longer tney afflict us. So it is in the soul, so in the state: vices which are the sicknesses of both, when they grow inveterate, have a strong plea for their abode and uncontrollableness. Yet more, to mend the matter, poverty, which is another disease, was superadded to her sickness; "she had spent all she had upon physicians." While she had wherewith to make much of herself, and to pro. cure good tendance, choice diet, and all the succours of a distressing languishment, she could not but find some mitigation of her sorrow: but now want began to pinch her no less than her distemper, and helped to make her perfectly miserable. Yet could she have parted from her substance with ease, her complaint had been the less. Could the physicians have given her, if not health, yet relaxation and painlessness, her means had not been misbestowed; but now, 68 'she suffered many things from them;" many an unpleasing potion, many tormenting incisions and divulsions did she endure from their hands; the remedy was equal in trouble to the disease. Yet had the cost and pain been never so great, could she have thereby purchased nealth, the match had been happy; all the world were no price for this commodity: but alas, her estate was the worse, her body not the better; her money was wasted, not her disease. Art could give her neither cure nor hope. It were injurious to blame that noble science, for that it always speeds not. Notwithstanding all those sovereign remedies, men must, in their times, sicken and die. Even the miraculous gifts of healing could not preserve the owners from disease and dissolution. It were pity but that this woman should have been thus sick; the nature, the durableness, cost, pain, incurableness of her disease, both sent her to seek Christ, and moved Christ to her cure. Our extremities drive us to our Saviour; his love draws him to be most present and helpful to our extremities. When we are forsaken of all succours and hopes, we are fittest for his redress. Never are we nearer to help, than when we despair of help. There is no fear, no danger, but in our own insensibleness. This woman was a stranger to Christ; it seems she had never seen him. The report of his miracles had lifted her up to such a confidence of his power and mercy, as that she said in herself, "If I may but touch the hem of his garment, I shall be whole." The shame of her disease stopt her mouth from any verbal suit. Had her unfirmity been known, she had been shunned and abhorred, and disdainfully put back of all the beholders, as doubtless, where she was known, the law forced her to live apart. Now she conceals both her grief, and her desire, and her faith; and only speaks where she may be bold, within herself: "If I may but touch the hem of his garment, I shall be whole." I seek not mysteries in the virtue of the hem, rather than of the garment. Indeed, it was God's command to Israel, that they should be marked, not only in their skin, but in their clothes too: those fringes and ribands upon the borders of their garments were for holy memorials of their duty, and God's law. But that hence she supposed to find more virtue and sanctity in the touch of the hem than of the coat, I neither dispute nor believe; it was the sight, not the signification that she intimated; not as of the best part, but the utmost. In all likelihood, if there could have been virtue in the garment, the nearer to the body the more. Here was then the praise of this woman's faith, that she promiseth herself cure from the touch of the utmost hem. Whosoever would look to receive any benefit from Christ, must come in faith: it is that only which makes us capable of any favour. Satan, the common ape of the AImighty, imitates him also in this point: all his charms and spells are ineffectual without the faith of the user, of the receiver. Yea, the endeavour and issue of all, both human and spiritual things, depends upon our faith. Who would commit a plant or seed to the earth, if he did not believe to have it nursed in that kindly bosom? What merchant would put himself upon the guard of an inch-board in a furious sea, if he did not trust to the faithful custody of that plank? Who would trade, or travel, or war, or marry, if he did not therein surely trust he should speed well? What benefit can we look to carry from a divine exhortation, if we do not believe it will edify us? from a sacramental banquet, the food of angels, if we do not believe it will nourish our souls? from our best devotions, if we do not persuade ourselves they will fetch down blessings? O our vain and heartless services, if we do not say, May I drink but one drop of that heavenly nectar, may I taste but one crumb of that bread of life, may I hear but one word from the mouth of Christ, may I send up but one hearty sigh or ejaculation of a holy desire to my God, I shall be whole! According to her resolution is her practice. She touched, but she came behind to