were times in His life in which we could have 
 understood such an utterance. We could have 
 understood it in the moment of resurrection, when 
 He had beaten down His calamities. We could 
 have understood it in the moment of ascension, 
 when He had left His calamities behind. But 
 to say it in the very midst of His calamities — 
 that seems a strange thing. And yet, why so ? 
 When does a man overcome his enemy ? Is it 
 when he beats him down ? Hardly ; that is to 
 conquer the enemy, but not the enmity. Is it 
 when he leaves him behind and soars into other 
 spheres ? Nay ; that is to escape rather than to 
 overcome. The real hour of overcoming your 
 enemy is the hour in which you find some good 
 
230 SEARGRIXGS IX THE SILENCE. 
 
 in him — the hour in which }^ou stand in his 
 presence, and are not consumed. So was it with 
 Jesus and the trials of this life. He heat them 
 down in His rising ; He escaped them in His 
 ascending ; but only in His voluntary Cross did 
 He overcome them. His moment of world-con- 
 quest was the moment in which He took the cup. 
 When He tasted that cup and found it not to be 
 absolute^ bitter — that was the hour in which 
 He truly overcame. 
 
 Son of Man, it is Thy voice on the Cross that 
 brings me good cheer. Thou hast other voices 
 of triumph; but they have no bearing on me. I 
 cannot beat down my calamities ; Thy resurrec- 
 tion is beyond me. I cannot escape my calam- 
 ities ; Thy ascension surpasses me. But I can 
 take Thy cup, for it is my own cup. It is a cup 
 without mystery and without miracle — made up 
 of my own sorrows. And when I see it in Thy 
 hand, and hear Thee say, " I have tasted it 
 unharmed," my heart grows light within me. 
 If Thou hast found rest to Thy soul after taking 
 the yoke, I may well be of good cheer; I can 
 take courage when I learn of Thee. I have heard 
 betimes a bather call to his comrades on the 
 shore, " Come in ; it is not cold." So is it with 
 
THE COMFORT OF CUBISTS EXPERIENCE. 231 
 
 Thee. Thy voice comes to me from the waves 
 of trouble — waves in which, one day, I myself 
 must plunge. It cries: "Don't be afraid; I 
 have tested the waters ; they are not so cold 
 after all, nor so stormy. Though they rise up to 
 the brim, they will not overflow thee. I have 
 met them at their fulness ; I know the utmost 
 they can do. And I tell you that their utmost 
 is not overwhelming. I have measured their 
 bounds and retained my courage; I have re- 
 ceived their force and kept my footing ; I have 
 learned their violence and held fast my faith; 
 I have sounded their depths, and there is land 
 below. "Be of good cheer, I have overcome 
 the world." 
 
232 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 The World's Salutation to Christianity. 
 
 Philippians iv. 22 v. 
 
 " All the saints salute you, chiefly they that are of 
 Caesar's household." 
 
 The greenest wreath of welcome to Christ is sent 
 from the pit of the theatre. Caesar's household! 
 — that is the last place from which we should 
 have expected the first note of greeting. Eome 
 was the most worldly spot on earth. Caesar's 
 palace was the worst spot in Eome. Caesar's 
 household was the worst spot in the palace. 
 Why did not the wreath come from the upper 
 lives ? We should not have wondered if it had 
 been sent by the men of the desert — by those 
 who had shaken the dust of this world from 
 their feet, and were waiting for another. But 
 Caesar's household was the home of the most 
 crowded humanity. It was the place where 
 the lowest ranks met and jostled each other. 
 We can understand the rapturous greeting of 
 the Christ by one like the prophetess Anna, 
 who had lived all her life in solitude and 
 
THE WORLD'S SALUTATION TO CHRISTIANITY. 233 
 
 " departed not from the temple night and day." 
 But, amid this motley mass, amid this surging 
 crowd, amid this turgid stream of human 
 passions, where was there room to see Christ's 
 beauty? Is not Christ's beauty the power 
 of sacrifice — the strength of self - denial ? 
 Why was it not first seen by the hermit ? 
 Wherefore did its earliest wreath come, from 
 Caesar's household ? 
 
