emotion on occasions of deep and moving interest. Abraham, Joseph, David, Nehemiah, Peter, and others are spoken of in the Bible as having wept. History speaks of Julius Cæsar, Brutus, Marcellus, and Wellington as having been moved to tears. As we reflect upon the circumstances of many of these displays of tenderness, we are constrained to acknowledge that they were proofs of truest greatness. These were not men who wept on any and every occasion, but men of strong character. We do not share the wish of the ancient Christians above referred to-that these traits of the human nature in our Lord had been hidden. We love Him for the sympathetic sorrow He showed. We feel that He was touched with feelings like our own, and was, therefore, the more fitted to be our Great High Priest.

The occasion of His approach to the city does not, at first, appear so natural for such a display of feeling. It looks more like mere sensationalism. We say this reverently in order to bring out our point. Men have often sought effect by the indulgence of emotion which might have been restrained. That it was with no such intent that Christ now wept the sequel will show. His tears were wholly out of keeping with the occasion, viewed in the light of its external appearances. Those who surrounded Him with their festive greetings and glad hosannas must have been at a loss to account for this sudden display of feeling. Its effect upon them must have been strange, though no record is left of the way in which they regarded it. A sudden turn in the road which leads over the Mount of Olives brings the city full in view, and so impressive is the sight, even now, that travellers testify to its power upon them. We are all to some degree conscious of the imposing majesty and beauty of a large city when, from some neighbouring height, a sudden bend in the road reveals it to us. Let it be remembered that, as Jesus then beheld it, Jerusalem was in its glory. It was not a dingy, smoke-begrimed city like those we see; but large, beautiful for situation, built in a style of the greatest magnificence-pinnacle and tower, gold and white, catching the gorgeous hues of the eastern sun -standing majestically upon the hills, which were environed by the rich luxurious valley through which Kedron flowed. For splendour and beauty it must have been no ordinary sight. Moreover, to Him it could not have been unfamiliar. Doubtless He had gazed upon it many times, from the same spot, as it lay in outstretched magnificence below. But now He looked upon it for the last time. There

are times in our history when long familiar scenes become strikingly impressive, and when they suddenly wake emotions which we wonder that we have never felt before. He was not so elated with the transient greetings and praises of the crowd as to be carried away by them. His own deeper thoughts weighed with saddening influence upon His mind. Too fully was He occupied with the mission of His life to suffer the joy of the throng to lift Him up even with a momentary pride. And when the procession came to a halt in full view of the city-with no regard for their thoughts, but in the spontaneous expression of His own-He gave utterance to the words before us. It was the outpouring of a long pent-up sorrow over the persistent rebellion of Israel against God. It was too deep, too peculiar an emotion for the bystanders to appreciate an emotion wholly foreign to their minds. It was neither sentimental nor sensational, but was the outburst of the profound spiritual sorrow of the Man of Sorrows-irresistible-mighty in the compassion it showed yet lost upon them, because at the time they were incapable of understanding it.

Nor was it a selfish grief. These were not the tears of a timid apprehension of the suffering that He knew lay before Him. He wept, not because He beheld the scene of His approaching trial and death not because He foresaw that the hosanna of this band of friends would soon be exchanged for the shout of derision, and the cry of

Crucify Him!" which his enemies would raise-but because He sadly deplored the wickedness of the people, and their opposition to the Kingdom of God, and because He foresaw what they little dreamedhow this glorious city, so majestic in its splendour, would become the scene of the most terrible devastations and sufferings, and how, in less than fifty years, its glory would have passed away, so that, of the mighty edifices which were then the national pride, not one stone would be left upon another. It was the grief of generosity, not that of selfishness. The shame and suffering, the bitterness of His "hour,” which was at hand-these were crowded out of His thoughts as matters which concerned Himself, by the compassionate sorrow with which He looked for the last time upon that "city of ten thousand memories "that city of a proud, historic past-and felt that the turning-point in its prosperity had come, by reason of its persistent rejection of the love of God, and that ere long the eagles would be gathered together and Jerusalem would become a prey.

But why should Jesus weep over a reprobate people, especially when their conduct formed an important and, in one sense, necessary condition for the fulfilment of His own mission? It shows us how reluctantly He gives the wicked over to their fate-how, in Him, vengeance for the insults He bore gave place to merciful regrets that they "would have none of Him "-regrets at their loss of the "peace" He proffered-and not regrets at the denial of His own honour and glory. Not Himself, but the people-not His shame, but their loss-awoke His pity and drew forth His tears. Though He knew from the beginning how cruelly they would reject Him, and though He came as the Sacrifice for sin, He could not contemplate their wilful hardness of heart, and the dreadful use of their free agency in all this, without sorrowing over the loss which they as yet knew not, and the troubles which were soon to overtake them. Though they hated Him, He loved them still, and the prospect of their sufferings and of their humiliation, even at the moment of His immediate anticipation of His own, caused Him, "when He was come near and beheld the city, to weep over it, saying, 'If thou hadst known, even thou at least in this thy day, the things which belong unto thy peace!-But now are they hid from thine eyes!'"

