The Burdened Gently Led By Christ (Octavius Winslow, 1808-1878)

Isaiah 40:11

“He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and shall gently lead those that are with young.” 

“THOSE that are with young”—those that are burdened; for such are they whom Jesus gently leads. This is a large portion of the “little flock” of which Christ is the Chief Shepherd, Leader, and Exemplar. In nothing scarcely is the assimilation stronger—in no particular more appropriate. It is proper and befitting that the sheep of the Burden-bearer should themselves be a burdened flock. But little would they know of Him as such—in the glory of His Godhead, in the compassion of His manhood, in the strength of His shoulder, and in the tenderness of His heart—but for their wearisome, toilsome travail. They must be “with young” to know what the “gentleness of Christ” is. A general view of our humanity will present to the eye the spectacle of the “whole creation (rational and irrational) groaning and travailing together in pain until now.” Our humanity is a burdened humanity, and we, who believe, share that burden in addition to those of which the unregenerate feel nothing. Spiritual life renders the soul sensible to many a crushing weight, of which the soul spiritually dead is unconscious, just as the corpse feels no pressure. We would not anticipate other portions of this chapter, yet we cannot forbear the remark, at this stage, that, if you discover in your soul that spiritual sensibility, that sense of pain, suffering, and depression produced by a holy consciousness of indwelling evil, of a nature totally depraved, or those diversified spiritual exercises of the soul through which the flock of the Lord’s pasture more or less pass, then have you one of the most indubitable evidences of spiritual life. We repeat the remark—it is only a living man who is conscious of the pressure; a corpse cannot feel. Spiritual sensibility is a sign of spiritual life.

The Lord’s people, then, find them where you may, in high circles or low, rich or poor, are a burdened people. Each one has his cross, each his load, each his pressure. Oh, how ought this truth to unite the people of God in holy affection, forbearance, and sympathy towards one another! The precept which recognizes the burdens of the Lord’s people, in the same words binds them upon our hearts: “Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.” But let us specify some of the burdens of the Lord’s people,—those of whom it is said, “He shall gently lead those that are with young,”—and this will prepare us to consider the gentleness of Christ towards them.

All the Lord’s people are sensible of the burden of conscious guilt. In this particular it may with truth be said that “He fashioneth their hearts alike.” In this school—painful yet needed—all are experimentally taught; and it may be added, that from it they never entirely graduate until called home to glory. The lesson of our original and deep sinfulness, the weakness, impurity, and vileness of the flesh,—that there dwelleth in it no good thing,—is the daily, hourly lesson of the Christian’s life. If we ever extract any honey from that precious declaration, “By grace are ye saved,” it is under the pressure of our personal and inexpressible vileness and nothingness. Into this bitter cup the Lord distills the sweetness and savour of His most free and rich grace. But oh, how few of our species are conscious of this burden—the burden of the curse! And yet it confronts them at every step, meets them in every object, starts up before them at each turn. We cannot gaze upon the outspread landscape, nor walk into the beautiful garden, nor sail upon the lovely lake,—we cannot pluck the flowers, nor breathe the air, nor quaff the spring, but the sad, sad truth confronts us,—the curse of God has blighted and blasted all! Is man spiritually sensible of this? Ah, no! He sighs, but knows not why. He is fettered, but feels no chain; sickens, and knows not the cause. He marvels to find a sepulchre in his garden—disease, decay, and death in such close proximity to his choicest, sweetest, dearest delights. He wonders that his flower fades, that his spring dries, that his sheltering gourd withers in a night. He knows not that the curse is there—that the overshadowing vine breeds its own worm. Thus he treads life’s short journey, from the cradle to the grave, crushed beneath this tremendous weight, nor sees, as he passes, the uplifted cross where He was impaled who died to deliver us from its weight, yea, “who was made a curse for us.” Here and there we see one of this long and gloomy procession awakened to the conviction of the truth, and exclaiming, “What shall I do to be saved?” Here and there we descry a pilgrim, with the load upon his back, climb the sacred hill, and reach the cross—look—and leave his burden, and pursue his way, rejoicing in Christ, and exclaiming, “There is now no condemnation!” But the great mass pass on insensible and dead. Not so the Lord’s people. Emancipated, indeed, we are from the curse and condemnation of sin, for Christ our Surety was “delivered for our offences, and was raised again for our justification:” nevertheless, the more healthy our spiritual life, the more frequently and closely the conscience deals with atoning blood, the more alive and sensitive will be our spiritual sensibility to the conviction and pressure of that curse, which, though removed as a condemnation, yet remains as a fact. The tenderness which the blood imparts, the conviction of indebtedness which Divine grace gives, deepens the sensibility of sin; and, although standing beneath the shadow of the cross, and reading our pardon there, the conviction of its exceeding sinfulness is not the less, but all the more, acute. The curse, though removed, has left its lingering shadow upon the soul, and this, to a saint of God, is no little burden. And when to this is added the faltering of the Christian walk, the flaw of service, the imperfection of worship, the dead insect tainting the perfume of the sacred anointing, the dust upon the sandal, the trailed robe, the concealed, but not less real and sinful, appetency of the heart—its foolishness and inconstancy—oh, is there no painfully-felt burden in all this to a mind whose moral perceptions are quick, and whose spirituality covets the close and holy walk with God?