 It is because there is no self-denial like that 
 of the thoroughfare. Thou who art flying from 
 the world in search of a sacrifice of self, thou art 
 flying from the very thing thou seekest. There are 
 two kinds of self-denial. There is a self-denial 
 which exists in separation from the world ; it is 
 the sacrifice of giving up, and doubtless it has its 
 pain. But there is another and a more arduous 
 self-denial — that which consists in taking on. 
 There is a sacrifice which only comes by union 
 with the world ; thou shaft find it in the meeting 
 with thy brother man. It is a much easier thing 
 for thee to give up than to take on. To throw 
 away sympathy with thine own past may be 
 something ; but to enter into sympathy with my 
 past is more. To cast off thine old garment may 
 be sad ; but to put on my garment requires more 
 
234 SEARGHIXGS IX THE SILENCE. 
 
 courage still. It is only in Caesar's household 
 that such a task is possible. Thou canst disrobe 
 thyself in the desert ; but the city demands that 
 thou shalt put on thy brother's robe. It is 
 where man meets man that thy sacrifice begins. 
 It is easy to feel thy nothingness in the presence 
 of the mountains and the stars ; it is a light 
 thing to be humble before God. But to yield 
 thyself to a frail mortal, to sink thyself in the 
 interest of a fellow-sinner, to merge thyself in 
 sympathy with a creature of the dust — this puts 
 the hermit's life to shame, this is the flower of 
 sacrifice. Truly, I wonder not that, amid all the 
 wreaths of welcome, Christ's sweetest salutation 
 came from Caesar's household. 
 
235 
 
 XCIY. 
 
 The Approach of Nicodemus. 
 
 John iii. 2 v. 
 " The same came to Jesus by night." 
 
 To come by night is not a universal experience. 
 There are, in truth, all times for coming to Christ. 
 The radiant morn of hope, the meridian strength 
 of manhood, the burden and the heat of life's 
 afternoon, the twilight of disappointed joy — all 
 these are both times and reasons for our coming. 
 But night seems a reason for not coming ; it is the 
 coming in darkness, in doubt, in intellectual de- 
 pression. We do not so much wonder at shadows 
 following the coming. It is the property of light 
 to make shadows. The darkness of a Thomas 
 grows out of his love, and the fear lest it should 
 be vain. But to come in shadow, to come 
 when love itself is in its infancy, to come when 
 every motive prompts to stay — this appears a 
 very arduous thing. The doubt of Nicodemus 
 was more discouraging than the doubt of Thomas. 
 Thomas had a background in memory ; the 
 darkness of the moment was painted on the 
 
236 SEARCIIINGS IlV THE SILENCE. 
 
 canvas of a bright past. But Nicodemus had 
 no Christian memories to support him. He 
 began in the night ; it was his first experience. 
 He had never seen the morning star, never 
 heard the lark's note, never known how the 
 world could be kindled by the day. He was 
 called while yet under the shadow; he came 
 by night. 
 
 Son of Man, I am glad that Thou hast 
 suffered him thus to come. I am glad that, 
 amid the many approaches to Thee, there is one 
 for a life so poor. I am glad there is a stage 
 below the coming of a little child. The child 
 comes in emptiness. But night is worse than 
 empty ; it is a space filled with spectres. I 
 thank Thee that Thou hast admitted into Thy 
 kingdom a man from such a home. He saw 
 nothing about Thee but Thy works. Thy 
 beauty was veiled to him. He had not even 
 seen that youth can be renewed — that a man 
 may be born again when he is old. Yet, in his 
 rags, Thou hast taken him in. He asked only 
 to work with Thee — to do that kind of labour 
 which he saw Christians do. He would sign no 
 creed, he would make no confession, he would 
 join no church ; he asked but to be a helper of 
 
THE APPROACH OF NICODEMUS. 237 
 
 humanity ; and Thou saidst, " Come." He had 
 a back-door to Thy communion table ; but he 
 sat down with the best. He never saw Thee on 
 the mount ; but he was privileged to meet Thee 
 in the vale ; he took up Thy crucified body. 
 Such is ever Thy work for those who come by 
 night. Thou leadest them by the paths of the 
 human ; Thou makest them the ministers to 
 man. They do not always take Thy name; 
 those who wrestle for daybreak are afraid to take a 
 name ; they would bless and pass by. But Thou 
 givest them the name they have not assumed; 
 Thou callest them after Thyself. They have 
 come to Thee in the night ; but they shall claim 
 their brotherhood with the children of the day. 
 
238 
 
 xcv. 
 The Later Glory. 
 
 Acts ii. 17, 19 v. 
 
 "And it shall come to pass in the last days, saith 
 God ... I will show wonders in heaven above, and 
 signs in the earth beneath." 
 
