pipe, nor tabret, nor wine at her feasts. No, she sat alone. The mountains seemed all but impassable. All nature partook of her sadness. If she could not be glad in the light of the Lord's countenance, she was resolved to be glad in nothing else. She sat lonely and desolate. Just so it is with the true believer in Jesus. Whatever be the mountains of Bether that have come between his soul and Christ; whether he hath been seduced into his old sins, so that "his iniquities have separated again between him and his God, and his sins have hid his face from him, that he will not hear;" or whether the Saviour hath withdrawn for a season the comfortable light of his presence for the mere trial of his servant's faith, to see if, when he "walketh in darkness and hath no light, he will still trust in the name of the Lord, and stay himself upon his God;" whatever the mountains of separation be, it is the sure mark of the believer that he sits desolate and alone. He cannot laugh away his heavy care, as worldly men can do. He cannot drown it in the bowl of intemperance, as poor blinded men can do. Even the innocent intercourse of human friendship brings no balm to his wound, nay, even fellowship with the children of God is now distasteful to his soul. He cannot enjoy what he enjoyed before, when they that feared the Lord spake often one to another. The mountains between him and the Saviour seem so vast and impassable that he fears he will never visit him more. All nature partakes of his sadness-winter reigns without and within. He sits alone, and is desolate. Being afflicted, he prays; and the burden of his prayer is the same with that of an ancient believer-" Lord, if I may not be made glad with the light of thy countenance, grant that I may be made glad with nothing else; for joy without.thee is death."

Ah! my friends, do you know anything of this sorrow? Do you know what it is thus to sit alone and be desolate, because Jesus is out of view? If you do, then rejoice, if it be possible, even in the midst of your sadness; for this very sadness is one of the marks that you are a believer; that you find all your peace and all your joy in union with the Saviour.

But ah! how contrary is the way with most of you? You know nothing of this sadness. Yes. perhaps you make a mock at it. You can be happy and contented with the world, though you have never got a sight of Jesus. You can be merry with your companions, though the blood of Jesus has never whispered peace to your soul. Ah! how plain that you are hastening on to the place where "there is no peace, saith my God to the wicked!"

II. Christ's coming to the desolate believer is often sudden and wonderful. We saw in the parable, that it was when the bride was sitting lonely and desolate that she heard suddenly the voice of her lord. Love is quick in hearing; and she cries out, "the voice of my beloved!" Before, she thought the mountains all but

impassable; but now she can compare his swiftness to nothing but that of the gazelle or the young hart. Yea, whilst she speaks, he is at the wall, at the window, showing himself through the lattice. Just so is it oftentimes with the believer. Whilst he sits alone and desolate, the mountains of separation appear a vast and impassable barrier to the Saviour, and he fears he may never come again. The mountains of a believer's provocations are often very great. "That I should have sinned again, who have been washed in the blood of Jesus. It is little that other men should sin against him; they never knew him, never loved him as I have done. Surely I am the chief of sinners, and have sinned away my Saviour. The mountain of my provocations hath grown up to heaven, and he never can come over it any more." Thus it is that the believer writes bitter things against himself; and then it is that oftentimes he hears the voice of his beloved. Some text of the Word, or some word from a Christian friend, or some part of a sermon, again reveals Jesus in all his fulness, the Saviour of sinners, even the chief. Or it may be that he makes himself known to the disconsolate soul in the breaking of bread, and when he speaks the gentle words-" This is my body broken for you; this cup is the New Testament in my blood shed for the remission of the sins of many; drink ye all of it;" then he cannot but cry out, "The voice of my beloved; behold he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills."

Ah, my friends, do you know anything of this joyful surprise? If you do, why should you ever sit down despairingly, as if the Lord's hand were shortened at all that he cannot save, or as if his ear were grown heavy that he cannot hear? In the darkest hour say, "Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? Still trust in God, for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God." Come expectingly to the word. Do not come with that listless indifference as if nothing that a fellow-worm can say were worth your hearing. It is not the word of man, but the word of the living God. Come with large expectations, and then you will find the promise true, that he filleth the hungry with good things, though he sends the rich empty away.

