relationships appear quite harmonious; but as soon as disobedience and unholiness arise, the claims of the Judge will clash with the feelings of the Father, and the two, if possible, will need to be reconciled.

This opposition between the demands of the Judge and the Father, when both relationships meet in the same person, has not unfrequently occurred in human governments, in which case, the feelings of the father have perhaps generally triumphed, and justice and law have been dishonoured; but there have been instances in which the demands of law, involving as they do the interests not merely of a family but of a nation, have been felt to be so sacred, that either the father has been merged in the judge or some compromise has been attempted between the two. The history of Brutus, one of the two earliest Roman consuls, is an example of the first kind. For when his own sons, who had been found, with several others, conspiring against the new republic, were brought before him, he sternly asked them whether they could offer any defence for their crimes, and receiving no answer, said to the executioner, "Now it is for you to perform the rest.' He would not listen to the pleadings of nature, when duty to the state required him to be firm. And this firmness, we are assured, did more than any thing else to give stability to the recently-formed constitution. In the case of a certain king of the Locrians, we have an example of the second kind, and find that father and judge both insisted on being heard. This king had made a law that the sin of adultery should be punished by the loss of both eyes. The first offender that was discovered, after the passing of this statute, was his own son. His perplexity was very great. To execute the sentence, would be to inflict on his own child a most terrible, an irreparable calamity; to let him go free, would be to stultify himself and make his government despised. He therefore determined to bear part of the punishment himself, rather than totally deprive his child of sight, and each endured the extinction of an eye. It cannot be wondered at that such an arrange ment produced a deeper conviction of the majesty and inviolability of law, and more fully answered the end of punishment, than even the exact execution of the original sentence could have done. Still, although an atonement was thus made, you will perceive that it was incomplete; the punishment was indeed diminished, but not remittel; justice was upheld, law was honoured, but the yearnings of parental affection were only partially satisfied. If the Eternal God should ever determine on a provision for reconciling the claims of the Father and the Judge, that provision, we may be certain beforehand, will be perfect. The law will be fully illustrated and magnified; the offender, entirely delivered from the grasp of the sentence, will be restored to all the blessings and honours of a child; the maintenance of absolute rectitude will be joined with free and unreserved forgiveness; the Father and the Judge alike recognised and satisfied. Now this is precisely what has been done. God has looked with righteousness, and yet in pity, on sinful and erring man, and has said, Deliver him from going down to the pit, for I have found a ransom." That ransom was nothing less than the obedience and sacrifice of our Lord Jesus Christ. He, who was God manifest in the flesh, came down from the Father as our Substitute and Surety. "He bore our sins in his own body on the tree; though he knew no sin, he was made sin for us, that we. might be made the righteousness of God in him." He "redeemed us from the curse of the law, being made a curse for us." The consummate excellence of that law was manifested by his life, which was one unvarying career of obedience to its commands. The inflexible decision of that law was proved, when it was seen that, rather than its honour should be tarnished, Jesus, the Son of God, would suffer in the sinner's room. The real greatness and blessedness of subjecting our own will to the Divine, was illustrated in his sublime self-sacrifice; and a way was opened whereby, in strictest harmony with the highest justice, the repentant sinner can obtain mercy, and the self-condemned and trembling prodigal can find a home in his Father's house. The legal difficulties-the difficulties connected with the violation of public, universal law-are now removed; a channel is provided through which grace and blessing can flow to the penitent, and God is both just and the Justifier of those who believe in Jesus. All that a Father's overflowing heart sees needful for the recovery of his foolish and erring children, He can now bestow without dishonour and without stint; and therefore, by the lips of his own Son, He has pronounced that all-comprehending promise: "If ye, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, much more shall your heavenly Father give his Holy Spirit to them that ask?" Directly the sinner wakes up to a sense of his guilt and danger, and seeks forgiveness through Jesus Christ, he receives both the remission of his sentence and the heart of a child. The love which has made so costly a provision for his restoration is the surest guarantee that he shall not apply in vain. However guilty,

however timid, he need not fear; the grace that saves is infinite; Christ cleanseth from all sin."

