men shrink from patient thought, and fly to empty fancies, and will not bear the labour of looking inwards and questioning themselves concerning the mysteries of their being, then they are self-indulgent and effeminate; when they are indulging their own humours to the annoyance of those with whom they live, they are self-indulgent. There is no fault more common than this last,-no matter wherein men are less severe with themselves. They give way to the perverse feeling of the moment; they are inclined to be dull and heavy, and are in no humour for conversation; and those with whom they dwell try to draw them out, and endeavour to exchange some cheerful communication, but cannot succeed in dispersing the selfish gloom which is allowed to cling about the temper. Or again, men allow themselves to gratify their own wilfulness by saying sharp things, which are annoying and irritating to their companions. They feel the stinging word rising to their lips, and they long to say it, in order to relieve themselves, because they are in an ill-humour. They see that it will give pain, and they mean that it should, and so they do not control themselves, but let out the bitter and offensive speech, which had better have been strangled, ere it saw the light. Such faults as these wise parents and teachers correct in children; they are severe to the young in order to do them good in their latter end; but we, brethren, who are not children, have none to do this for us; and therefore we must do it for ourselves, we must be severe and sharp with ourselves, calling ourselves to account for our hot words, our unguarded wounding of others' feelings, our secret excuses for luxury, our shrinking from pain. We are first ruled by others, in order that

we may learn to rule ourselves; for man scarcely ever reaches that state, that he does not need careful attention, strict superintendence, prompt correction and reproof, exposing to him his mean evasions and unworthy self-indulgence. And when we have no longer others to do these offices by us, let us learn to do them for ourselves; and no fear but we shall find that we are rewarded for thus practising severity-rewarded by the growing tenderness of our feelings; our heart will become like the heart of a young child, quick in its emotions, healthy and lively in its action towards God, and towards man. We shall have the blessing of a tender conscience; our hearts will start at the warnings of God's word; we shall not be thinking how what we hear applies to others, but shall feel it searching ourselves. We shall not endeavour to get rid of sin by forgetting it, trusting that it will, as it were, wear itself off and rub out, in the course of time; but we shall grieve over it, bring it out for condemnation, and set our own hand first upon it. We shall bear reproof; we shall daily take account of some blemishes that used to escape us, when our selfexamination was more hasty and superficial, and less thorough and searching than it is now. Our hearts will be more touched by our Lord's sufferings; we shall be less like the passers by, to whom His pangs were nothing, and more like those who tarried at the foot of the Cross. We shall notice many proofs of the Divine love to us which we have been in the habit of overlooking,-common mercies, which we do not remember to have ever been without, or special advantages, which we had forgotten to acknowledge; for a tender heart is a loving one, and a loving heart is keen-sighted and unclouded.

We may, perhaps, be somewhat sorrowful, if thus we are tender-hearted; we may be less able to be light-hearted, and gay, for love will find many things to grieve over; rivers of water will run down our eyes, because men keep not God's law; we shall mourn, but in a way to secure our being comforted; we shall be "sorrowful, yet alway rejoicing ;" and this tenderness of heart towards God will lead to gentleness and sweetness towards men. If a man be "overtaken in a fault," we shall " restore such an one in the spirit of meekness." We shall be able to meet affection, and answer it; we shall no longer feel in ourselves an inability to return the love proffered us-no longer discourage advances of kindness, and offers of affection, but we shall have a power of sympathizing with all; and an unselfish readiness to be pleased with the love even of those who seem far beneath us. This tenderness of heart will be a serious and thoughtful feeling, entering deeply into the distresses of others, realizing their sorrows, asking a share of their burdens; a tenderness that deems it better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting, that visits the fatherless and widow in their affliction, that sows in tears now, but shall reap in joy hereafter.

Brethren, I need hardly point out to you how what I have been saying suggests the duty of making the most of this season of Lent, that by using it as an occasion for self-discipline, your hearts may be saved from the hardening influence of the world, and may become tender like the hearts of God's saints, like the heart of Him who is the King of saints-the Man Christ Jesus.

SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE, LONDON.

I KNOW THEIR SORROWS.

EXODUS iii. 7.

"I know their sorrows."

(From the First Morning Lesson for Fifth Sunday in Lent.) OUR nature yearns for sympathy. It is something, nay, it is much to be assured, that there is some one who knows our sorrows.

To go to the sick room, to sit by the sufferer, to let him see that you know his grief and feel for it, to perform little offices of kindness, to soothe pain, to be a comfort; these are acts of sympathy which show the charm of sympathy, for they are never forgotten.

Nevertheless I think we cannot but feel the imperfection of human sympathy, blessed as it is; for there are some things, some deep workings of our hearts, that no man can see, and which we can tell to no man; and unless we can meet with one of clearer insight and larger compassion, we must at times be alone, and our hearts within us desolate.

For this reason there is to my mind something very cheering in the beautifully simple words of the text, in which God is represented as saying of His afflicted people, "I know their sorrows."

I. Let us in the first place dwell upon this statement, that we may get its full meaning impressed [No. 23.]

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upon our minds, and then draw from it some lessons for our instruction, and some for our comfort.

(I.) "I know their sorrows." Consider for one moment who thus speaks, whom this "I" refers to. It is God. I, the Lord of life and death, of joy and grief; I, who am able to give, and able to take away, comforts; I, who can heal their sorrows in a moment; I, who do not willingly afflict; I, whose counsel it is to make all things work together for My people's good; I, the Creator, know their sorrows.

I, who am Love; who, rather than that My people should perish, am about to empty Myself of My glory, to take man's nature upon Me, and to lay down My life upon the cross; I, the Redeemer, know their sorrows. I, who am the Spirit of holiness, whose office it is to convince and to comfort; I, who am coming down to dwell in the hearts of My people, and to enable them to sanctify every sorrow, and turn it into a blessing; I, the Comforter, know their sorrows. Yes, I, the God of Israel, infinite in power, infinite in love, infinite in sources of joy and gladness, "I know their sorrows."

And then, when we remember that the Speaker here is the Omnipresent and Omniscient God, we remember also that His knowledge is something more than man's mere knowledge of the fact. He sees the beginning and the end of an event at once. He knew their sorrows, and had watched them, as He has ours, in their sources and in their full extent. He knew exactly whence they came, how they came, when they came, and why they came. He knew precisely their burden, and the strength which He