 " In the last days." I always thought wonder 
 belonged to the first days — the days of our youth. 
 I thought it was a mark of ignorance, a sign of 
 immaturity. Is not the great fear of our time 
 just the fear that wonder will be killed by 
 knowledge ? We are afraid that, as we learn, 
 we shall cease to admire, and that we shall see 
 less of God the more we know of man. But 
 here, the wonder comes at the end, not at the 
 beginning ; it belongs to the last days. I am 
 told to look upon the sense of mystery, not as 
 something that fades with the past, but as some- 
 thing that dawns with the future. I am told to 
 view it, not as a feeling which knowledge shall 
 explode, but as a sentiment which knowledge 
 shall foster. I am told to think of it, not as the 
 product of ignorance, but as a thing which 
 
THE LATER GLORY. 239 
 
 ignorance has retarded and which perfect science 
 will reveal. I used to think the stones of my 
 temple had fallen from heaven. But now I have 
 found the quarry from which they were taken ; 
 and, behold, it is on earth. What then ? Shall 
 my wonder die ? Nay ; rather, it ought to be 
 for the first time born. There is no wonder 
 where there is no workmanship. To fall from 
 heaven is less marvellous than to grow from 
 earth. My temple has not come down ready- 
 made ; but it has been made in a manner more 
 wonderful still. It has risen through the efforts 
 of myriad souls — each laying a separate stone, 
 each unconscious what or where he laid. Each 
 comes to build for his own end ; and, lo, at the 
 close, there is one harmonious structure, offering 
 room to all. This shall be, this ought to be, 
 the wonder of the Lord. 
 
 My soul, why art thou ever sighing for 
 the former days ? Why hast thou placed thy 
 paradise ever in the past ? Thy paradise is not 
 in the past; it is on before. Thou hast built 
 many a monument to thy vanished youth. Hast 
 thou never built a monument to thy coming 
 age ? Why has thy wonderland been always in 
 the olden time ? God would place thy wonder- 
 
240 SEARGEIXGS IX THE SILENCE. 
 
 land, not in the first, but in the last days. His 
 gates of gold for thee open in the west. Men 
 speak of aspiring youth ; God speaks of aspiring 
 age. The birds of His highest heaven twitter 
 in the evening air. Faith's song is more 
 wonderful at the setting than at the rising of 
 the sun. Love's voice is more prophetic when it 
 has learned the labours of the wing. Hope's 
 trill is more melodious when it issues from the 
 cloud. Joy's note is more assuring when it 
 comes from the closing day. The old man's 
 dreams are better than the young man's visions ; 
 truly, thy Father has kept His best wine until 
 the last. 
 
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 Encyclopaedic Dictionary, The. In Fourteen Divisional Vols., ios.6d. 
 
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 European Pictures of the Year. Reproductions of Continental Pictures 
 
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 Strong to Suffer: A Story of 
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 Through Trial to Triumph. By 
 
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 Little Lizzie. 
 
 Little Bird, Life and Adven- 
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 Little Pickles. 
 
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 My First Cruise. 
 
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 The Delft Jug. 
 
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 Little People and Their Pet.'. 
 
 Tales Told for Sunday. 
 
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 "Wandering Ways. 
 
 Dumb Friends. 
 
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 Little Mothers & their Children. 
 
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 The Mystery atShoncliff School. 
 Claimed at Last, & Roy's Reward. 
 Thorns and Tangles. 
 The Cuckoo in the Robin's Nest. 
 John's Mistake. [Pitchers. 
 
 The History of Five Little 
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 Surly Bob. 
 
 The Giant's Cradle. 
 Shag and Doll. 
 Aunt Lucia's Locket. 
 The Magic Mirror. 
 The Cost of Revenge. 
 Clever Frank. 
 Among the Redskins. 
 The Ferryman of Brill. 
 Harry Maxwell. 
 A Banished Monarch. 
 Seventeen Cats. 
 
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 Great Grandmamma. By Georgma M. Synge. 
 Robin's Ride. By Ellinor Davenport Adams. 
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 Sarah Robinson, Agnes Wes- 
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 Thomas A. Edison and Samuel 
 
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 Mrs. Somerville and Mary Car- 
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 Sir Titus Salt and George 
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 Florence Nightingale, Catherine 
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 Dr. Guthrie, Father Mathew, 
 Elihu Burritt, George Livesey. 
 By John W. Kirton, LL.D. 
 
 Sir Henry Havelock and Colin 
 Campbell Lord Clyde. By E. C. 
 Phillips. 
 
 Abraham Lincoln. By Ernest Foster. 
 
 George Miiller and Andrew Reed. 
 By E. R. Pitman. 
 
 Richard Cobden. By R. Cowing. 
 
 Benjamin Franklin. By E. M. 
 Tomkinson. 
 
 Handel. By Eliza Clarke. [Swaine. 
 
 Turner the Artist. By the Rev. S. A. 
 
 George and Robert Stephenson. 
 By C. L. Mateaux. 
 
 David Livingstone. By Robert Smiles. 
 
