Alas, thinks Elijah, would that I had remained! How could I dare to flee, and to forsake my people. And, if the distress and disconsolateness of his soul had not reached its highest pitch, truly such a thought, which passed through his interior like a blighting lightning flash, must have accomplished it.

Elijah cannot remain at Beer-sheba. He could not endure the crowds of people and the noise of the city. Even the presence of his servant, his faithful companion, was only burdensome to him. Of what service could he be to him, since he could not remove the darkness that surrounded his soul, nor answer upon the anxious questions which disquieted his spirit. Therefore he lodged him in the town, and proceeded, alone, far into the void and dreary wilderness, a whole day's journey, until the sun was set; and then threw himself upon the heath under a juniper tree, and sank into the ocean of his gloomy reflections.

III. Dense darkness encompassed the prophet's soul. Every thing bespeaks it. This reserved conduct this ardent desire for solitude-this wandering, without any design whatever, into the solitary wilderness-every thing indicates a discouraged and dispirited mood. Perplexed with respect to his calling, yea, even with respect to God and his governance, his soul, like a swimmer in the raging sea, who sees neither shore nor bottom, is tossed by a thousand doubts and harassing ideas; and, at the moment we behold our prophet in painful and melancholy resignation sink down with heavy sighs under the juniper tree, there is really but one step between him and the gulf of the utmost despair. There he sits, his harassed and weary head reclining on his hand, like an exile in the midst of the dreary solitude, like one who is cast out by God and the world. There he sits, gazing before him, and beholds dark visions, and dreams, fearful dreams. In spirit he is in Israel. Oh the distressing images that float before him, and the shocking scenes, fit to rend his heart, that present themselves in the magic mirror of his imagination. On mount Carmel, people are dancing wildly around golden calves. In Samaria, heathenish temples appear one after another. The streets of Jezreel resound with blasphemies against the living God and his servants; and Jezebel intoxicated with the blood of the few believers who fell victims to her revenge. The altar upon which the Lord had testified by fire is again abandoned and neglected; and, for the showers of rain with which he had blessed the thirsting land, the honour is given to Baal. Out of the blood of the slaughtered seducers whole crowds of new servants of satan spring up in order to inveigle the poor people more than ever into the snares of their falsehoods; and the last remains of the ancient faith yet left are abjured, under horrible incantations, in order to give place for ever to the worship of beasts and the devil.

These are the images and visions which present themselves with vivid horridness to the prophet's soul; and, whichever way he may turn his eyes in this frightful night-piece, alas, there is nowhere a single herald of God, nowhere in this human wilder

The worthy servant of God has enough of this vale of sorrow: he is heartily weary of the troublesome tasks and unavailing labour: his soul longs for the sabbath. "It is enough," he sighs up to heaven, perhaps with tears glistening in his eyes; "it is enough, now, O Lord, take away my life; for I am not better than my fathers." Ah, who would have thought it, that even this champion could ever have become so weak and so faint-hearted; the man who appeared unconquerable in the armour of his faith, and seemed to surmount every storm! But, let it be a consolation to us, that even an Elijah did sit once under the juniper tree, and think, in his despair, that he could no longer bear the burden of life. "It is enough, O Lord; what shall I any longer in this land of affliction? My existence is useless. If my labour could miss its aim in Israel amidst such wonders and signs, where else can it bring forth fruit? Why should I any longer witness thy kingdom disappearing from the face of the earth? Now, therefore, O Lord, take away my worthless life, since I am not better than my fathers. Certainly I hoped to behold what many kings and prophets desired to see, and have not seen. But who am I, that I should have presumed to such great things, unworthy servant that I am? Who am I, that in daring hope I could have promised to myself a preference, for which saints whose shoes I am not worthy to bear after them were obliged to sigh in vain? It is enough, O Lord, make now an end."

