our own souls-in a word, we do not personally appropriate them. Now here we have a direct personal appeal, made to living persons and made by a living personal Saviour. "Come unto Me." And the words are as true, as personal, as efficacious, as absolute, now as when they were actually uttered. The call is still the same; the hearts and souls of men are still the same; the Saviour is still the same. And he cries to the weary and dust-stained traveller of to-day, "Come unto Me;" to the parched and jaded labourer in earth's vineyard, who is bearing the burden and heat of the day, "Come unto Me;" to the aged patriarch, whose years on earth are almost told, and whose "strength is but labour and sorrow," "Come unto Me;" to the tender infants, whose lips can hardly lisp the Saviour's name, "Suffer the little children to come unto Me;" to the sorrowing and stricken mourner, whose heart is bleeding from some cruel wound, "Come unto Me;" to the sleepless sufferer, racked by wearisome pain, "Come unto Me;" and above all, to the poor erring, fainting, perishing sinner, bowed down beneath a load of sin, "Come unto Me." And it is a real Saviour who calls, one who is as able and willing to save now as when He healed the poor raving demoniac of Gadara, or when He cast seven evil spirits out of Mary Magdalene. And "Come unto Me," He says; not to the poor broken cisterns of earthly sustenance and strength, but to Me, "the fountain of living waters;" not to the vain props and comforters of men, even though they be true "sons of consolation," but to Me, who alone can heal the suffering and bind up the broken-hearted;

not to the so-called confessors and priests of earth, but to Me, the one "Advocate with the Father," the "one Mediator between God and men." And the call is a real one too; it rings out to-night in the ears of all in this place as clearly as when it first fell from the Saviour's own lips; and it is the same voice that speaks now from the pages of His word, and cries, "Oh! all ye that labour and are heavy laden, all ye who weep and mourn, all ye who hunger and thirst, all ye tried and tempted ones, all ye wayward and thoughtless wanderers, all ye who feel your sins and need a Saviour, Come unto Me-Come unto Me."

And now there remains but the beautiful promise at the close of the verse, upon which for a few moments to dwell—" and I will give you rest." Rest! what a priceless boon! what an inestimable blessing! the great antidote and reward of labour! If there are none to whom labour is unknown, there are likewise few who do not know something of what "rest" means. And the rest here spoken of is a real thing. As it is a real call that goes forth, and a real Saviour who calls us to Himself, so it is a real rest that He promises to all who come to Him-rest from sin, even in the midst of a sinful world, and amid “all the fiery darts of the wicked," and the incessant conflict with the world, the flesh, and the devil, that rages around us and within us; rest from sorrow, even when the storms and blasts of life beat most fiercely down upon us, as Jesus slept amid the surrounding tempest; rest from suffering, even when this mortal frame is racked and torn with excruciating agony. And what do you, dear friends, know of this rest? Is it a real thing to

you? Surely this is a question that we should all do well to put to ourselves. And God grant that it may find an answer in our own hearts and lives!

Again, this rest is a twofold one-it is both present and future—to be enjoyed in the germ here, and then in maturity hereafter. Every Christian knows, or ought to know, something of this rest here. It is a present blessing, bound up and identified with the Saviour Himself; and every one who knows anything of Him, must know something of His rest; and the more we know of Him, the more we shall know of that rest. It should enter, too, into the constant experience of our daily lives-calming every fear, appeasing every doubt, assuaging every rising tide of temptation and trial, tranquillising all our thoughts, nay, our very being, exercising its gentle influence on all our actions, and making its "still small voice" heard in the busy routine of daily conduct, causing our lives to be holy, and happy, and peaceful, and Christ-like.

But if such is, or should be, the experience of the Christian even here, what will it be hereafter? It is certain that no one in this life can know what perfect rest is. The very conditions of our mortal existence will not admit of it. "The whole creation," we read, "groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now, and not only they, but ourselves also, which have the first-fruits of the Spirit." Every living creature is thirsting, panting, gasping, for rest; looking, longing, labouring, to be at peace; and the Christian is no exception to this universal law of creation, for "we are even saved by hope," and the grand consummation

of that hope is rest—rest in heaven-rest with God! While, on the one hand, it is true that "we which have believed do enter into rest," even now, here below, yet on the other hand, there is a rest that "remaineth," as yet unpossessed, unoccupied, unrealised, and the mind of man cannot conceive it— the rest of heaven--perfect, complete, unalloyed, and inexhaustible. It is ours in a certain sense now, by anticipation; then it will be ours in all its blessed reality, but not yet, not yet:

"A few more years to roll,

A few more tears to flow,

A few more friends to pass away,

A few steps more to go !"

and then home at last : all the toils and labours of the past forgotten, all the fatigue and weariness of the journey over, all the loads and burdens cast away— and only rest hereafter; no more labours and struggles, no more weariness and pain, no more sin to distress, no more burdens to be borne; but perfect, peaceful, happy, holy rest—rest for evermore! May that rest be ours, for Jesus Christ's sake.

XIX.

Flowers and Fruits of Heaven.

"The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose." ISAIAH XXXV. I.

MONG all the figures employed in Holy Scripture there are none more significant, none more beautiful, none more appropriate, than those which are drawn from flowers, and fruits, and trees of the field. The very

position of the Holy Land would afford manifold illustrations of such a character to the thoughts and imaginations of the sacred writers. It was indeed an oasis in the wilderness. Bounded on the south by the deserts of Shur, Paran, and Zin; on the east by the great desert of Arabia; on the north by the mountains of the Lebanon range; and on the west by the sea, the land of Israel was in very truth "a garden enclosed." Its own natural fertility, aided in many parts by the overflow of the Jordan, well deserved the comparison bestowed upon

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