touch; whether for humility, or her secrecy rather, as desiring to steal a cure unseen, unnoted. She was a Jewess, and therefore well knew that her touch was, in this case, no better than a pollution, as hers, perhaps, but not of him. For, on the one side, necessity is under no positive law; on the other, the Son of God was not capable of impurity. Those may be defiled with a touch, that cannot heal with a touch; he, that was above law is not comprised in the law: be we never so unclean, he may heal us; we cannot infect him. O Saviour, my soul is sick and foul enough with the spiritual impurities of sin; let me, by the hand of faith, lay hold but upon the hem of thy garment (thy righteousness is thy garment), it shall be both clean and whole. Who would not think but a man might Jade up a dish of water out of the sea unmissed? Yet that water, though much, is finite; those drops are within number: that art, which hath reckoned how many corns of sand would make up a world, could more easily compute how many drops of water would make up an ocean; whereas the mercies of God are absolutely infinite, and beyond all possibility of proportion: and yet this bashful soul cannot steal one drop of mercy from this endless, boundless, bottomless sea of divine bounty, but it is felt and questioned: "And Jesus said, Who touched me?" Who can now say that he is a poor man that reckons his store, when that God, who is rich in mercy, doth so? He knows all his own blessings, and keeps just tallies of our receipts; delivered so much honour to this man, to that so much wealth; so much knowledge to one, to another so much strength. How carefully frugal should we be in the notice, account, usage of God's several favours, since his bounty sets all his gifts upon the file! Even the worst servant in the gospel confessed his talents, though he employed them not. worse than the worst, if either we misknow, or dissemble, or forget them. We are Who now can forbear the disciple's reply? Who touched thee, O Lord? the multitude. Dost thou ask of one, when thou art pressed by many? In the midst of a throng, dost thou ask, "Who touched me?" Yea, but yet," some one touched me:" all thronged me; but one touched me. How iddle-like soever it may seem to sound, they that thronged me touched me not; she only touched me that thronged me not, vea, that touched me not. Even so, O Saviour, others touched thy body with theirs; she touched thy hem with her hand, thy divine power with her soul. | Those two parts whereof we consist, the bodily, the spiritual, do in a sort partake of each other. The soul is the man, and hath those parts, senses, actions, which are challenged as proper to the body. This spiritual part hath both a hand, and a touch; it is by the hand of faith that the soul toucheth; yea, this alone both is and acts all the spiritual senses of that immaterial and divine part: this sees, hears, tasteth, toucheth God; and without this, the soul doth none of these. All the multitude then pressed Christ: he took not that for a touch, since faith was away; only she touched him that believed to receive virtue by his touch. Outward fashionableness comes into no account with God; that is only done which the soul doth. It is no hoping that virtue should go forth from Christ to us, when no hearty desires go forth from us to him. He that is a spirit, looks to the deportment of that part which resembleth himself: as, without it, the body is dead; so without the actions thereof, bodily devotions are but carcasses. What reason had our Saviour to challenge this touch? "Somebody touched me. The multitude, in one extreme, denied any touch at all: Peter, in another extreme, affirmed an over-touching of the multitude. Betwixt both, he who felt it can say, "Somebody touched me." Not all, as Peter; not none, as the multitude; but somebody. How then, O Saviour, how doth it appear that somebody touched thee? "For I perceive virtue is gone out from me." The effect proves the act; virtue gone out evinces the touch. These two are in thee convertible: virtue cannot go out of thee but by a touch, and no touch can be of thee, without virtue going out from thee. That which is a rule in nature, that every agent works by a contract, holds spiritually too: then dost thou, O God, work upon our souls, when thou touchest our hearts by the Spirit; then do we re-act upon thee, when we touch thee by the hand of our faith and confidence in thee; and, in both these, virtue goes out from thee to us; yet goes not so out, as that there is less in thee. In all bodily emanations, whose powers are but finite, it must needs follow, that the more is sent forth, the less is reserved: but as it is in the sun, which gives us light, yet loseth none ever the more, the luminosity of it being no whit impaired by that perpetual emission of lightsome beams, so much more is it in thee, the Father of lights. Virtue could not go out of thee without thy