Thus lamented Elijah, deeply agitated in his soul. It was a strange mixture of opposite feelings whence his prayer proceeded. Certainly it was no harmony, and yet, in the midst of the dissonance, the holiest and sweetest sounds that can escape from the chords of a human heart were audible. His was not the contented and cheerful prayer of a Simeon: "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace: nor yet the clear, calm, and longing prayer of a Paul: "I have a desire to depart, and to be with Christ." But it was as little the discontented and bitter language of a Jeremiah: "Cursed be the day in which I was born!" and so on: or the vehement and tumultuous exclamation of a Job: "Let that day be dark in which I was born; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it." Elijah's state of mind was more subdued and more gentle, and, therefore, not so deplorable as that out of which the dreadful cry of those two murmurers arose. Certainly, the discordant notes of a bitter mortification at his lost labour and disappointed hopes are too audible through his sighs; yet, at the same time, his words breathe a sadness of mourning love for the poor people, and a holy grief for the decline of the kingdom of God, which, as it were, restore to us the worthy man of God in the most pleasing serenity of mind. It is true we hear some murmuring in his prayer, which bears the semblance of a complaint against the Lord God himself; but at the same time we feel it not the less, that tears of sincere contrition are already about to stifle it in his heart; and, at the moment his complaint escapes his lips he is

prospects that await us. "O Jerusalem, if I forget thee, let my right hand forget her cunning." Where is the treasury of God opened, and where lie exposed the jewels of heaven? Where burn the torches of eternal light; and where flows the fountain of peace and joy that is never exhausted? Where does the soul look into the opened books of life?-where does she drink oil out of the rocks ?where drops the balm which heals every wound? Where, say, where? In Jerusalem! Oh, happy they that bless thee, and love thy gates-O Jeru

salem !

And what shall I say of the city on high, which lies beyond Jordan and above the clouds, where the everlasting palm-trees flourish, and the peaceful waters glide through the evergreen valleys, and the angels sing to their harps amongst the umbrageous trees. Thither we are bound, we happy pilgrims, from Jerusalem to Jerusalem. But you are on your way to Tophet, to the valley of destruction, towards midnight: we, towards the full and cheerful morning; and, upon our pilgrim staffs is inscribed, "I am thy pilgrim and thy citizen." And if at times you see us pursuing our path like persons absorbed in dreams, and behold our eyes bedewed with tears whilst looking into the azure distance, oh, this is the longing for our home, then say, "They weep to see Jerusalem." Yes, thither our tears are tending. And who has built the city for us, and who makes the city so beautiful? "Jerusalem is the city of the Great King." "Here is my rest for ever, here will I dwell," said he. He dwelleth there, and the city reposes under the wings of his love. To-day we journey to Jerusalem.

1 KINGS, XIX. 5—8.

"And as he lay and slept under a juniper-tree, behold, then an angel touched him, and said unto him, 'Arise and eat." And he looked, and, behold, there was a cake baken on the coals, and a cruise of water at his head. And he did eat and drink, and laid him down again. And the angel of the Lord came again the second time, and touched him, and said, 'Arise and eat; because the journey is too great for thee. And he arose, and did eat and drink, and went in the strength of that meat forty days and forty nights, unto Horeb, the mount of God."

This part of our history belongs to the children of God; and, in particular, to the afflicted amongst them. To them it might become even as an angel offering them bread and water in the wilderness. May God ordain it so. We see here displayed, in the most heart-solacing manner, the faithful watchfulness of the Lord over his servants, especially in times of darkness and clouds of adversity. This divine and gracious vigilance is made manifest, in the answer which the prophet receives to his prayer; in the appearance of an angel whom the Lord sends to him; in the miraculous food which is set before him, and of which he partakes; in a pleasing prospect which God opens to him; and in a supernatural strength which is granted to the prophet, for his journey through the wilderness. Upon these precious proofs of the paternal love of God let us now in contemplation dwell.