III. Christ's coming changes all things to the believer, and his love is more tender than ever.-` -We saw in the parable that when the bride sat desolate and alone, all nature was steeped in sadness. Her garden possessed no charms to draw her forth, for winter reigned without and within. But when her Lord came so swiftly over the mountains, he brought the spring along with him. All nature is changed as he advances, and his invitation is, " For the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; arise, my love, my fair one, and come away." Just so it is with the believer when Christ is away; all is winter to the soul. But when he comes again over the mountains of provocation, he brings a gladsome

spring-time along with him. When that Sun of Righteousness arises afresh upon the soul, not only do his gladdening rays fall upon the believer's soul, but all nature rejoices in his joy. The mountains and hills burst forth before him into singing, and all the trees of the field clap their hands. It is like a change of season to the soul. It is like that sudden change from the pouring rains of a dreary winter to the full blushing spring, which is so peculiar to the climes of the Sun.

The world of nature is all changed. Instead of the thorn comes up the fir tree, and instead of the brier comes up the myrtle tree. Every tree and field possesses a new beauty to the happy soul. The world of grace is all changed. The Bible was all dry and meaningless before; now what a flood of light is poured over its pages! how full, how fresh, how rich in meaning, how its simplest phrases touch the heart! The house of prayer was all sad and dreary before, its services were dry and unsatisfactory; but now when the believer sees the Saviour, as he hath seen him heretofore within his holy place, his cry is- How amiable are thy tabernacles, O Lord of Hosts; a day in thy courts is better than a thousand." The garden of the Lord was all sad and cheerless before; now tenderness towards the unconverted springs up afresh, and love to the people of God burns in the bosom; then they that fear the Lord speak often one to another. The time of singing the praises of Jesus is come, and the turtle voice of love to Jesus is once more heard in the land; the lord's vine flourishes, and the pomegranate buds, and Christ's voice to the soul is, "Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away."

As the timorous dove pursued by the vulture, and well nigh made a prey, with fluttering anxious wing, hides itself deeper than ever in the clefts of the rock, and in the secret place of the precipice, so the backslidden believer whom Satan has desired to have that he might sift him as wheat, when he is restored once more to the all-gracious presence of his Lord, clings to him with fluttering, anxious faith, and hides himself deeper than ever in the wounds of his Saviour. Thus it was that the fallen Peter, when he had so grievously denied his Lord, yet when brought again within sight of the Saviour standing upon the shore, was the only one of the disciples who girt his fisher's coat unto him and cast himself into the sea to swim to Jesus; and just as that backslidden apostle, when again he had hidden himself in the clefts of the Rock of Ages, found that the love of Jesus was more tender towards him than ever, when he began that conversation which, more than all others in the Bible, combines the kindest of reproofs with the kindest of encouragements, "Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more than these ?" just so does every backslidden believer find, that when again he is hidden in the freshly opened wounds of his Lord, the fountain of his love begins to flow afresh, and the stream of kindness and affection is fuller and more overflowing than ever, for his word is, "Oh, my dove, that art in the

clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the precipice, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely."

Ah, my friends, do you know anything of this? Have you ever experienced such a coming of Jesus over the mountain of your provocations as made a change of season to your soul? and have you, backslidden believer, found, when you hid yourself again deeper than ever in the clefts of the rock, like Peter girding his fisher's coat unto him and casting himself into the sea, have you found his love tenderer than ever to your soul? Then should not this teach you quick repentance when you have fallen? Why keep one moment away from the Saviour? Are you waiting till you wipe away the stain from your garments? Alas! what will wipe it off, but the blood you are despising? Are you waiting till you make yourself worthier of the Saviour's favor? Alas! though you wait till all eternity, you can never make yourself worthier. Your sin and misery are your only plea. Come, and you will find with what tenderness he will heal your backslidings, and love you freely; and say, "Oh, my dove," &c.

