provide crab-wine for his guests. It was fit that the miraculous effects of Christ, which came from his immediate hand, should be more perfect than the natural. O blessed Saviour, how delicate is that new wine which we shall one day drink with thee in thy Father's kingdom! Thou shalt turn this water of our earthly affliction into that wine of gladness, wherewith our souls shall be satiated for ever. "Make haste, O my beloved, and be thou like to a roe, or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices."

CONTEMPLATION VI.—THE GOOD CENTURION.

I

EVEN the bloody trade of war yielded worthy clients to Christ. This Roman captain had learned to believe in that Jesus whom many Jews despised. No nation, no trade, can shut out a good heart from God. If he were a foreigner for birth, yet he was a domestic in heart. He could not change his blood, he could overrule his affections. He loved that nation which was chosen of God; and if he were not of the synagogue, yet he built a synagogue; where he might not be a party, he would be a benefactor. Next to being good, is a favouring of goodness. We could not love religion, if we utterly want it. How many true Jews were not so zealous! either will or ability lacked in them, whom duty more obliged. Good affections do many times more than supply nature. Neither doth God regard whence, but what, we are. do not see this centurion come to Christ as the Israelitish captain came to Elias in Carmel, but with his cap in his hand, with much suit, much submission, by others, by himself: he sends first the elders of the Jews, whom he might hope that their nation and place might make gracious; then, lest the employment of others might argue neglect, he seconds them in person. Cold and fruitless are the motions of friends, where we do wilfully shut up our own lips. Importunity cannot but speed well in both. Could we but speak for ourselves, as this captain did for his servant, what could we possibly want? What marvel is it, if God be not forward to give, where we care not to ask, or ask as if we cared not to receive? Shall we yet call this a suit, or a complaint? I hear no one word of entreaty. The less is said, the more is concealed: it is enough to lay open his want. He knew well that he had to deal with so wise and merciful a physician, as that the opening of the malady was a craving of cure. If our spiritual miseries be but confessed, they cannot fail of redress.

Great variety of suitors resorted to Christ: one comes to him for a son, another for a daughter, a third for himself: I see none come for his servant but this one centurion. Neither was he a better man than a master. His servant is sick: he doth not drive him out of doors, but lays him at home; neither doth he stand gazing by his bedside, but seeks forth: he seeks forth, not to witches or charmers, but to Christ: he seeks to Christ, not with a fashionable relation, but with a vehement aggravation of the disease. Had the master been sick, the faithfullest servant could have done no more. He is unworthy to be well served, that will not sometimes wait upon his followers. Conceits of inferiority may not breed in us a neglect of charitable offices. So must we look down upon our servants here on earth, as that we must still look up to our Master which is in heaven.

But why didst thou not. O centurion, rather bring thy servant to Christ for cure, than sue for him absent? There was a paraiytic, whom faith and charity brought to our Saviour, and let down through the uncovered roof in his bed: why was not thine so carried, so presented? was it out of the strength of thy faith, which assured thee thou neededst not show thy servant to him that saw all things? One and the same grace may yield contrary effects. They. because they believed, brought the patient to Christ; thou broughtst not thine to him, because thou believedst: their act argues no less desire, than more confidence; thy labour was less, because thy faith was more. O that I could come thus to my Saviour, and make such moan to him for myself, Lord, my soul is sick of unbelief, sick of self-love, sick of inordinate desires: I should not need to say more. Thy mercy, O Saviour, would not then stay by for my suit, but would prevent me, as here, with a gracious engagement: "I will come and heal thee." I did not hear the centurion say either Come, or, Heal him: the one he meant, though he said not; the other he neither said nor meant. Christ over-gives both his words and intentions. It is the manner of that divine munificence, where he meets with a faithful suitor, to give more than is requested; to give when he is not requested. The very insinuations of our necessities are no less violent than successful. We think the measure of human bounty runs over, when we obtain but what we ask with importunity: that infinite goodness keeps within bounds, when it overflows the desires of our hearts.

