But we do not express surprise that our Saviour should ask us if we love him. We do not wonder at the question from him. We know too well how much reason we give him to doubt our affection. Why should there be such a difference in favour of the earthly objects of our love? Is not Christ as lovely as those other beings, as deserving of affection, as attractive of love? He is altogether lovely. Are they? He possesses infinite loveliness. Nor does that express all. He is essential love. Nor love at rest, but in motion; nor far off, but near; exerting infinite energy in action, exercising infinite fortitude in suffering; earth the scene and man the object. It is He who asks, "Lovest thou me?" And he of whom He asks it is this man, the intelligent spectator of all this love; ay, its chosen and cherished object. If Christ was not nearly related to us, as those other beings are, that might be the reason of the difference in their favour. But who is so closely related to us, so intimately joined to us, as Christ? He formed us, and in him we live, move, and have our being. Does not that imply nearness? Is he Divine, while we are human? He is human as well as Divine, one of the brotherhood of flesh and blood. He came down to earth to take our nature on him, nor went up to heaven again without it. There it is, our humanity allied to Divinity, Divinity radiant through it, on the throne. Is he not related to us? He says of every one who does the will of his Father, "The same is my brother, and sister, and mother." That alone relates us to him more than all human ties. But that is not all. Christ is the Husband If we are his disciples, of the church. He is one with it. 66 he is the Vine, and we the branches; he the Head, and we the members. Yea, we are members of his body, of his flesh, and of his bones." Does not this express a near and intimate relation? Now it is One so near to us, so joined to us, who asks, "Lovest thou me?" Have our friends, whom we are so conscious of loving, done more for us than Christ, or made greater sacrifices for us? Are we under greater personal obligations to them? "Which of all our friends to save us, Could or would have shed his blood? Reconciled, in him, to God.", And yet we know we love those friends: but this Friend! we know not whether we love him or not, we only hope we do! Do other beings find such difficulty in loving Christ? and are they at such a loss to know when they do love him? O no. His Father testifies, "This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased." And he is called also his wellbeloved, his dear Son. All the angels of God love and worship him, and delight to ascribe infinite worthiness to him. It is only men who find any difficulty in loving Christ. It is only the human heart that hesitates and hangs back. Is there any reason for this, any reason why men should be the last to love Christ, and why they should love him least of all who behold his loveliness? I see none, but I think I see reasons many, and strong, and tender, why we should be first, and most forward, and warmest in our affection to him. How many worlds he passed to alight on this! How many created natures he rejected, when from all of them he chose the human to be united to Divinity! Others have sinned, yet not their sins bare he, but ours. It may be said of other creatures, "He loved them;" but of men only can it be added, "and gave himself for them." And yet who is so backward to love him as redeemed man? Not tardy merely. Oh how parsimonious of his love!-loving him so little, that often he cannot ascertain if he loves at all! Shame, where is thy blush? and sorrow, where thy tear? Oh how different Christ's love to us from ours to him! We have not to ask him if he loves us. If any one should "Behold ever ask that question of Jesus, he would say, my hands and my feet." He bears on his very body the marks of his love to us. But what have we to point to as proofs of our love to him? What has it done for him? What suffered? Oh the contrast! His love, so strong! ours so weak! His, so ardent! ours, so cold! His, so constant ours, so fickle! His, so active! ours, so indolent! So high, so deep, so long, so broad his love, its dimensions cannot be comprehended, it passeth knowledge; while ours is so limited, and so minute, it eludes research! "Dear Lord! and shall we ever live At this poor dying rate? Our love so faint, so cold to thee, W. NEVINS. CHARACTER OF CHRIST'S DISCIPLES. INSTEAD of expecting to be saved by his works, the true Christian puts his trust in Christ alone. He knows that in Christ Jesus neither baptism, nor coming to church, nor any other form or ceremony, can avail anything of itself, but a new creature. He feels that to become a new creature is a task beyond his power, that he cannot make himself over again. Therefore he prays for the Spirit of God to create him anew after his heavenly Father's image, in righteousness and true holiness. Again, instead of being satisfied with himself, and thinking he can earn God's favour by leading a virtuous life, he knows that if he lived the best life that ever mortal man lived, he should still be an unprofitable servant. He is conscious, too, how far his own life falls short of that test. Therefore, instead of being satisfied with himself, and thinking he has done enough, he is anxious to grow better, and to push forward. And why does he wish this? Not from believing God to be a hard and cruel master; but because he desires to become more like him; because he wishes to show his dutiful love toward him by keeping his commandments; and because this is the only return he can make for all that his Saviour suffered on his account. HARE. NANCY S, AND THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. TWO little girls were sent by their parents to a sabbath school, but these parents never came near the house of God themselves. When the mother, Nancy S—, was repeatedly urged to do so by two young ladies who visited her, she replied she had no time; she had to dress her husband's dinner, and he being a shepherd, did not come home till too late on Sunday morning, to get it over in time for the afternoon service. Every remonstrance was met with some excuse, and it seemed as if she was determined not to listen to the word of salvation. But sovereign mercy was to be displayed even here, and when all the endeavours and counsels of man were unavailing, God's strong and mighty voice changed the sinner's heart. 