"the blood of Jesus

Still it is, perhaps, not to be wondered at that some, who get a very distinct and profound view of their own sin, should tremble and hesitate. "Is it possible," they are ready to ask, "that upon one so unworthy as I am, one who has so long and so grievously offended, the Eternal God can ever look with favour? Is it possible that He will ever welcome me as his child?" Now, the parable from which I have taken my text is well adapted to dispel such fears, and most important it is that they should be dispelled, for if a man fancies that he is in a hopeless condition, he endeavours, in the best way he can, to reconcile himself to it, and drops all effort to get free. If a man looks upon God with terror, as a being whose anger he deserves and must endure, he can regard Him with no filial love. The willingness of God, therefore, to receive and pardon the penitent is a truth which must be believed and felt, if the sinner is to be incited to any feelings of trust and tenderness, or to any endeavours after pardon and deliverance. Let us look, then, at the encouragement which is given to every awakened sinner by this parable, to the meaning of which my text is the key. Like the two preceding parables of the lost sheep and the lost piece of money, it was no doubt intended to account for the condescension which our Lord displayed to the lowest and basest of the populace-the publicans and sinners whom the Pharisees despised. The woman who has merely lost a coin sweeps every corner till she finds it, for the simple reason that we none of us like to lose the smallest trifle. The shepherd who has lost one of his sheep tracks it through brake and moors, and brings it on his shoulders rejoicing, because he takes an interest in every one of his flock. But who can fully describe the feelings of a father, when his erring and reckless child, long lost to his family, the shame and dishonour of his house, comes back with broken heart and obedient spirit-the joy with which he clasps him to his bosom, and, refusing to hear of the past, is only concerned to celebrate his return? "And shall not I," suggests the Saviour, who am the good shepherd, seek these poor lost sheep? Shall not I, who possess a heart warmer than the tenderest father's, welcome my poor prodigal, who displays the returning love of a child? and, if you self-righteous Pharisees, in your pride and exclusiveness, stand aloof, shall not I rejoice over a son who was dead and is alive again, was lost and is found?" Let none then be discouraged. The Saviour is ready to receive you. The Eternal Father is waiting to be gracious. And if any still shrink back with alarm, still fear lest they should be rejected, let them come and look a little more narrowly into this exquisite parable.

I. Is it the recollection of the descent, which you voluntarily made, that disturbs you, the downward course, which you so wilfully took? Then think of the younger son in our narrative. He had a wise and indulgent father, a rich and happy home. But after a while, he began to lose that perfect sympathy with his father which had once prevailed; difference of view produced a real, though scarcely perceptible, diminution of affection. As a natural consequence, he fretted under the restraints of the family, felt the risings of independence, and longed to be free. For all of us must have noticed that the fresh warm love of a child's heart, the deep, reverent concern to do his father's pleasure, is like a silken cord which, without conscious restraint, binds him to home and its purity, is like the strong, health-giving breeze which makes his task a pleasure. But when this filial love is weakened, as if the cord were snapped, and the air become sultry and stagnant, the attraction of home affections and virtues gradually ceases to hold him, and a moral taint corrupts his soul. So this young man, obtaining the portion of goods intended for him, at last set out on a long journey into a far country, and separated himself entirely from his father's counsel and influence. Time wore on, and he probably forgot his home altogether. He sent no messages to indicate his love, and received no advice to restrain him from evil. The father who had so tenderly nurtured him, so generously endowed him, was treated with absolute neglect, and communications between them were completely dropped. And now, finding himself where there was nothing to check his selfishness, nothing to revive that domestic love which is the strongest natural preservative from vice, he gave the reins to his passions and sinned without reserve. So completely was he lost to all sense of honour or shame, that he actually used the goods which his father had given him to obtain criminal indulgences which he must have known that his father abhorred. O! I have heard of a young man who was trained in a pious home, but, in this great city, he fell into evil company and resorted to haunts of guilty pleasure. But the little purse of money which his mother sent up from time to time he always reserved for higher purposes, and

sacredly refrained from expending on his sins one penny of that sum which bore the impress of a mother's purity and a mother's love. But this graceless son employed the very gold which had just come from the hands of his father in the practice of vice, and made his kind and pious parent unwittingly the minister of his sin. At length he discovers, what all must sooner or later discover, that "the way of transgressors is hard." Famine arises, his substance is gone, he is reduced to beggary and want. Does he now remember his sins? Does he now think of the father whose heart he so sorely wounded, and whose house he so offensively left? No. He will take another step lower still. He had been a stranger in that distant land hitherto; he will now, if possible, become naturalized, and so he joins himself to a citizen of the country, who sends him into the fields to feed swine. He who could not endure the gentle restraint of a well-ordered home is now obliged to bear the shameful bondage of a swineherd. But, spite of this humiliation, he is still in want. The husks of the swine do not fill his belly or satisfy his hunger, for man cannot be content with the food of swine,-and no one offers him ought beside. There he is at last utterly undone. He has gradually reached the lowest point of degradation and misery; to every eye his case appears hopeless. He has parted with his birth-right, happy and confidential intercourse with his father, has lost his purity, has squandered his substance, is utterly without the means of gratifying any wish, and sits down in filth and rags, to contend with the swine for the husks which they eat.

