fume; when our inward spiritual life assumes sensibility and feeling, and floods the soul like a fruitful vivifying water; when the presence of the Lord is powerfully experienced, the comfort of assurance blissfully enjoyed, the love of Christ ardently felt, and the powers of the world to come tasted in copious draughts. How delightful is morning! How pleasant the air! How mild and exhilarating the warmth of the sun! Then the valleys are filled with balsamic odours, and the plains are moistened by the early dew; then the vines breathe forth their fragrance, and the turtle is heard in the grove. It was morning in the life of Shulamite, when she exclaimed: Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine. Thy name is an ointment poured forth; therefore the virgins love thee. Draw me, we will run after thee: the king brought me into his chambers; we will be glad and rejoice in thee.' Yes, then the light of morning shone upon her head. What a happy state! To soar above the earth, like a young eagle; to be placed beyond the fear of death and hell; to be able joyfully to embrace all the brethren in Christ; to have a heart expansive as the ocean; to be also dear to all the brethren, and overflowing with streams of living water!

But the light in which we now meet the beloved Shulamite, is not that of morning; alas! all with her is changed. Her very appearance betrays it. Where is now the dear sunshine, that once animated her countenance; and the eye, sparkling with joy, the lip breathing eloquence, the lofty enthusiasm, the intense love of her espousals, and her glowing testimony? What became of it all? Alas! they seem to have died away.

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She resembles a flower that has lost both its scent and its enamel. Shulamite is afflicted and cast down. What then has happened to her? Has she perhaps sustained a serious fall? Not exactly so. Then she is assailed by doubts, and asks with John, Art thou he that should come?' Not so. Then she has encountered severe temptations, and conflicts with Satan? No that is not the case. She says, it is noon in her soul. She reminds us of a hot, sultry, summer's-day; all nature droops; the flowers hang down their head; the grass is faded and dry; the beasts pant for breath, the birds are silent in the trees; dark clouds of dust obscure the roads, and all is dull weary and languid. And this she will say is her spiritual state. Oh, we understand her well; it is the state of barrenness, of insensibility, in which she finds herself; the state of spiritual nakedness and destitution, in which we ourselves perceive no trace of the new life, and of the gracious presence of the Lord; in which a difference between ourselves and the unregenerate is scarce discernible; in which we feel no love, no necessity of prayer, and we begin to waver, and to doubt whether we are in a state of grace, or no. This is the noon in which we find the Shulamite.

II. Shulamite in her distress applies to the Lord; to him she will make known her grief. In this she does wisely. There is no helper besides Him; and even though we may be unable to pray, we should prostrate ourselves in silence before him, as if we would say, Behold our misery! It is vain to look elsewhere, this is the only well from which water can be obtained in time of drought. Thou,' she sighs, whom my soul

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loveth!' Thou! What a singular address! Why does she not add his name? Ah, in her present state of mind she knows not what to call him. There are times, in which we know not how to address the Lord, except with a simple, Thou! Thou! and that is all. Thus we sometimes experience sudden abstractions of mind, like in the third heaven; moments of unequalled mental vision and communion with Jesus; when suddenly he, who is the fairest amongst the children of men, displays himself to our view in all his beauty, as though we saw him face to face; and all the bliss, that is eternal at his right hand, is imbibed into the soul, as with one draught. The entire greatness of his love, is unveiled to our view; the happiness of being reconciled by his blood, is felt in all its magnitude, and the delight of the heart exceeds all bounds. Then, indeed, one would gladly speak, and call him by name; but what name is sufficiently expressive to describe Him whom we behold and taste. His most glorious titles appear to us inadequate, and too mean for such a Lord. Absorbed in admiration and excess of bliss, a simple 'O Thou!' is all we are able to utter. But there are other states of feeling in which we know not by what title to address him. By what name shall we call upon him, when, as convicted sinners, we lie prostrate in the dust before his throne of grace, and cannot venture even to lift up our eyes. Shall we call him our Lord? Ah, we are rebels, and not servants. Shall we address him as Savior? How can we presume; what claims have we on his mercy? Or as our Mediator and Intercessor? Alas, for creatures so deeply fallen as we are, he will never intercede! All the sweet and endearing

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titles by which his children are permitted to address him, falter upon our tongues; and Thou! Thou! is all that our trembling lips can utter. And when in his mysterious dealings he has again deprived us of all that he had once vouchsafed to us-has withdrawn himself from our view, and surrounded himself with clouds and darkness, so that we no longer taste his grace, or enjoy his love, as was the case with Shulamite, how shall we then call upon him? By what name address him? As a friend? We no longer recognize him as such. As a Bridegroom? Ah, the days of our espousals are past. As a Prince of peace? Where is his peace! As our guide? Alas, we wander forsaken. At such times we are tempted to ask with Manoah, What is thy name?' And, Wonderful! is the only title by which we can address him! Sometimes even we appear to have lost all trace of him as a "Wonderful God;' it seems as though he guided us no longer, or concerns himself no more about us. sighing of 'O Thou!' is our only resource. was with our Shulamite. But the remainder of her address must cause us astonishment; 'Thou,' she says, 'whom my soul loveth.' How strange! We thought her love was at an end. Yes, that she herself also most firmly believes. But does she not say, 'Thou whom my soul loveth?' The words have indeed escaped her, but I believe she is not insensible of it. Ah! how frequently is this the lamentation of benighted and tempted souls. Their complaint is incessant, that there is no more love in their heart, no desire after the Lord, and yet, in contradiction to themselves, they continually exclaim, if not in words, yet most loudly by

Then a

Thus it

their actions: Thou whom my soul loveth! Singular people! who do nothing else than run about from morning till night inquiring and seeking after Jesus, like sheep lost in the desert, bleating after their shepherd. How delighted would you be to find him again; and should any one advise you to abandon the search, "not for mines of gold, or royal diadems," would be your answer; "no, rather give up all than give up Christ." And yet, you say, you have no love to him after whom you long: no, not the smallest!! How strange, how singular! thus to run after one in whom you have no interest; thus to lament his absence with so much affliction. O ye favored children! This afflicted look, this oppressed mien, this painful lamentation, “I have lost the Lord”—this seeking and longing—what is it but an expressive, 'Thou, Thou, whom my soul loveth.' What is it, however its reflection may be concealed from yourselves, but a look of the purest love, which, be assured, still exists and works unseen in the deep recesses of the soul; which, in the children of God, can never be extinguished; which survives the bitterest temptations, the greatest spiritual desertions, and proclaims, under every change of circumstance, its existence and life, by manifold, though not unfrequently by very faint, manifestations. Yes, the lambs of Jesus always love him; and even when the lamentation escapes them, that they love him not, the tone in which the complaint is uttered, imparts to it an entirely different meaning; and a sensitive ear distinctly perceives in it the tender greeting, Thou whom my soul loveth.'

III.—Having listened to the salutation of the afflict