 * The above Works can also be had Three in One Vol., cloth, gill edges 
 Library of Wonders. Illustrated Gift-books for Boys. Paper, is.; 
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 Wee Willie Winkie. 
 
 Dps and Downs of a Donkey's 
 
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 By Edward S.Ellis. 
 Red Feather : a Tale of the 
 
 American Frontier. By 
 
 Edward S. Ellis. 
 Seeking a City. 
 Rhoda's Reward; or. "If 
 
 "Wishes were Horses.'* 
 Jack Marston's Anchor. 
 Frank's Life-Battle; or, The 
 
 Three Friends. 
 Fritters. By Sarah Pitt. 
 Th e Two Hardcastles. By Made- 
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 Faith's Father. 
 
 By Land and Sea. 
 
 The Young Berringtons. 
 
 Jeff and Leff. 
 
 Tom Morris's Error. 
 
 Worth more than Gold. 
 
 "Through Flood— Through Fire;" 
 
 and other Stories. 
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 Stories of the Olden Time. 
 By Popular Authors. With Four 
 Cloth gilt, is. 6d. each. 
 
 Major Monk's Motto. By the Rev. 
 
 F. Langbridge. 
 Trixy. By Maggie Symington. 
 Rags and Rainbows: A Story of 
 
 Thanksgiving. 
 Uncle William's Charges; or, The 
 
 Broken Trust. 
 Pretty Pink's Purpose; or, The 
 
 Little Street Merchants. 
 Tim Thomson's Trial. By George 
 
 Weatherly. 
 Ursula's Stumbling- Block. By Julia 
 
 Goddard. 
 Ruth's Life-Work. By the Rev. 
 
 Joseph J ohnscn. 
 
Selections from Cassell § Company's Publications. 
 
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 Margaret's Enemy. 
 
 Stories of the Tower. 
 
 Mr. Burke's Nieces. 
 
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 The Top of the Ladder : How to 
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 Little Flotsam. 
 
 Madge and Her Friends. 
 
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 Maid Marjory. 
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 cloth, gilt edges, 2s. 6d. each, 
 
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 Poor Nelly. 
 Tom Heriot. 
 
 Through Peril to Fortune. 
 Aunt Tabitha's Waifs. 
 In Mischief Again. 
 
 Bound ia 
 
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 Esther West. 
 
 Three Homes. 
 
 Working to Win. 
 
 Perils Afloat and Brigands 
 
 On Board the Esmeralda, 
 Martin Leigh's Log. 
 
 Ashore. 
 
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 The "Log Cabin" Series. By Edward S. Ellis. With Four Full- 
 page Illustrations in each. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 The Lost Trail. | Camp-Fire and Wigwam. 
 
 Footprints in the Forest. 
 The "Great River" Series. By Edward S. Ellis. Illustrated. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, bevelled boards, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 Down the Mississippi. | Lost in the Wilds. 
 
 Up the Tapajos ; or, Adventures in Brazil. 
 The " Boy Pioneer" Series. By Edward S. Ellis. With Four Full- 
 page Illustrations in each Book. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. each, 
 l^ea in the Woods. A Tale of I Ned on the River. A Tale of Indian 
 Early Days in the West. River Warfare. 
 
 Ned in the Block House. A Story of Pioneer Life in Kentucky. 
 The "World in Pictures." Illustrated throughout. Cheap Edition, 
 is. 6d. each. 
 
 A Ramble Round France. i Glimpses of South America. 
 
 All the Russias. Round Africa. 
 
 Chats about Germany. The Land of Temples (India). 
 
 The Eastern Wonderland The Isles of the Pacific. 
 
 (Japan). I Peeps into China 
 
 The Land of Pyramids (Egypt). 
 Half-Crown Story Books. 
 
 Pen's Perplexities. 
 
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 hood. 
 Books for the Little Ones. 
 
 Rhymes for the Young Folk. 
 By William Allingham. Beautifully 
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 Notable Shipwrecks. 
 At the South Pole. 
 
 My Diary. With 12 Coloured Plates 
 
 and 366 Woodcuts. Is. 
 The Sunday Scrap Book. With 
 
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 boards, 3s. 6d. ; cloth, gilt edges, 5s. 
 The Old Fairy Tales. With Original 
 
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 nearly 1,000 Engravings. Cloth, 
 
 7s. 6d. Is. 6d. 
 Albums for Children. 3s. 6d. each. 
 
 The Album for Home, School, , Picture Album of All Sorts. With 
 
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 My Own Album of Animals. The Chit-Chat Album. Illustrated 
 
 With Full-page Illustrations. ' throughout 
 
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 CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited, Ludgate Hill, London.