knowledge, without thy sending. Neither was it in a dislike, or in a grudging exprobration, that thou saidst, " Virtue is gone out from me." Nothing could please thee better, than to feel virtue fetched out from thee by the faith of the receiver. It is the nature and praise of good to be communicative: none of us would be other than liberal of our little, if we did not fear it would be lessened by imparting. Thou, that knowest thy store so infinite, that participation doth only glorify and not diminish it, canst not but be more willing to give, than we to receive. If we take but one drop of water from the sea, or one corn of sand from the shore, there is so much, though insensibly, less: but were we capable of worlds of virtue and benediction from that munificent hand, our enriching could no whit impoverish thee. Thou which wert wont to hold it much "better to give than to receive," canst not but give gladly. Fear not, O my soul, to lade plentifully at this well, this ocean of mercy, which, the more thou takest, overflows the more. But why then, O Saviour, why didst thou thus inquire, thus expostulate? Was it for thy own sake, that the glory of the miracle might thus come to light, which otherwise had been smothered in silence? was it for Jairus' sake, that his depressed heart might be raised to a confidence in thee, whose mighty power he saw proved by this cure, whose omniscience he saw proved by the knowledge of the cure? or, was it chiefly for the woman's sake, for the praise of her faith, for the securing of her conscience? It was within herself that she said, "If I may but touch:"none could hear this voice of the heart, but he that made it. It was within herself that the cure was wrought: none of the beholders knew her complaint, much less her recovery; none noted her touch, none knew the occasion of her touch. What a pattern of powerful faith had we lost, if our Saviour had not called this act to trial! as her modesty hid her disease, so it would have hid her virtue. Christ will not suffer this secrecy. O the marvellous but free dispensation of Christ! One while he enjoins a silence to his re-cured patients, and is troubled with their divulgation of his favour; another while, as here, he will not lose the honour of a secret mercy, but fetches it out by his inquisition, by his profession: Who hath touched me? for I perceive virtue is gone out from me." As we see in the great work of his creation, he hath placed some stars in the midst of heaven, where they may be most conspicuous; others he hath set in the southern obscurity, obvious to but few eves: in the earth he hath planted some flowers and trees in the famous gardens of the world; others, no less beautiful, in untracked woods or wild deserts, where they are either not seen, or not regarded. O God, if thou hast intended to glorify thyself by thy graces in us, thou wilt find means to fetch them forth into the notice of the world; otherwise our very privacy shall content us, and praise thee. Yet even this great faith wanted not some weakness. It was a poor conceit in this woman, that she thought she might receive so sovereign a remedy from Christ without his heed, without his knowledge. Now that she might see she had trusted to a power which was not more bountiful than sensible, and whose goodness did not exceed his apprehension, but one that knew what he parted with, and willingly parted with that which he knew beneficial to so faithful a receiver, he can say, "Somebody hath touched me, for I perceive virtue is gone out from me." As there was an error in her thought, so in our Saviour's words there was a correction. His mercy will not let her run away with that secret offence. It is a great favour of God to take us in the manner, and to shame our closeness. We scour off the rust from a weapon that we esteem, and prune the vine we care for. O God, do thou ever find me out in my sin, and do not pass over my least infirmities without a feeling controlment ! Neither doubt I, but that herein, O Saviour, thou didst graciously forecast the securing of the conscience of this faithful, though overseen, patient, which might well have afterwards raised some just scruples, for the filching of a cure, for unthankfulness to the Author of her cure; the continuance whereof she might have good reason to misdoubt, being surreptitiously gotten, ungratefully concealed. For prevention of all these dangers, and the full quieting of her troubled heart, how fitly, how mercifully, didst thou bring forth this close business to the light, and clear it to the bottom! It is thy great mercy to foresee our perils, and to remove them ere we can apprehend the fear of them: as some skilful physician, who, perceiving a fever or phrenzy coming, which the distempered patient little misdoubts, by seasonable applications anticipates that grievous malady, so as the sick man knows his safety, ere he can suspect his danger. Well might the woman