a time, at least, the loss seems irreparable; so that, though the wounded sensibilities may afterwards be healed, and even turn to the living as they turned to the dead, yet, whilst the calamity is fresh, we repulse, as injurious, the thought that the void in our affections can ever be filled, and are persuaded that the blank in the domestic group can be occupied by nothing but the hallowed memory of the buried. It is therefore night in the household, darkness, a darkness that may be felt. And philosophy comes in, with its wellmeant but idle endeavors to console those who sit in this darkness. It can speak of the unavoidableness of death, of the duty of bearing with manly fortitude what cannot be escaped, of the injuriousness of excessive grief; and it may even hazard a conjecture of reunion in some world beyond the grave. And pleasure approaches with its allurements and fascinations, offering to cheat the mind into forgetfulness, and wile the heart from its sadness. But neither philosophy nor pleasure can avail any thing in the chamber of death; the taper of the one is too faint for so oppressive a gloom, and the torch of the other burns sickly in so unwonted an atmosphere. Is then the darkness such that those whom it envelopes are incapable of being comforted? Oh, not so. There may be those amongst your selves who can testify, that, even in a night so dreary and desolate, there is a source whence consolation may be drawn. The promises of Scripture are never more strikingly fulfilled than when death has made an inroad, and taken away, at a stroke, some object of deep love. Indeed, it is God's own word to the believer, "I will be with him in trouble"-as though that presence, which can never be withdrawn, then became more real and intense.

What are we to say of cases which continually present themselves to the parochial minister? He enters a house, whose darkened windows proclaim that one of its inmates is stretched out a corpse. He finds that it is the fairest and dearest whom death has made his prey, and that the blow has fallen where sure to be most deeply felt. And he is prepared for the burst of bitter sorrow. He knows that the heart, when most purified by grace, is made of feel

ing stuff; for grace, which removes the heart of stone, and substitutes that of flesh, will refine, rather than extinguish, human sensibilities. But what words does he hear from lips, whence nothing but lamentation might have been expected to issue? "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord." The mother will rise up from the side of her pale still child; and though on the cheek of that child (alas, never again to be warm with affection) there are tears which show how a parent's grief has overflowed, she will break into the exclamation of the Psalmist, "I will sing of mercy and judgment, unto thee, O Lord, will I sing." And when, a few days after, the slow windings of the funeral procession are seen, and the minister advances to meet the train, and pours forth the rich and inspiriting words, "I am the Resurrection and the Life, he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live "—is it only the low murmur of suppressed anguish by which he is answered? can he not feel that there are those in the group whose hearts bound at the magnificent announcement? and, as he looks at the mourners, does he not gather, from the uplifted eye and the moving lip, that there is one at least who is triumphing in the fulfilment of the prediction, "O death, I will be thy plagues; O grave, I will be thy destruction?"

And what are we to say to these things? what but that, in the deepest moral darkness, there can be music, music which sounds softer and sweeter than by day; and that, when the instruments of human melody are broken, there is a hand which can sweep the heartstrings and wake the notes of praise? Yes, philosophy can communi cate no comfort to the afflicted: it may enter where all is night; but it leaves what it found, even weeping and wailing. And pleasure may take the lyre, whose strains have often seduced and enchanted; but the worn and wearied spirit has no ear, in the gloom, for what sounded magically, when a thousand lights were blazing. But religion, faith in the promises of that God who is the Husband of the widow and the Father of the fatherless, this can cause the sorrowing to be glad in the midst

of their sorrow; for it is a description which every believer will confess borne out by experience, that God our Maker "giveth songs in the night."

But again-how beautifully accurate is this description, if referred generally to God's spiritual dealings with our race. It may well be said, that, so soon as man had fallen, it was night on this creation. The creature had shut itself out from the favor of the Creator; and what was this but to shroud the globe with the worst of all darkness? It was a darkness which no efforts of the human mind have been able to disperse. There is a point up to which natural theology has advanced, but which it has never passed. It has discovered a want, but not a supply; it has detected a disease, but not its remedy. We do not perhaps need the written word, in order to our ascertaining that we are exposed to God's wrath. The remonstrances and forebodings of conscience are, in themselves, sufficient to excite in us a belief and dread of judgment to come, and perhaps to extort from us the inquiry, "What must I do to be saved?" But the answer to this inquiry can be furnished only by a higher and deeper than natural theology. We make some way by groping in the darkness, but cannot emerge into the light.