I. Elijah wishes to die. Since he had been obliged to lay aside the idea of the regeneration of his beloved Israel, life had no longer any charms for him. The love of life sees many a star of happiness and joy disappear from the horizon of our existence, ere it disappear likewise. It is wont to survive even that which is dearest to us; hope alone it cannot outlive. When Elijah beholds this flower in the

garden of his life beginning to droop, he is overcome, and is weary of his existence; and who knows into what a shocking abyss besides that of impatience and despair over the grave of his fairest and dearest prospects Elijah's life might have been plunged, had he not been a man of God. For it really appeared as if the Lord had suddenly become weary both of his work and of his prophet. The divine governance had suddenly disguised itself, and assumed too much the form of chance, for it to be perceived by a mortal eye. Yea, it seemed to have entirely withdrawn itself, and left the most unlimited exercise of human wisdom. At least, our prophet seemed to think so. He no longer comprehended his God. In this unexpected change of things he was unable to discover either meaning, or plan, or connexion. He was as in a dark labyrinth, without lamp to light, or clew to guide. And, if we consider how such complicated conditions of the children of God are never left unheeded by the powers of darkness; and how, undoubtedly, the tempter assailed the afflicted man under the juniper tree with the fiery darts of many a dreadful doubt, horrible suggestion, and shocking vision; we can perfectly comprehend how the undaunted champion could thus despair, and, in the deepest sorrow and anguish of his soul, yea, and in a paroxysm of bitter discontent, cry up to heaven, "It is enough: now, O Lord, take away my life; for I am not better than my fathers."

However, the Lord is not wont to answer such prayers, which ascend more in the wild commotion of carnal passions than in the holy fire of faith; and which are borne up to God, not by the soft pinions of a peaceful hope, but by the storm of natural excitement. Yet, in not answering, I might say, the merciful Father answers them, however little they deserve it. We learn by experience that the Lord is not willing to let his children conclude their course in discontent and sadness. However violent and wild may have been the storms in their life, still, ere they enter the haven, the clouds generally disperse; and they have once more clear sky and propitious weather, if not outwardly, yet inwardly, in their heart.

Mark me, ye afflicted and riven souls, your hour will not come till the Lord shall have first reconciled you with his guidance, and forced from you the joyful confession, "He has done all things well." There will yet be a calm after the storm, if even it be deferred until the close of your pilgrimage. After the discontent, the words of Simeon, "Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace;" and, after the sadness, and an unshrinking readiness, if it so please the Lord, to bear yet longer the cross after him; your course will terminate, not amid tumult, no, but in the cheering light of a sabbath-eve; and, with the kiss of love, your Divine Friend will transport you to the unspeakable joy of the eternal hills, in order that his guidance may be crowned even here below, and his mercy and faithfulness be glorified before the world.

This sabbath-eve had not yet arrived for our prophet. Ah, that was one of the darkest moments of his life, when he, like one at variance with God and the world, sat gloomy and absorbed in thought, his head reclining upon his hand, beneath the junipertree. The request with which his faint-heartedness and discontent ventured to appear before God was denied him. His life was not taken away.

He

must first live to see glorious things; must yet learn here below to praise the faithfulness of the God, "AMEN;" must yet be made ashamed of his anxieties and doubts, and be punished with double shame for his faint-heartedness; must yet find the most happy solution of the intricacies and contradictions in his guidance, and be placed into a brightness of divine manifestations, such as had never as yet shone upon him in equal splendour. And then only it would be enough, and the hour would arrive which should carry him, not from beneath the solitary tree in the dreary wilderness, no, but in radiant triumph, past the dark valley, straightway to his everlasting

rest.

it.

