He is thy
He is not

needst not fear to consent to this, for Saviour, and His power is to do it all. asking thee, in thy poor weakness, to do it thyself; He only asks thee to yield thyself to Him, that He may work in thee and through thee by His own mighty power. Thy part is to yield thyself, His part is to work; and never, never will He give thee any command that is not accompanied by ample power to obey it. Take no thought for the morrow in this matter; but abandon thyself with a generous trust to the good Shepherd, who has promised never to call His own sheep out into any path, without Himself going before them to make the way easy and safe. Take each little step as He makes it plain to thee. Bring all thy life, in each of its details, to Him to regulate and guide. Follow gladly and quickly the sweet suggestions of His Spirit in thy soul. And day by day thou wilt find Him bringing thee more and more into conformity with His will in all things; moulding thee and fashioning thee, as thou art able to bear it, into a "vessel unto His honor, sanctified and meet for His use, and fitted to every good work." So shall be given to thee the sweet joy of being an "epistle of Christ, known and read of all men;" and thy light shall shine so brightly, that men seeing, not thee, but thy good works, shall glorify, not thee, but thy Father which is in heaven.

"But thou art making me, I thank thee, Sire.

What thou hast done and doest. thou knowest well,
And I will help thee: gently in thy fire

I will lie burning; on thy potter's wheel

I will whirl patient, though my brain should reel ;
Thy grace shall be enough the grief to quell,
And growing strength perfect, through weakness dire.
"I have not knowledge, wisdom, insight, thought,
Nor understandiug, fit to justify

Thee in thy work, O Perfect! Thou hast brought
Me up to this; and lo! what thou hast wrought,

I cannot comprehend. But I can cry,

'O enemy. the Maker hath not done;

One day thou shalt behold, and from the sight shalt run!'

"Thou workest perfectly. And if it seem

Some things are not so well, 'tis but because

They are too loving deep, too lofty wise,
For me, poor child, to understand their laws.
My highest wisdom, half is but a dream;
My love runs helpless like a falling stream;

Thy good embraces ill, and lo! its illness dies."

*George Macdonald.

H

CHAPTER XVII.

THE JOY OF OBEDIENCE.

AVING spoken of some of the difficulties in this life of faith, let me now speak of some of its joys. And foremost among these stands the joy of obedience.

Long ago I met some where with this sentence, "Perfect obedience would be perfect happiness, if only we had perfect confidence in the power we were obeying." I remember being struck with the saying, as the revelation of a possible, although hitherto undreamed-of, way of happiness; and often afterwards, even when full of inward rebellion, did that saying recur to me as the vision of a rest, and yet of a possible development, that would soothe, and at the same time satisfy all my yearnings.

Need I say that this rest has been revealed to me now, not as a vision, but as a reality; and that I have seen in the Lord Jesus the Master to whom we may yield up our implicit obedience, and, taking His yoke upon us, may find our perfect rest?

You little know, dear hesitating soul, of the joy you are missing. The Master has revealed Himself to you, and is calling for your complete surrender, and you shrink and hesitate. A measure of surrender you are willing to make, and think indeed it is fit and proper that you should. But an utter

abandonment, without any reserves, seems to you too much to be asked for. You are afraid of it. It involves too much, you think, and is too great a risk. To be measurably obedient you desire; to be perfectly obedient appalls you.

Then, too, you see other souls who seem able to walk with easy consciences in a far wider path than that which appears to be marked out for you, and you ask yourself why this need be. It seems strange, and perhaps hard to you, that you must do what they need not, and must leave undone what they have liberty to do.

Ah! dear Christian, this very difference between you is your privilege, though you do not yet know it. Your Lord says, "He that hath my command. ments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me; and he that loveth me shall be loved of my Father, and I will love him, and will manifest myself to him." You have His commandments; those you envy, have them not. You know the mind of your Lord about many things, in which, as yet, they are walking in darkness. Is not this a privilege? Is it a cause for regret that your soul is brought into such near and intimate relations with your Master, that He is able to tell you things, which those who are farther off may not know? Do you not realize what a tender degree of intimacy is implied in this?

There are many relations in life that require from the different parties only very moderate degrees of devotion. We may have really pleasant friendships with one another, and yet spend a large part of our lives in separate interests and widely differing pursuits. When together, we may greatly enjoy one

another's society, and find many congenial points; but separation is not any especial distress to us, and other and more intimate friendships do not interfere. There is not enough love between us to give us either the right or the desire to enter into and share one another's most private affairs. A certain degree of reserve and distance seems to be the suitable thing in such relations as these. But there are other relations in life where all this is changed. The friendship becomes love. The two hearts give themselves to each other, to be no longer two, but one. A union of soul takes place, which makes all that belongs to one the property of the other. Separate interests and separate paths in life are no longer possible. Things that were lawful before, become unlawful now, because of the nearness of the tie that binds. The reserve and distance suitable to mere friendship become fatal in love. Love gives all, and must have all in return. The wishes of one become binding obligations to the other, and the deepest desire of each heart is that it may know every secret wish or longing of the other, in order that it may fly on the wings of the wind to gratify it.

Do such as these chafe under this yoke which love imposes? Do they envy the cool, calm, reasonable friendships they see around them, and regret the nearness into which their souls are brought to their beloved one, because of the obligations it creates? Do they not rather glory in these very obligations, and inwardly pity, with a tender yet exulting joy, the poor far-off ones who dare not come so near? Is not every fresh revelation of the wishes of the loved one a fresh delight and privilege, and is any path