Does any one among you say,-" That, spiritually, is my position; that, in other words, is the very course that I have run?" Alas! it is by no means impossible, for it is the history of thousands. You can, perhaps, remember the time when you thought of God with reverence and love. Gentle hands led you to the mercy-seat, and taught you to say, "Our Father." But gradually feelings of estrangement arose. The way in which your heavenly Father bade you walk was not quite in accordance with your wishes; you entertained hard thoughts of God; and when you knelt in prayer at night you knew that you did not love Him as you once had done. No one save yourself, perhaps, at first noticed the change, as no one but the patient detects that slight shortness of breath which is yet the precursor of consumption and death. But that change was one of which, if you had then seen the termination, it would have caused your heart to quake. As long as we "acknowledge God in all our ways," and make "Him first and last and midst," as long as our hearts beat truly to Him, and, like young Samuel, we can promptly say, "Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth, so long do we preserve at once our manhood and our sonship untouched; but directly his presence becomes a burden, and we long to cast off the restraint of his law, that moment the heart of a child begins to go from us, and the loftiest and most conservative element in our humanity sinks and declines. It was so with you. Impatient of his control, wishing to follow out "the devices and desires" of your mind, you soon wandered from him altogether. You put aside your Bible on the shelf where it has slumbered ever since. You gave up prayer, and years have fled since last you bowed your knee in supplication. You deserted the assembly of Sabbath worshippers, or, if present, were totally ignorant of all that was passing. At last God was not in all your thoughts; though He gave you your substance, and though his bounties ought to have reminded you every moment of your obligation, you forgot Him altogether, and lived far, far from Him in wicked works. Scarce any mark remained of that relationship which was once so hallowed-scarce any recollection of those happy days when the name of father was a fountain of joy. Nor was this the worst. When you forsook your father, you did not go portionless. You wished to take his gifts into your own hands, and use them without his interference, and he let you,-in judgment and displeasure, he let you. As he retains none and advises none against their will, he said to you virtually, Go take what thou wishest or thinkest to belong to thee; have all under thy own power and use it as thou deemest fit. Assume the guidance of thy reason, thine affections, thy passions, thy tastes, acquired knowledge, and worldly goods, and find out by experience what it is to have thine own way and trust thine own heart." And those gifts you took, gifts which came direct from the hands of the Holy One, and how did you use them? You used them to undermine his authority, to break his commands, to sin against all He holds sacred, and to grieve his Holy Spirit. His very gifts, the powers of mind and bounties of providence with which his hands endowed you, you employed to aid you in a course which you knew his soul abhorred. It may be that that course was not openly flagrant; you were simply lovers of pleasure, more than lovers of God. Or, it may, be that you gave yourself up to habits of impurity and intemperance, of profanity and dissipation. At any rate, you perverted the faculties and affections of your mind and the rich supplies

want.

of God's bounty, and sank low in the gulph of sin. As long as outward circumstances continued prosperous, and you were urged forward by a favourable gale, you exulted in your independence and laughed away care; but when the clouds gathered darkness and a storm of sorrow broke on your head, then you were troubled. For your new situation you were utterly unprepared. You had nothing to comfort you. You were absolutely in But instead of turning your feet homeward, you only allied yourself more firmly to an ungodly world, and sought in its provisions relief from misery and despair. Ordinary pleasures became insipid, new and lower ones were resorted to, just as when the pampered, sickly appetite fails, more highly seasoned meats are prepared. You sought satisfaction in that which was merely outward and material, and, as this can never meet the cravings of the soul, you were still conscious of want. You strove to feed your mind on speculations which treated religion as fiction and folly, and, since the religious element is that which chiefly distinguishes man from the brute creation, you seemed resolved to live on the very husks which the swine did eat. And now you were the picture of wretchedness and degradation. Your Father forsaken, your nature polluted, your heart dissatisfied and desolate, your conscience restless, your hope gone. "Yes," you reply, "you have sketched me to the life, and my hope is gone.' But why? your history is indeed a shameful one, but why despair? Has not your course been, step by step, the very counterpart of the prodigal, and was not he received? Nay, is not that very prodigal a description of your own self, drawn by the hand of infinite love, that, when every thing within and around you should speak only of despair, you might hear one voice which you could not distrust, saying to your trembling spirit, "be of good cheer, your sins are all forgiven." Then left up your heads, ye desponding ones. Be not afraid, only believe. Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall become, through the cleansing power of Christ's grace, white as snow, though red like crimson, they shall be as wool.