Oh, that we would but be less dissatisfied, should the loving God say, "No," to our prayers; and not so stubbornly persist in his giving us at all times that for which we cry, and at the very moment when, and in the precise manner how, we desire Oh, how well is it that the Lord gives to us according to his will, and not according to our own; and that he condescends to so gracious a guardianship over us, even in regard to our poor and oftentimes most foolish wishes. As often as our prayers have been ineffectual, we may be assured that what we desired was only harm, and not a blessing; or, if even a good thing, still it was inferior to that which he designed for us. How many a preacher, for instance, would never have experienced that the Lord is faithful, and crowns the labour of his servants, if the Lord had removed him in the hour when in gloomy discontent he desired it. How many a pilgrim would have seen nothing of the bread which showers from heaven, and of the streams of water which gush out of flinty rocks, had the Lord hearkened unto him when, with fear and trembling, he implored, "Lead me not into the wilderness." How many a brother would this day be unable to rejoice that Christ, the foundation stone, is so deeply and firmly laid in his heart, if the cloud of temptation had been removed from his head, the beam out of his flesh, and the angel of Satan from his side, in the hour when, with many groans and tears, he petitioned for it. Therefore, be of good courage! Believe, my friends, the, "No," with which the Lord at times rejects our prayers will, in the end, urge us to more fervent hymns of praise than the, "Yes," with which he crowns them at another time. Do not grow too impatient under your juniper tree. "Make an end," you exclaim; "it is enough, now, O Lord, make an end." No, my friends. To Horeb first; first to where the gentle breezes of peace pervade. A morning will yet follow the night; a victory, the conflict; and a rejoicing upon your sighs and anguish; and other things besides, which will force from us the exclamation, "Thou, O Lord, art righteous, but I must blush for shame." And then comes the end; then the pilgrim staff sinks to the ground; and the longed for, "Now," is arrived when we can say, "Now, O Lord, doest thou dismiss thy servant in peace."

The burden of life was removed from him; peace fostered him under its soothing wings; the juniper tree fanned him with its pleasing coolness; his inward perturbations were hushed; sorrow and uneasiness fled from him; the torturing thoughts were dissolved in sweet and golden dreams, and both body and soul were most delightfully refreshed in the arms of repose.

All who bear the cross experience such cessations from labour. Even in the midst of the wilderness the loving God can point out to us a resting place; neither does the storm howl without intermission; ere we are yet aware, a lullaby sounds between it, and the burden upon our shoulders lies, as it were, for a moment, like a pillow beneath our head, upon which we enjoy our sleep and recruit our strength. Now, the Keeper of Israel sends sweet slumber with its palm-branch into our nook of tears; and, oh, what a dear and welcome guest can even this slumber prove, particularly when spiritual attacks threaten to perplex our senses, and to shake our nerves. Now, pleasing dreams must perform for us the office of angels, and transport the poor Lazarus into Abraham's bosom, and the weary Jacob from the stone under his head into the open heavens. Now, a sympathizing Jonathan enters into my mournful solitude, whose kind and consoling conversation imperceptibly revives my dejected spirits, and my afflicted soul begins again to rejoice. Now, all on a sudden, as if by a magic stroke, I behold my chamber of sorrow at times converted into a magnificent hall: the forms of the saints of old glide into it, and place themselves in succession before me ;all bearers of the cross, like myself, and they all have succeeded; and their example rises above me like the roof of a tabernacle, and their experiences ripple around me like so many balmy brooks. Now, some consoling sentence or a hymn presents itself to my mind, as though David had appeared with his harp, or a divine promise arches itself like a rainbow in the clouds of my soul, and hope illumes my darkness with her golden lights. Suffice it, even the days of storm and tempest have their hours of rest and mercy! and even amongst raging waves our Saviour can find space whereupon to place a dwelling of peace for his children. Therefore let no one care how steep his way, and how desolate and thorny his path. Whenever his knees are about to sink, his God will be able to provide him a resting place, and of him also it will be said, in some sense or other, "He lay and slept under a juniper tree." And were these but short intervals, why, we perceive by them what an easy thing it is for the Lord, if it so please him, at once to remove us in the very first moment from all our misery and affliction; and the thorough knowledge of this is already the end of misery.