As he said, so he did. The word of Christ

either is his act, or concurs with it. He did not stand still when he said, "I will come;" but he went as he spake. When the ruler entreated him for his son, "Come down ere he die," our Saviour stirred not a foot: the centurion did but complain of the sickness of his servant, and Christ, unasked, says, "I will come and heal him." That he might be far from so much as seeming to honour wealth and despise meanness, he, that came in the shape of a servant, would go down to the sick servant's pallet, would not go to the bed of the rich ruler's son. It is the basest motive of respect, that ariseth merely from outward greatness. Either more grace or more need may justly challenge our favourable regards, no less than private obligations.

Even so, O Saviour, that which thou offeredst to do for the centurion's servant, hast thou done for us. We were sick unto death; so far had the dead palsy of sin overtaken us, that there was no life of grace left in us: when thou wert not content to sit still in heaven, and say, "I will cure them;" but addest also, "I will come and cure them." Thyself came down accordingly to this miserable world, and hast personally healed us; so as now we shall not die, but live, and declare thy works, O Lord. And O that we could enough praise that love and mercy, which hath so graciously abased thee, and could be but so low dejected before thee, as thou hast stooped low unto us! that we could be but as lowly subjects of thy goodness, as we are unworthy!

O admirable return of humility! Christ will go down to visit the sick servant. The master of that servant says, "Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldst come under my roof:" the Jewish elders that went before to mediate for him, could say, He is worthy that thou shouldst do this for him; but the centurion, when he comes to speak for himself, "I am not worthy." They said, he was worthy of Christ's miracle; he says, he is unworthy of Christ's presence. There is great difference betwixt others' valuations and our own. Sometimes the world underrates him that finds reason to set a high price upon himself: sometimes again, it overvalues a man that knows just cause of his own humiliation. If others mistake us, this can be no warrant of our error. We cannot be wise, unless we receive the knowledge of ourselves by direct beams, not by reflection; unless we have learned to contemn unjust applauses, and, scorning the flattery of the world, to frown upon our own vileness: "Lord, I am not worthy."

Many a one, if he had been in the centurion's coat, would have thought well of it; a captain, a man of good ability and command, a founder of a synagogue, a patron of religion: yet he overlooks all these, and when he casts his eye upon the divine worth of Christ and his own weakness, he says, "I am not worthy." Alas, Lord, I am a Gentile, an alien, a man of blood; thou art holy, thou art omnipotent. True humility will teach us to find out the best of another, and the worst piece of ourselves: pride, contrarily, shows us nothing but matter of admiration in ourselves, in others of contempt. While he confest himself unworthy of any favour, he approved himself worthy of all. Had not Christ been before in his heart, he could not have thought himself unworthy to entertain that guest within his house. Under the low roof of an humble breast doth God ever delight to dwell: the state of his palace may not be measured by the height, but by the depth. Brags and bold faces do ofttimes carry it away with men; nothing prevails with God but our voluntary dejections.

It is fit the foundations should be laid deep, where the building is high. The centurion's humility was not more low than his faith was lofty: that reaches up into heaven, and, in the face of human weakness, descries omnipotence: "Only say the word, and my servant shall be whole."

Had the centurion's roof been heaven itself, it could not have been worthy to be come under of Him whose word was almighty, and who was the Almighty Word of his Father. Such is Christ confessed by him that says, "Only say the word." None but a divine power is unlimited : neither hath faith any other bounds than God himself. There needs no footing to remove mountains or devils, but a word. Do but say the word, O Saviour, my sin shall be remitted, my soul shall be healed, my body shall be raised from dust, both soul and body shall be glorious.

