the speaker thought he had brought some "balm of Gilead" in the words, to bleeding hearts. Poor human comforter! He stood in the midst of weeping, and his sympathetic heart was all alive to administer consolation. He desired

to speak some word, or utter some sentiment, that would dry a tear, or prevent a pang. But he had never been himself to the Cross, and how could he impart consolation? His poor, dumb mouth found no word or way of utterance till his worldly philosophy parted his lips, and bade him say, “All must die.” Oh, how impotent is man without religion in the house of mourning! He has not a thought, nor word, nor emotion, suited to meet the wants of grieving souls around him. How dare he live exposed with all his family to sudden and dreadful rupture by misfortune and death, with no unfailing refuge in trouble, and no covert from the storm! He can exclaim, 66 common lot" must be resigned to our fate". "all must die" and this

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we

Such advisers in the hab

is the climax of his consolation!
itation of mourning are like Job's three friends,

erable comforters."

"mis

"Thy Will be done." This is the mourner's language of submission, and is the hardest, last-learned lesson in the school of Christ. Yet it may be learned. The difference between the counsels of the Gospel and those of the world, as before considered, presents the ground of this cordial and complete submission. When from an overflowing heart the bereaved family can lift this triumphant prayer, they are ready to exclaim with David, “It is good for me that I have been afflicted."

In this petition we recognize the truth that, "the Lord reigneth," and virtually profess to "rejoice." We voluntarily offer to resign the dearest objects we possess wealth, pleasure, fame, friends, or life itself. We invite, yea, we implore God, if He pleases, to give wings to the last farthing of our possessions, to disappoint our hopes, to thwart our

cherished plans, to distress our families, to cut down a friend by death. And now, what though He send the blight and mildew upon our harvest-fields, did we not implore Him to do it, if he pleased? What though He withhold His blessing from the secular enterprise and it terminates a failure, did we not invoke Him to do His will? What though He take the parent, husband, wife, or child, and gloom and darkness cover our pathway, was not our supplication, "Thy will be done?' This may be its answer.

Some of

the rough gales that sweep the shores of time are but the answerings of a God who hears this prayer. With no uttered or imagined proviso or condition, with no reserved liberty to interpose a question, we pray, "Thy will be done."

A Sabbath school teacher was imparting instruction to his class upon this portion of the Lord's Prayer-" THY WILL BE DONE ON EARTH AS IT IS HEAVEN." "You have told me," said he, "what is to be done—the will of God; and where it is to be done-on earth; and how it is to be done-as it is done in heaven. How do you think the angels and the happy spirits do the will of God in heaven, as they are to be our pattern?" The first child replied, "They do it immediately;" the second, "They "o it diligently;" the third, "They do it always; the fourth, "They do it with all their hearts," the fifth, "They do it altogether." Here a pause ensued, until at length a little girl arose and said, "They do it without asking any questions." No commentator has ever given a better interpretation of this petition. This is true SUBMISSION -to bow "without asking any questions." Less than this is calling in question. Divine equity.

Then, is not this lesson of submission a difficult one to learn? Is it easy in all circumstances to say, "Thy will be done," and say it in good faith? Suppose it is a bright morning of winter, and your hopes are bright as the morn

ing; your children go out to learn lessons in the school-room, to return again at noon-tide hour as buoyant as when they left. You dream not that a lesson of sublimer import than theirs is to be submitted to yourself before the close of day. But in an unexpected moment there is a terrible crash,and hundreds of pupils are precipitated from a dangerous height amid wild shrieks of terror and stifled death-groans. The children whom you expected to greet in a few brief hours are brought home and laid corpses at your feet. You are childless. Is submission an easy lesson to learn? Can a graceless heart lift the supplication over this scene of death, Thy will be done," believing that it were better that such a sorrow discipline the heart?

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You are a passenger on board some ill-fated Atlantic. You are bound after a long absence to the place of your birth, where affectionate hearts are waiting to bid you welcome. A few more hours, and your feet will stand in the hall that once resounded with your voice, and hail a circle which needs your presence only to render its numerous relationships unbroken. But a furious storm tosses your boat upon the sea, and amid the crashing of glass, the roaring of waves, and the jutting of rocks, you yield up life in despair. Is it easy to say to the God who speaks, and the winds and waves thus obey Him, who commands and the elements hasten to destroy—is it easy to say in honesty, "Thy will be done?

Yet the lesson may be learned. Who that has confidence in the character and providence of God, and truly believes that "all things work together for good to them that love God," cannot bow in meek submission to His will? So did John Elliot when he said, "I have had six children, and I bless God for his grace, they are all with Christ or in Christ, and my mind is at rest concerning them. My desire was that they should serve Christ on earth; but if God will choose to have them serve Him in heaven, I have nothing to

cbject to it. His will be done." So did the good Archbishop of Cambray, when his royal pupil, the young Duke of Burgundy, died. He said, "If there were needed no more than the moving of a straw to bring him to life again, I would not do it, since the Divine pleasure is otherwise." So have many others done.

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"And he said, These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb." Their sore afflictions win for them a 66 more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." Their joy is sweeter for having sowed in tears. Their crown is brighter for having passed the fiery trial. The discipline of tribulation magnifies the glories of immortality. The greater the trial, the brighter the crown! To us who are looking for a "better country, even an heavenly," this is a grateful truth. It presents the embodiment of all that is hallowed in thought, all that is elevating in desire, and all that is precious in the consummation of hope. A few fleeting years of sorrow we count all joy" if the resulting fruit is a richer reward at God's right hand. We can well afford to weep over disappointed expectation, and affection can afford to droop over the dust of the departed, if it shall add one drop to our cup of bliss in the paradise of God. The purest earthly enjoyment succeeds the gloomiest hours of trial. The sweetest rest comes after the season of wearisome toil. The most refulgent sun shines after the darkest day. Hope's realization is more complete after longdelayed and suffering expectation. The long-absent mariner anticipates the end of his tedious voyage. His thoughts often wander over the treacherous waves to his home and kindred, and he sighs for his native land. But the unfavoring winds delay him in his course, and alternate hope and fear pervade his heart as sunshine smiles or tempests lower, all serving to magnify the happy meeting of friends which his imagination paints. Hours drag heavily, and the gales

seem to withhold their wafting influence as anticipation strengthens with the passing weeks. Nearer and nearer he approaches the desired haven, until at length the green hills of his childhood's home heave in sight, and his anxious friends welcome him to the shore. Who can measure his joy? It is greater because of perils and hair-breadth escapes. In this is a true symbol of the christian's life. He sails on smooth waters to-day, to-morrow the sea is rough. Now fear agitates his bosom, then hope brightens. He thinks of the pure abode of the righteous, but the land is not in sight. Anon it bursts upon his view, and the redeemed of God welcome him to its blissful inheritance. His reward is greater for the perils of the way. Now, his "joy is unspeakable and full of glory."