VIII. But it was not so with this father in the parable: it is not so with our Father in heaven, for whom he stands. In the whole round of literature, divine and human, I know nothing equal to that wonderful outburst of impassioned and forgiving love." And he arose and came to his father; and when he was yet a great way off"-ah! think of that, you who feel within you the first stirrings of repentance-" when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him," and barely left him time to sob out his "Father, I have sinned." Not as a slave did he receive his boy, but as a son; not as an evil-doer, but as a lost child; not with reproaches, but with unbounded tenderness. Farewell to the far country, and the cruelty, and the hunger, and the swine. Bring forth the robe, the white robe, and the ring, and shoes which he shall soil no longer in evil paths, and slay the fatted calf, "for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found." And he began to be glad-an ever-deepening, ever-increasing happiness-not the ever-deepening, everincreasing hunger of that far country, with its "began to be in want." I do not say-mark you-that that gladness would never be disturbed; I do not say that for him all struggles would be over; that for him there would be no obstructions from the past; that for him the future would not be more difficult, less peaceful, less tranquil in its self-mastery, than if he had never gone astray. "Blessed is he whose unrighteousness is forgiven, whose sin is covered." Oh! far, far more blessed is he who has no deep sin to cover, no flagrant unrighteousness to forgive. "Be the stern and sad truth spoken," says one," that the breach which guilt has once made into the human soul is never in this с с

M.S.

mortal state repaired. It may be watched and guarded, but there is still the ruined wall, and near it the stealthy tread of the foe that would win over again his unforgotten triumph;" and to quote the high words to which I once saw the Parliament of England thrill with emotion, "It is against the ordinance of Providence, it is against the interests of man, that immediate reparation should be possible when long-continued evils have been at work; for one of the main restraints of misdoing would be removed if at any moment the consequences of misdoing could be repaired." Oh! no; be sure that for this young prodigal the vinum demonum which he had tasted had still its bitter dregs; temptation was not dead; not his could ever be the tranquil happiness of the unfallen; the tutum diadema of the pure in heart. He had been wounded by the fiery arrow, and be sure the scar remained, and sometimes throbbed. He had sat among the swine, nor could the past ever become for him as though it had not been. But he had been healed; but he had been delivered; but he had been cleansed; but now he was at home; and as long as he stayed in his father's home his soul was safe.

I have spoken to you, my brethren, solemn words. In these last addresses on sin, and righteousness, and judgment on the fall, and ruin, and repentance of the prodigal-I have striven, as it were, to finish and summarise my witness to the great truths of God-the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit-as they deal with human souls. And I have kept you too long, and I must end. Yet I feel that there are some hearts among you in which my words may suggest some very serious and awful questions, which now is not the time, nor is this the place, to answer. This only I would say,

I have but a week more here as your Master, and then I depart, and my place will know me no more. And for six years you know that my house and my study have always been open-open to the very youngest boy, who, if he wished, might come to me at all times unannounced, and, however pressingly I might be occupied, you know that you were never sent away. And sometimes in sin and in sorrow, and before confirmation, some of you, uninvited and unencouraged, have come to me quite fearlessly and sought my counsels; and if I could think that the words of sympathy and advice, then once for all spoken, have been to some of you a blessing and a help to smooth your path in life, if they have taught you always, in every difficulty, to go straight to God, and not to man—that thought would make me more happy by far than any other can. And if there be but one among you who has aught to ask me about these, or about other truths that you have heard, one week remains before I part from you, and I should hold it, as I have always done, a blessing and a privilege to help you for the last time with that help which experience and years may bring, and which may perhaps save you hereafter an erring path or an aching heart. And this may be for a few. But this I would say to all of you, Oh! do not despise the grace of God that calleth you to repentance. Some of you have wandered, some at this moment are wandering, from your father's home; some of you are sitting there, happy boys it may be to all appearance, but knowing that they are prodigals, and feeling the death-hunger in their secret souls. Oh! go up, each of you, into the tribunal of his own conscience, and ask if' it be thus with thee; and if it be so, oh! unhappy one! steel not your heart against the arrow of conviction;

but, by prayer, by penitence, by amendment, arise and go to your Father. He will not cast you out, None that came to Him has He ever cast out. He will allay your hunger; He will quench your thirst; He will give you the bread of heaven; He will lead you to the water of life; He will for Christ's sake, for the sake of your Saviour and does not this include all? He will

restore your soul, He will lead you in the path of righteousness for His name's sake.

July 15, 1876.

SERMON XXXIX.

LAST WORDS.

2 COR. xiii. 11.

"Finally, brethren, farewell."

THE hour has come, my friends, by me long dreaded, and for the last time as your Master,-perhaps the last time for ever,-certainly the last time as far as this congregation, so dear to me, is concerned,-I stand in this pulpit to bid you all a hearty, a grateful, an affectionate farewell. There must be something sad and solemn in these partings. They remind us that there is nothing in this world which we can call our own; that all which God gives us is His, not ours; lent, not given; given sometimes, and then taken away; and sometimes by His mercy given back in other forms. They remind us too that our time is short. The sad hour which now has come to me will come in turn to all of you, though far less sadly, because you, I trust, will but be going to larger hopes. But at the best we, like our fathers, are only dwellers in tents. Here and there-by some sweet well, under some spreading tree, on some green spot-we linger for a time; but the evening comes at last, the stars come out, the encampment is broken up, and we must move away. And very soon we shall have made our last stay of all;