Whereupon, then, was the steady confidence of the good centurion? He saw how powerful his own word was with those that were under his command, though himself were under the command of another, the force whereof extended even to absent performances: well, therefore, might he argue, that a free and unbounded power might give infallible commands, and that the most obstinate discase must therefore needs yield to the beck of the God of nature. Weakness may show us what is in strength; by one drop of water we may see what is in the main ocean I marvel not if the centurion

were kind to his servants, for they were dutiful to him; he can but say, Do this, and it is done. These mutual respects draw on each other: cheerful and diligent service in the one, calls for a due and favourable care in the other: they that neglect to please, cannot complain to be neglected. O that I could be but such a servant to mine heavenly Master! Alas! every of his commands says, Do this, and I do it not: every of his inhibitions says, Do it not, and I do it. He says, Go from the world, I run to it: he says, Come to me, I run from him. Woe is me! this is not service, but enmity. How can I look for favour, while I return rebellion? It is a gracious Master whom we serve; there can be no duty of ours that he sees not, that he acknowledges not, that he crowns not. We could not but be happy, if we could be officious.

What can be more marvellous than to see Christ marvel? All marvelling supposes an ignorance going before, and a knowledge following some accident unexpected. Now, who wrought this faith in the centurion, but he that wondered at it? He knew well what he wrought, because he wrought what he would; yet he wondered at what he both wrought and knew, to teach us much more to admire that which he at once knows and holds admirable.

He wrought this faith as God; he wondered at it as man: God wrought, and man admired: he that was both, did both, to teach us where to bestow our wonder. I never find Christ wondering at gold or silver, at the costly and curious works of human skill or industry: yea, when the disciples wondered at the magnificence of the temple, he rebuked them rather. I find him not wondering at the frame of heaven and earth, nor at the orderly disposition of all creatures and events; the familiarity of these things intercepts the admiration. But when he sees the grace or acts of faith, he so approves them, that he is ravished with wonder. He that rejoiced in the view of his creation, to see that of nothing he had made all things good, rejoices no less in the reformation of his creature, to see that he had made good of evil: "Behold, thou art fair, my love, behold, thou art fair, and there is no spot in thee. My sister, my spouse, thou hast wounded my heart, thou hast wounded my heart with one of thine eyes."

Our wealth, beauty, wit, learning, honour, may make us accepted of men, but it is our faith only that shall make God in Love with us. And why are we of any

other save God's diet, to be more affected with the least measure of grace in any man, than with all the outward glories of the world? There are great men whom we justly pity; we can admire none but the gracious.

Neither was that plant more worthy of wonder in itself, than that it grew in such a soil, with so little help of rain and sun. The weakness of means adds to the praise and acceptation of our proficiency. To do good upon a little is the commendation of thrift: it is small thank to be full-handed in a large estate; as, contrarily, the strength of means doubles the revenge of our neglect. It is not more the shame of Israel, than the glory of the centurion, that our Saviour says, I have not found so great faith in Israel." Had Israel yielded any equal faith, it could not have been unespied of these all-seeing eyes: yet were their helps so much greater than their faith was less; and God never gives more than he requires. Where we have laid our tillage, and compost, and seed, who would not look for a crop? but if the uncultured fallow yield more, how unjustly is that unanswerable ground near to a curse!

Our Saviour did not mutter this censorious testimony to himself, nor whisper it to his disciples; but he turned him about to the people, and spake it in their ears, that he might at once work their shame and emulation. In all other things except spiritual, our self-love makes us impatient of equals; much less can we endure to be outstripped by those who are our professed inferiors. It is well if any thing can kindle in us holy ambitions. Dull and base are the spirits of that man, that can abide to see another overtake him in the way, and out run him to heaven.

He that both wrought this faith, and wondered at it, doth now reward it: "Go thy ways, and as thou hast believed, so be it unto thee." Never was any faith unseen of Christ, never was any seen without allowance, never was any allowed without remuneration. The measure of our receipts, in the matter of favour, is the proportion of our belief. The infinite mercy of God, which is ever like itself, follows but one rule in his gift to us, the faith that he gives us. Give us, O God, to believe, and be it to us as thou wilt, it shall be to us above that we will.