IV. I observe the threefold disposition of fear, love, and hope, which this visit of the Saviour stirs up in the believer's bosom. These three form, as it were, a cord in the restored believer's bosom, and a threefold cord is not easily broken.

1. First of all, there is fear.—As the bride in the parable would not go forth to enjoy the society of her lord, without leaving the command behind to her maidens to take the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines, so does every believer know and feel that the time of closest communion is also the time of greatest danger. It was when the Saviour had been baptized, and the Holy Ghost, like a dove, had descended upon him, and a voice saying, "This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased," it was then that he was driven into the wilderness to be tempted of the devil; and just so it is when the soul is receiving its highest privileges and comforts, that Satan and his ministers are nearest, the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines. 1. Spiritual pride is near. When the soul is hiding in the wounds of the Saviour, and receiving great tokens of his love, then the heart begins to say, Surely I am somebody, how far I am above the everyday run of believers. This is one of the little foxes that eats out the life of vital godliness. 2. There is making a Christ of your comforts, looking to them, and not to Christ, leaning upon them, and not upon your beloved. This is another of the little foxes. 3. There is the false notion that now you must surely be above sinning, and above the power of temptation, now you can resist all enemies. This is the pride that goes before a fall; another of the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines. Never forget, I beseech you, that fear is a sure mark of a believer Even when you feel that it is God that worketh in you,

still the word saith, work out your salvation with fear and trembling; even when your joy is overflowing, still remember it is written," rejoice with trembling ;" and again," be not high-minded, but fear." Remember the caution of the bride, and say, "Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines, for our vines have tender grapes."

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2. But if cautious fear be a mark of a believer in such a season, still more is appropriating love. When Christ comes anew over mountains of provocation, and reveals himself to the soul free and full as ever, in another way than he doth unto the world, then the soul can say, "My beloved is mine, and I am his." I do not say that the believer can use these words at all seasons. In times of darkness and in times of sinfulness the reality of a believer's faith is to be measured rather by his sadness than by his confidence. But I do say, that, in seasons when Christ reveals himself afresh to the soul, shining out like the sun, from behind a cloud, with the beams of sovereign, unmerited love; then no other words will satisfy the true believer but these, "My beloved is mine, and I am his." The soul sees Jesus to be so free a Saviour; so anxious that all should come to him and have life; stretching out his hands all the day; having no pleasure in the death of the wicked; pleading with men, "Turn ye, turn ye, why will ye die?" The soul sees Jesus to be so fitting a Saviour; the very covering which the soul requires. When first he hid himself in Jesus, he found him suitable to all his need; the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. But now he finds out a new fitness in the Saviour, as Peter did when he girt his fisher's coat unto him, and cast himself into the sea. He finds that he is a fitting Saviour for the backslidden believer; that his blood can blot out even the stains of him who, having eaten bread with him, has yet lifted up the heel against him. The soul sees Jesus to be so full a Saviour; giving to the sinner not only pardons, but overflowing, immeasurable pardons; giving not only righteousness, but a righteousness that is more than mortal, for it is all divine; giving not only the Spirit, but pouring water on him that is thirsty, and floods upon the dry ground. The soul sees all this in Jesus, and cannot but choose him and delight in him with a new and appropriating love, saying, My beloved is mine." And if any man ask, How darest thou, sinful worm, to call that divine Saviour thine? the answer is here, For Iam his: He chose me from all eternity, else I never would have chosen him. He shed his blood for me, else I never would have shed a tear for him. He cried after me, else I never would have breathed after him. He sought after me, else I never would have sought after him. He hath loved me, therefore I love him. He hath chosen me, therefore I evermore choose him. My beloved is mine, and I am his."

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3. But, lastly, if love be a mark of the true believer at such a season, so also is prayerful hope. It was the saying of a true