think, He who can thus cure, and thus know his cure, can as well know my name, and descry my person and shame, and punish my ingratitude. With a pale face, therefore, and a trembling foot, she comes and falls down before him, and humbly acknowledges what she had done, what she had obtained: "But the woman finding she was not hid," &c. Could she have perceived that she might have slily gone away with the cure, she had not confessed it: so had she made God a loser of glory, and herself an unthankful receiver of so great a benefit. Might we have our own wills, we should be injurious both to God and ourselves. Nature lays such plots as would be sure to befool us, and is witty in nothing but deceiving herself. The only way to bring us home, is to find we are found, and to be convinced of the discovery of all our evasions: as some unskilful thief, that finds the owner's eye was upon him in his pilfering, lays down his stolen commodity with shame. Contrarily, when a man is possessed with a conceit of secrecy, and cleanly escapes, he is emboldened in his lewdness. The adulterer chooses the twilight, and says, "No eye shall see me ;" and joys in the sweetness of his stolen waters. O God! in the deepest darkness, in my most inward retiredness, where none sees me, when I see not myself, yet let me then see thine all-seeing eye upon me; and if ever mine eyes shall be shut, or held with a prevailing temptation, check me with a speedy reproof, that, with this abashed patient, I may come in, and confess my error, and implore thy mercy. It is no unusual thing for kindness to look sternly for the time, that it may endear itself more when it lists to be discovered. With a severe countenance did our Saviour look about him, and ask, "Who touched me?" When the woman comes in trembling, and confessing both her act and success, he clears up his brows, and speaks comfortably to her: "Daughter, be of good cheer, thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace.' O sweet and seasonable word, fit for those merciful and divine lips, able to secure any heart, to dispel any fears! Still, O Saviour, thou dost thus to us: when we fall down before thee in an awful dejectedness, thou rearest us up with a cheerful and compassionate encouragement; when thou findest us bold and presumptuous, thou lovest to take us down; when humbled, it is enough to have prostrated us. " Like as that lion of Bethel worries the disobedient prophet, guards the poor ass that stood quaking before him; or like some mighty wind that bears over a tall elm or cedar with the same breath that it raiseth a stooping reed: or like some good physician, who, finding the body obstructed and sur charged with ill humours, evacuates it, and when it is sufficiently pulled down, raises it up with sovereign cordials: and still do thou so to my soul! If at any time thou perceivest me stiff and rebellious, ready to face out my sin against thee, spare me not, let me smart till I relent. But a broken and contrite heart thou wilt not, O Lord! O Lord, do not reject! It is only thy word which gives what it requires, comfort and confidence. Had any other shaken her by the shoulder, and cheered her up against those oppressive passions, it had been but waste wind. No voice but his, who hath power to remit sin, can secure the heart from the conscience of sin, from the pangs of conscience. In the midst of the sorrows of my heart, thy comforts, O Lord, thy comforts only, have power to refresh my soul. Her cure was Christ's act, yet he gives the praise of it to her: "Thy faith hath made thee whole.” He had said before, "Virtue is gone out from me;" now he acknowledges a virtue inherent in her. It was his virtue that cured her, yet he graciously casts this work upon her faith: not that her faith did it by way of merit, by way of efficiency, but by way of impetration. So much did our Saviour regard that faith which he had wrought in her, that he will honour it with the success of her cure. Such and the same is still the remedy of our spiritual diseases, our sins: "By faith we are justified, by faith we are saved." Thou only, O Saviour, canst heal us; thou wilt not heal us but by our faith; not as it issues from us, but as it appropriates thee. The sickness is ours, the remedy is ours; the sickness is our own by nature, the remedy ours by thy grace, both working and accepting it. Our faith is no less from thee, than thy cure is from our faith. O happy dismission, "Go in peace!" How unquiet had this poor soul formerly been! she had no outward peace with her neighbours, they shunned and abhorred her presence in this condition, yea they must do so. She had no peace in body, that was pained and vexed with so long and foul a disease; much less had she peace in her mind, which was grievously disquieted with sorrow for her sickness, with anger and discontentment at her torturing physicians, with fear of the continuance of so bad a guest. Her soul, for