The centurion sues for his servant, and Christ says, "So be it unto thee." The servant's health is the benefit of the master, and the master's faith is the health of the servant. And if the prayers of an earthly

master prevailed so much with the Son of God for the recovery of a servant, how shall the intercession of the Son of God prevail with his Father in heaven, for us that are his impotent children and servants upon earth! What can we want, O Saviour, while thou suest for us? He that hath given thee for us can deny thee no. thing for us, can deny us nothing for thee. In thee we are happy, and shall be glorious. To thee, O thou mighty Redeemer of Israel, with thine eternal Father, together with thy blessed Spirit, one God infinite and incomprehensible, be given all praise, honour, and glory, for ever and ever. Amen.

BOOK III.

CONTEMPLATION I.—THE WIDOW'S SON RAISED.

THE favours of our beneficent Saviour were at the least contiguous. No sooner hath he raised the centurion's servant from his bed, than he raises the widow's son from his bier.

The fruitful clouds are not ordained to fall all in one field. Nain must partake of the bounty of Christ, as well as Cana or Capernaum. And if this sun were fixed in one orb, yet it diffuseth heat and light to all the world. It is not for any place to engross the messengers of the gospel, whose errand is universal. This immortal seed may not fall all in one furrow.

The little city of Nain stood under the hill of Hermon, near unto Tabor; but now it is watered with better dews from above, the doctrine and miracles of a Saviour.

Not for state, but for the more evidence of the work, is our Saviour attended with a large train, so entering into the gate of that walled city, as if he meant to besiege their faith by his power, and to take it. His providence hath so contrived his journey, that he meets with the sad pomp of a funeral. A woful widow, attended with her weeping neighbours, is following her only son to the grave. There was nothing in this spectacle that did not command compassion: A young man, in the flower, in the strength of his age, swallowed up by death. Our decrepit age both expects death, and solicits it; but vigorous youth looks strangely upon that grim serjeant of God. Those mellow apples that fall alone from the tree we gather up with contentment: we chide to have the unripe unseasonably beaten down with cudgels.

But more a young man, the only son, the only child, of his mother. No condition can make it other than grievous for a well-natured mother to part with her own bowels: yet surely store is some mitigation of loss. Amongst many children, one may be more easily missed; for still we hope the surviving may supply the comforts of the dead: but when all our hopes and joys must either live or die in one, the loss of that one admits of no consolation.

When God would describe the most passionate expression of sorrow that can fall unto the miserable, he can but say, "O daughter of my people, gird thee with sackcloth, and wallow thyself in the ashes, make lamentation and bitter mourning as for thine only son." Such was the loss, such was the sorrow, of this disconsolate mother: neither words nor tears can suffice to discover it.

Yet more: had she been aided by the counsel and supportation of a loving yokefellow, this burden might have seemed less intolerable. A good husband may make amends for the loss of a son; had the root been left to her entire, she might better have spared the branch: now both are cut up; all the stay of her life is gone, and she seems abandoned to a perfect misery. And now, when she gave up herself for a forlorn mourner, past all capacity of redress, the God of comfort meets her, pities her, relieves her. Here was no solicitor but his own compassion. In other occasions he was sought and sued to. The centurion comes to him for a servant, the ruler for a son, Jairus for a daughter, the neighbours for the paralytic; here he seeks up the patient, and offers the cure unrequested. While we have to do with the Father of mercies, our afflictions are the most powerful suitors. No tears, no prayers, can move him so much as his own commiseration. O God, none of our secret sorrows can be either hid from thine eyes or kept from thine heart; and when we are past all our hopes, or possibilities of help, then art thou nearest to us for deliverance.

Here was a conspiration of all parts to mercy: the heart had compassion; the mouth said, "Weep not ;" the feet went to the bier, the hand touched the coffin, the power of the Deity raised the dead. What the heart felt was secret to itself; the tongue therefore expresses it in words of comfort, "Weep not." Alas! what are words to so strong and just passions? To bid her not to weep, that had lost her only son, was to persuade her to be miserable, and not feel it; to feel, and not regard its