66 Nancy S, the mother, went into a neighbour's cottage, and observing her reading a nicely bound book, asked to look at it. The book was Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress,' and had been given as a prize, in the Sunday-school, to a little girl. The neighbour gave it to her, and she opened it at that part which describes Christian knocking at the wicket gate. Her heart was touched on reading the part, her eyes were opened to her guilt, and the Spirit of the living God wrought deep and strong convictions within. She begged the loan of the book, and with trembling and earnest prayer she began to read. So great were the terrors of her conscience, that she awoke her husband in the night, by her urgent cryings for mercy; and when he reproached her with madness, she would exclaim, "Oh! cannot you see the hell, the dreadful hell you are standing upon!" She then thought of, and went to the neglected house of God, and there while attending his own appointed ordinances, the Lord brought peace to her soul. The work of grace begun in her heart, was carried out in her life. Her house was cleaned, her garments washed and ironed on the Saturday; and when her husband come home at noon, on the sabbath, his dinner was dressed, and she, welcoming him with a cheerful countenance, invited him to accompany her to the sanctuary of her God. The man was astonished, and though he would not go with her, yet in time he owned that her religion had made her a better wife. Nancy was warm-hearted in her natural temper, and conversed freely and fervently on the love of God towards her; but she was not permitted long to be a sojourner here. For about twelve months she thus continued to adorn the doctrine of God her Saviour in all things, and to show to all around, that there is a spirit and life in the religion of Jesus which the world can neither give nor take away. A week after giving birth to a little boy, she was seized with a fever, and suddenly called to leave the cares and poverty of life, to enjoy the full fruition of glory purchased for her by her adorable Saviour. She died calmly and happily, and though the nature of her complaint prevented her saying much, yet she was enabled to look forward with firm reliance on the Saviour as to her safety, nor expressed a wish to be spared, except to take care of her infant, and to watch over the spiritual welfare of her children; but even these anxieties she relinquished into the keeping of her faithful Creator, knowing that he who had sought and saved her in the eleventh hour, would not fail in any of his promises. THE SNOW TRACK. IT was on a misty morning in January that old Jacob Saunders and I crossed the fields between Hill Top and the old Gravel Pits; a fall of snow had taken place during the night, and it lay on the ground several inches deep. The fog made all objects at a distance very dim, and the blood red sun tried in vain to burst through it with his beams. Here and there a few small birds were seen flying from one bush to another, and now and then a flock of fieldfares winged their way above the elm trees. At the corner of Farmer Pierce's cow-shed stood a holly-bush, and the shining red berries upon it looked very cheerful. Jacob was a thoughtful, pious old man, very fond of musing on God's glorious creation, so he stopped a moment to admire the beautiful flakes of snow on the prickly leaves, and when he shook the bush oh what a shower of snow came down upon his head and mine! Just as he came up to the stile, we saw three persons a little before us, and soon perceived that one was Ralph Collins, farmer Pierce's shepherd, another was Betty Baxter, the wheelwright's wife, and the third Tom Sloane, the cow-herd; while he stood at the stile, they went on. Ralph was dressed in his rough drab great coat with big buttons; his hat was low in the crown and broad in the brim, and his shaggy grisled dog Turk trotted beside him. Betty Baxter had on a red cloak, and Tom wore a white smock frock. In a little time, they parted from one another, and all went different ways; but though they were all out of sight by the time we reached the five-barred gate by the old hovel, yet Jacob pointed out what way each had gone. Tom had taken the narrow path to the right. Betty had turned off in the opposite direction, while Ralph, with long strides, had gone right across the field with Turk at his heels. You will not ask how it was that Jacob knew all this: you will guess at once that he found it out by the tracks they had left in the snow. There was the mark of the broad foot of Ralph, full of hobnails, while Tom's track was not much more than half the size. Betty's pattens left a mark behind them that could not be mistaken; no wonder, then, that Jacob could tell which way they all went. Even Turk might be tracked as easily as the rest, for the print of his small feet told very plainly that he had trotted along first on one side of his master, and then on the other. As old Jacob and I walked forwards, he said to me that every one leaves a track behind him, not only when passing through the snow, but also in journeying through life. Full of this thought, he went on talking thus:-These tracks that Ralph Collins, Betty Baxter, and Tom Sloane have left behind them, mayhap will only last a few hours; or at least, but a few days, whereas the tracks they leave by their actions will, I doubt not, be seen plain enough for many a long year to come. Ralph and Betty, too, are decent people, and I hear that Tom is as trusty a lad as ever cleaned out a cow-shed. If they have God's grace, they will all do well, |