But, God be thanked, man was not left to complain, and lament, in the midst of that darkness which his apostacy wove. There were provisions for his rescue, which came into force at the moment of transgression. No sooner had man fallen than prophecy, in the form of a promise, took the span of time, and gathered into a sentence the moral history of the world. And we have great reason for believing that even unto Adam did this promise speak of good things to come, and that he was comforted, in his exile from Paradise, by the hope which it gave him of final deliverance. Compelled though he was to till an earth, on which rested the curse of its Creator, he may have known that there was blessing in store; and that, though he and his children must dig the ground in the sweat of their brow, there would fall on it a sweat like great drops of blood, having virtue to remove the oppressive malediction. It must have been bitter to him

to hear of the thorn and the thistle; but he may have learnt how thorns would be woven into a crown, and placed round the forehead of one who should be the lost "tree of life" to a dying creation. It was only to have been expected, when the fatal act had been committed, that there would have ascended from the earth one fearful cry, and that then an eternal silence would have covered the desecrated globe. But, in place of this-though the gathered night was not at once dispersed-there still went up the anthem of praise from lowing herds, and waving corn, and stately forests; and man, in his exile, had an evening and a morning hymn, which spake gratefully of the head of the serpent as bruised by the seed of the woman-and all because God had already discovered himself as our Maker "who giveth songs in the night."

Thus also it has been, and is, with individual cases. There may be many in this assembly who have known what it is to be oppressed with apprehensions of God's wrath against sin. They have passed through that dreary season, when conscience, often successfully resisted, or dragged into slumber, mightily asserts its authority, arrays the transgressions of a life, and anticipates the penalties of an eternity. And we say of the man who is suffering from conviction of sin, that it is more truly night with him, the night of the soul, than with the most wretched of those on whom lie the burdens of temporal wo. And natural theology, as we have already stated, can offer no encouragement in this utter midnight. It may have done its part in producing the convictions, but, in so doing, must have exhausted its resources. All its efforts must have been directed to the furnishing demonstrations of the inflexible government of a God of justice and righteousness; and the more powerful these demonstrations, the more would they shut up the transgressor to the certainty of destruction. And nevertheless, after a time, you find the man, who had been brought into so awful a darkness, and for whose comfort there is nothing to be gained from natural theology, walking in gladness, with a lightened heart and a buoyant spirit. What could not be found in the stores

of natural theology, has been found in those of revealed intelligence, that God can, at the same time, be just and a justifier, that sinners can be pardoned, and sins not go unpunished. Therefore is it that he who was in darkness, the darkness of the soul, is now lifting up his head with joy, and exulting in hope. The Spirit of God, which produced the conviction, has taken of the things of Christ, and, showing them to the soul, made them effectual to conversion, And we call upon you to compare the man in these two estates. With his consciousness of the evil of sin heightened, rather than diminished, you find him changed from the desponding into the triumphant; exhibiting, in the largest measure, the accomplishment of the words, that there shall be given "beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness." You can offer no account of this surprising transformation, whilst you search for its reasons in natural causes. But when you appeal to the workings of Omnipotence; when you tell us of a propitiation for sin; when you refer to a divine agent, whose special office it is, to bring men to put faith in a sacrifice which reconciled a guilty world to its Creatorthen you leave no cause for surprise, that, from a soul, round which had gathered deep and stern shadows, there should be ascending the rich notes of praise, and the stirring strains of hope; but then you are only proving with what exquisite truth it may be said, that God our Maker "giveth songs in the night."