the present, had no peace, from the sense of her guiltiness in the carriage of this business, from the conceived displeasure of him to whom she came for comfort and redress. At once now doth our Saviour calm all these storms; and, in one word and act, restores her to peace with her neighbours, peace in herself, peace in body, in mind, in soul: "Go in peace." Even so, Lord, it was for thee only, who art the Prince of Peace, to bestow thy peace where thou pleasest. Our body, mind, soul, estate, is thine, whether to afflict or ease. It is a wonder if all of us do not ail somewhat. In vain shall we speak peace to ourselves, in vain shall the world speak peace to us, except thou say to us, as thou didst to this distressed soul, "Go in peace." CONTEMPLATION VIII. — JAIRUS AND HIS DAUGHTER. How troublesome did the people's importunity seem to Jairus! That great man came to sue unto Jesus for his dying daughter; the throng of the multitude intercepted him. Every man is most sensible of his own necessity. It is no straining courtesy in the challenge of our interest in Christ; there is no unmannerliness in our strife for the greatest share in his presence and benediction. That only child of this ruler lay a-dying when he came to solicit Christ's aid, and was dead while he solicited it. There was hope in her sickness; in her extremity there was fear; in her death despair, and impossibility, as they thought, of help: Thy daughter is dead, trouble not the Master." When we have to do with a mere finite power, this word were but just. He was a prophet no less than a king, that said, "While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept; for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me, that the child may live? but now he is dead, wherefore should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me." But since thou hast to do with an omnipotent agent, know now, O thou faithless messenger, that death can be no bar to his power. How well would it have become thee to have said, "Thy daughter is dead!" But who can tell whether thy God and Saviour will not be gracious to thee, that the child may revive? cannot he, in whose hands are the issues of death, bring her back again? Here were more manners than faith: "Trouble not the Master." Infidelity is all for ease, and thinks every good work tedious. That which nature accounts troublesome, is pleasing and delightful to grace. Is it any pain for a hungry man to eat? O Saviour, it was thy "meat and drink to do thy Father's will;" and his will was, that thou shouldst bear our griefs, and take away our sorrows. It cannot be thy trouble which is our happiness, that we must still sue to thee. The messenger could not so whisper his ill news, but Jesus heard it. Jairus hears that he feared, and was now heartless with so sad tidings. He that resolved not to trouble the Master, meant to take so much more trouble to himself, and would now yield to a hopeless sorrow. He whose work it is to comfort the afflicted, rouseth up the dejected heart of that pensive father: "Fear not; believe only, and she shall be made whole." The word was not more cheerful than difficult: "Fear not." Who can be insensible of so great an evil? Where death hath once seized, who can but doubt he will keep his hold? No less hard was it not to grieve for the loss of an only child, than not to fear the continuance of the cause of that grief. In a perfect faith there is no fear: by how much more we fear, by so much less we believe. Well are these two then coupled: "Fear not; believe only." O Saviour, if thou didst not command us somewhat beyond nature, it were no thank to us to obey thee. While the child was alive, to believe that it might recover, it was no hard task; but now that she was fully dead, to believe she should live again, was a work not easy for Jairus to apprehend, though easy for thee to effect: yet must that be believed, else there is no capacity of so great a mercy. As love, so faith, is stronger than death, making those bonds no other than, as Samson did his withes, like threads of tow. How much natural impossibility is there in the return of these bodies from the dust of their earth, into which, through many degrees of corruption, they are at the last mouldered! Fear not, O my soul! believe only: it must, it shall be done. The sum of Jairus' first suit was for the health, not for the resuscitation of his daughter: now, that she was dead, he would, if he durst, have been glad to have asked her life. And now, behold, our Saviour bids him expect both her life and her health: "Thy daughter shall be made whole;" alive from her death, whole from her disease. Thou didst not, O Jairus, thou daredst not ask so much as thou receivedst. How glad wouldst thou have been, since this last news, to have had thy daughter alive, though weak and sickly! now thou shalt receive her, not living only, but sound and vigorous. Thou dost not, O Saviour, mea |