:

II. But perhaps, some of you are inclined to say, "My course has been a very ungrateful and unholy one, I know; I have been the very chief of sinners; but even this does not so much alarm me as the fact that I have become religiously a complete wreck; my soul is a dark blank can I ever be again what I once was, ever hope to occupy the meanest place among those who serve the Lord?" Look again at the prodigal; his history may give you brighter thoughts. If ever there was a heart in which every holy affection appeared to be totally dried up, it was his. If ever there was a condition from which escape and restoration seemed impossible, it was his. But after all, his case was not desperate; neither is yours. The love of Christ, the power of the Spirit are allsufficient.

1. Just observe the way in which right feeling sprung up again in his heart. He was was in deep distress. Every thing that he had tried, to yield him comfort, failed. Looking forward and around him in sheer misery, and finding nothing that gave him rest, he turned his thoughts backward to the days of his youth; memory revisited the home of plenty and peace, felt the warm touch of a father's hand, and the kind greetings of a father's voice. Lost in the visions of by-gone happiness, he found old feelings returning. The flood-gates which had long been closed were once more opened, and, with tears of shame and wonder, he exclaimed, "How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! No sooner did he pronounce the name of father again, and allow his thoughts to dwell fixedly on that father's love, than "he comes to himself;" from that dried-up heart affection gushed forth, and with it sorrow and contrition, and his former self, which seemed lost and buried beneath passion, baseness, and guilt, came back, and he was a child again. And, dear friends, will not the same means produce the same results in you? Assuredly they will. If, turning away in very weariness from those worldly pleasures or sinful excesses, in which you have sought satisfaction in vain, you think of God, and remember those happier days when you were permitted to call him Father, that name will touch a chord which has long ceased to vibrate, and awaken a clear response in your dumb and dormant soul. As you muse on those proofs of a Father's considerate care, which you behold in the blessings which hourly fall to your lot, or on those words of parental love and promise which He has addressed to you, or on that rich provision of his grace which He has made for you in the Gospel, some answering child-like feelings will spring up in your heart, and, taught by the Divine Spirit Himself, you will cry, "Father! Father! Oh! think of God—of God in Christ, your Creator, your Benefactor, your Preserver, your Redeemer, your Father, and even your death-stricken soul may live again; yea, some good thing

2. Then further, notice that the right judgment which the prodigal formed of his condition and his deserts was a means of his recovery. "How many hired servants of my father's," said he, "have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger!" The contrast between what he was and what he would have been had he never wandered, he now distinctly saw; and when he recollected that he brought himself into this perishing state by his own wilfulness, no wonder that, with deep feeling, he exclaimed, "I am not worthy to be called thy son!" He could not endure his loathsome sinfulness or his abject wretchedness, and yet he saw that he could not think of himself too meanly. It was the sense of misery which made him conclude that he must do something; it was the conviction of his worthlessness which made him ready to do or be any thing; and it was this accurate perception of the whole of his pitiable case which led him to do the right thing. And, dear friends, the very perception which you have of the awfulness of your own condition, of your utter want of goodness and merit, does it not show that you begin to see the truth? Do not your convictions correspond with the reality? Does not this feeling of utter emptiness and want make you long for deliverance? Is it not that thirsting of the soul after righteousness, which ever precedes being filled? Does not your burning sense of unworthiness make you ready to fall in with methods of escape which once you would have spurned? Do you not feel, Any conditions would be welcome, if only I might find mercy; if I am saved at all, it must be by grace alone?" Now, this judgment is according to truth; it is the conclusion which you must arrive arrive at, whenever the light is thrown in upon your soul. Till you see yourselves as you are, you can never become anything better; but directly you behold your guilt and shame, you are prepared to rise, and hopelessness itself becomes the pledge of hope.

3. And then, again, remark, that instead of dwelling on his wretched condition until he was paralysed with shame and fear, he hastened to resolve and to act. "If," said he, "I continue here, I can only perish; if I delay, resolution may perhaps fail. 'I will arise and go to my father, and will say, Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son." Not only was sensibility restored and truth discovered, but his will began to act, and he set out to return. Penitent for the past, anxious to be all that he ought to be in the future, love and sorrow filling his soul, he took the first step towards his home. And, dear friends, does not this teach you that your chief danger now lies in pausing, hesitating, when you ought to decide? It is well for you to have a clear, soul-humbling view of your lost state; but if you only think of that, you will sit down in anguish and bewilderment, palsied and irresolute, and will never make an effort to escape. No; with penitence in your heart, and confession on your lip, and decision in your glance, listen to that inspired warning, "To-day, if ye will hear his voice, harden not your heart;" and, without one moment's pause, resolve, "I will arise, and will go unto my Father." Again, the prodigal's story resembles your own, and says to you, "Though your soul appears to you a blank and a wreck, still fear not."

III. But possibly some others of you may say, "We do now see that, wilful and wicked as was our departure from God, depraved and wretched as is the condition into which we have sunk, we need not despair; but still we fear that, when we have set out, our