We might easily multiply our illustrations. We might follow the believer through all the stages of his progress from earth to heaven; and wheresoever you could show that it was night, there could we show you that God giveth songs." It is not that he giveth no songs in the day; for he is with his people, and he wakes their praises, in all time of their wealth, as well as in all time of their tribulation. But it is our nature to rejoice when all within and without is undisturbed; the miracle is to "rejoice in tribulation;" and this miracle is continually wrought as the believer presses through the wilderness. The harp of the human spirit never yields such sweet music,

as when its framework is most shattered, and its strings are most torn. Then it is, when the world pronounces the instrument useless, and man would put it away as incapable of melody, that the finger of God delights in touching it, and draws from it a fine swell of harmony. Come night, come calamity, come affliction. God still says to his people, as he said to the Jews, when expecting the irruption of the Assyrian, "ye shall have a song, as in the night."

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Is it the loss of property with which believers are visited? Our Maker "giveth songs in the night," and the chorus is heard, we have in heaven "a better, even an enduring substance." Is it the loss of friends? Our Maker, as we have shown you, "giveth songs in the night;" they sorrow not, even as others which have no hope;" and over the very grave is heard the fine confession, "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord." Have they their seasons of spiritual depression, when they cannot realize their privileges, nor assure themselves of acceptance with God? Indeed this is hard to bearperhaps the severest of the trials which they are called to endure. This was David's case, when he pathetically exclaimed, "Deep calleth unto deep, at the noise of thy water-spouts; all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me." Yet the Psalmist could go on, in the very next verse, to declare, "The Lord will command his loving-kindness in the day-time, and in the night his song shall be with me." And no believer holds fast his confidence, as David did, without proving, that, if God hide for a while the light of his countenance, it is in order to make it more valued; without finding cause to break into the song, "it is good for me that I was afflicted." Let the thickest night gather; let death be at hand; and shall it be said that our text fails of accomplishment! On the contrary, it is here emphatically true that our Maker "giveth songs in the night." The believer in Christ knows and feels that his Redeemer "hath abolished death." He is not insensible to the terrors of death; for he regards the separation of soul and body as a direct consequence of the original curse, and therefore awful and disastrous. But then he is so

assured of immortality and a resurrection, that he can approach the grave with confidence, and even exult that his departure is at hand. What upholds the dying man? What throws over his wasted countenance that air of serenity? What prompts those expressions of peace, those breathings of hope, which seem so little in accordance with his circumstances of trouble and decay? It is that God is whispering to his soul such words as these, "Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee, yea, I will help thee." It is that his Maker is reminding him of the pledge, that death shall be swallowed up in victory; that he is already causing the minstrelsy of the eternal city to come stealing on his ear-and is not all this the most convincing and touching evidence, that God our Maker "giveth songs in the night?"

Who would not be a believer in Christ, who would not be at peace with God? When such are the privileges of righteousness, the privileges through life, the privileges in death, the wonder is, that all are not eager to close with the offers of the Gospel, and make those privileges their own. Yet, alas, the ministers of Christ have to exclaim, with the prophet, who hath believed our report ?" and, with Elihu, "none saith, where is God my Maker, who giveth songs in the night?" There may yet be moral insensibility in numbers who hear me. What shall we say to them? They may have youth_on their side, and health, and plenty. The sky may be clear, and the voice of joy may be heard in their dwelling. But

there must come a night, a dreary and oppressive night; for youth must depart, and strength be enfeebled, and sorrow encountered, and the shadows of evening fall upon the path. And what will they do then, if now, as God complains by his prophet, the harp and the viol, the tabret, and pipe, and wine, are in their feasts, but they regard not the work of the Lord, neither consider the operation of his hands?" They may have their song now; but then we shall have only the bitter exclamation, "the harvest is passed, the summer is ended, and we are not saved." We warn you in time. Though the firmament be bright, we show you the cloud, small as a man's hand, already rising from the sea; and we urge you to the breaking loose from habits of sin, and fleeing straightway to the Mediator Christ. It is for baubles which they despise when acquired, wealth which they count nothing when gained, gratifications which they loathe so soon as passed, that men sell their souls. And all that we now entreat of the young, is, that they will not, in the spring-time of life, strike this foul bargain. In the name of Him who made you, we beseech you to separate yourselves at once from evil practices and evil associates; lest, in that darkest of all darkness, when the sun is to be

black as sackcloth of hair," and the moon as blood, and the stars are to fall, you may utter nothing but the passionate cry of despair; whilst the righteous are lifting up their heads with joy, and proving that they have trusted in a God "who giveth songs in the night."