It is a remarkable utterance, which, whilst it leaves no ground for reasonable doubt with regard to the feelings which caused Jesus to weep, presents some thoughts which are usefully susceptible of a modern application. Are not those to whom Christ is now preached, but who, whilst they hear, take no practical heed, partakers of that rejection of Him of which these Jews were guilty? What are the things which make for their peace? Repentance and faith. Repentance is not, in itself, a state of peace; it is the trouble of the heart over the sins that are past. But there is no peace without it. It does not remove condemnation; it is no expiation of guilt. Though in all the bitterness of contrition we mourn for sin, we have not peace by contrition alone. Faith in Christ as our Saviour must be added to it. The lack of these two things-repentance and faith-makes the condition of many who hear the Gospel to-day worse than that of the Jews of old. Familiarity with the truth does not ensure the reception of it. To-day there are thousands who have knowledge enough, but whose knowledge is merely educational or contemplative. They can discuss intricate questions concerning Christ and His work, but they have not that experimental knowledge of Him which constitutes the peace of the children of God.

If Jerusalem had known the things which belonged to its peaceand it might have known them-what a different history it would have had! Jesus wept as, with prophetic vision, He saw the calamities which were to befal it. His pity was uttered upon the outermost bounds of mercy. Whilst opportunity lingered, and thechances of amendment remained, the appeals of the Divine love did not sink into silence. But wilful ignorance knew not the awful destiny to which it hastened. Even in the destruction of His enemies our Lord manifests no anticipatory pleasure. Regretfully He sees the day of mercy close upon those who will not avail themselves of it. "If thou hadst known in this thy day!" The sentence is incomplete. It stands as a mournful, broken ejaculation, showing that even then the lingering desire for postponement dwelt in His loving heart, and that at that last moment outraged goodness was loth to see the wicked seal their doom. So now, in this season of grace, as the messages of the Gospel are spurned, and as sinners harden their hearts in sin, He looks tearfully upon them, and wishes that He might gather them to Himself.

After a pause, in which He struggled with His emotion, He said: "But now are they hid from thine eyes." What were hidden? Not only the salvation they might have found, but also the doom that was impending. The spiritual blindness of the impenitent hides alike the way of escape and the approach of destruction.

To-day Christ looks upon us. Unseen, He is in our midst. We do not doubt this, though we are slow to realise it. He knows whether we reciprocate or reject His love. And whilst we linger, unwilling to decide-toying with the world-setting our heart on the pleasures of life-He looks pityingly upon us, and seeks, by the constant proclamation of His grace, to woo us to Himself. Through all our years He has watched us, and borne patiently with our ingratitude and our sin. Does He not speak to us of long-neglected privileges and of oft-spurned overtures of mercy? Still He waits to be gracious. By the pity that wept over the impenitent-by the cross which wrought salvation-He pleads with us now. Let us turn to Him. God forbid that the day of grace should be wasted, and that the fiat should have to be pronounced: "Now are these things hid from your eyes!" GEORGE BARKER.

An Old Letter from the Sick-room of Stokes Croft

College, Bristol.

Bristol, April 4th, 18-.

Y DEAR FRIEND,-I was pleased to receive your letter this morning, and am also pleased to find myself able to frame some sort of a reply. I am decidedly better, and seem, by God's blessing, to be on the way to recovery. I am, however, still very feeble. You will perceive from my writing how violently my hand trembles; and my mind is almost as agitated as my body. Any thought, even the most trivial, is a burden which it is equally difficult to throw off and to bear. Nevertheless, I feel so tired of this physical and mental inactivity, that I will struggle to triumph over my weakness.

My solitude became tiresome after a few days. I found myself totally banished from the world-an exile, with many near whose sympathy was, I doubt not, very strong, but the expression of which I was not allowed to hear. Many a time I sighed for liberty. I felt especially dull on the Sabbath. It was the second Lord's-day on which I was confined to the house, and, moreover, was the day set apart for the commemoration of the Saviour's love. Mr. had baptized ten persons on the previous Thursday evening, who were then to be received into the church. What made me feel my absence the more keenly was that on two previous communion-days I had been engaged in preaching. Still the day did not pass without some spiritual improvement. During the morning and afternoon I occupied myself in reading the Gospel of Mark, and was so struck with the allusions to the multitude following Jesus and listening with delight to His instructions that in the evening I tried to frame a sermon on the text: "The common people heard Him gladly"; and I hope some day to be able to finish and preach it.

I feel deeply indebted to you, dear friend, for the sympathy and counsel your letter contains. I am afraid I have not profited as I might have done by this affliction. I have found a difficulty, as I do generally, in fixing my mind upon myself. I feel and I reflect, sometimes deeply; but it is upon the state of the church and the world, rather than upon my own condition, failings, and wants. Religion is the theme of my thoughts; but it is not my religion, or my want of it, that engages my strictest attention. I get absorbed in the present aspect of things in general. I lament the sad want of vitality in the church. I deplore the deficiency of power and success in the ministry of the Gospel. I aspire to some participation in the great movements of the day. I determine to set my face in stern antagonism to the formalism and bigotry by which, I fear, professing