How keenly sensible, too, are many of God’s people of the burden of bodily infirmity. The apostle numbers himself among them, when, so feelingly and vividly describing this infirmity of the flock, he says, “We that are in this tabernacle do groan, being burdened.” While all believers are conscious of this, many are more painfully so than others. Some know not a single day’s perfect health, yea, many not an hour’s freedom from wearying pain. Days of languor and nights unsoothed by sleep are appointed to them. Others, while, perhaps, exempt from positive disease, are afflicted with an acutely nervous, sensitive temperament, subjecting them to a species of sorrow which compels them to nurse their burden in lonely isolation. It is with them incessant suffering. The trembling of the aspen leaf startles them, their own shadow alarms them, the flutter of an angel’s wing, as he sweeps past on his mission of love, would discompose them. This is their burden, and the last, because the least known of all, that receives the soothing of human kindness, consideration, and sympathy. Christians thus afflicted require a mode of treatment peculiarly patient and gentle. Those who are not conversant with the delicate sensibility of the nervous system can but imperfectly estimate the acute suffering of such. Is it trespassing too curiously into the awful mystery of Christ’s unknown agony, to venture the surmise that, in the terrible conflict which so fearfully agitated His whole frame in the garden, as to clothe it with a vesture of blood, there entered deeply this element of suffering—the exquisite sympathy of the nervous system? If this be true, and we see no reason to question it, then how appropriate, precious, and soothing His compassion and sympathy with all His members similarly afflicted! What, beloved, if your case distances the sympathy, or baffles the cure, or even awakens the reproach, of your fellows, let it suffice that every nerve quivering with agony, that every pulse fluttering with excitement, awakens a response of tenderness and sympathy in the Sufferer of Gethsemane. And oh, if this be so, you can well afford to part with a creature’s compassion and help, since it but makes room for Christ. Ah! one five minutes’ experience of His love in the heart, is of more worth than an eternity of the creature’s. And little think we often, as we feel the human arm droop, and see the human eye withdrawn, and are conscious of the chill that has crept over the warm bosom upon which we fondly leaned, that Jesus is but preparing us for a more full and entire enthronement of Himself in our soul.

Then, there are others whose burden is a constant tendency to mental despondency and gloom. Whether this is constitutional, is produced by sorrow, or is the result of disease, the effect is the same—a life perpetually cloud-vailed and depressed, scarcely relieved by a transient gleam of sunshine. No little burden is this. “A mind diseased” involves more real suffering, and demands more Divine grace, than a body diseased. And yet, how large a class is this! What numbers are there of the Lord’s people whose spiritual hope is obscured by mental disease, and whose mental disease is, in its turn, produced by some physical irritant—so close is the relation and so sympathetic the emotions of the body and mind. What a mystery is our being! There is One—and but One—who understands it. “He knoweth our frame; He remembereth that we are dust.” Your Saviour, beloved, experienced mental gloom and spiritual depression as you never can. It was not always sunshine and joy with your Lord. His path often wound along the lonely vale, and across the dreary desert, and through the deep gloom of the pathless forest—and He knows the way that you take. The spiritual despondency of your soul, the cloud-vailings of your mind, the absence of vigorous faith, of heaven-springing joy, and of undimmed hope, affect not your union with Christ, touch not your interest in the love of God, and render not doubtful or insecure your place in the many-mansioned house of your Father in heaven. Will not this truth be a little help heavenward? Will not this assurance, founded as it is on the Word of God, distil some joy into your heart, and throw some gleam of sunshine upon your path, and strengthen you as a child of the light to walk through darkness, until you reach that world of glory of which it is said, “And there is no night there!” “Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of his servant, that walketh in darkness, and hath no light? let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God,” (Isa. 50:10.) “Light is sown for the righteous, and gladness for the upright in heart.” Take heart and go forward; “light and gladness” shall spring up in your path just where and when the God who loves you, and the Shepherd who leads you, sees best. They are “sown” by God’s hand, and they shall spring forth beneath His smile. A love unchanging and a covenant-keeping God is bringing you home to Himself.

There is often, too, in the experience of many, the burden of some heavy daily cross. A personal grief, or a domestic trial, or a relative calamity, is the weight they bear, perhaps with not a day’s cessation. Is it no burden to have a wounded spirit? Is it no burden to nurse a sorrow which interdicts all human sympathy, which admits not, from its profound depth and sacredness, another to share it? Is it no burden to stand up alone for Jesus and His truth in the domestic circle, allied in the closest bonds of nature to those concerning whom we must exclaim, “I am become a stranger unto my brethren, and an alien unto my mother’s children”—in whom your spiritual joy awakens no response, and your spiritual sorrow no sympathy? But, oh, what a privilege and honour to endure reproach, and separation, alienated affection, studied neglect, and relentless persecution, for Christ’s sake! “And on him they laid the cross, that he might bear it after Jesus.” Tried, persecuted disciple, “to you it is given, in the behalf of Christ, not only to believe in His name, but also to suffer for His sake.” Upon you Jesus has laid the burden, the sweet, the precious burden, of His cross, that you might bear it after Him. Did ever burden confer such honour, bring such repose, secure a crown so bright, or lead to such glory and blessedness? “Whoever shall confess me before men, him shall the Son of man also confess before the angels of God.” Lord! make Thyself more precious to my heart—then will Thy burden be lighter, Thy yoke easier, shame for Thee will be sweeter, and Thy cross, rude and heavy though it be, will become increasingly my joy, my glory, and my boast! Let us now turn our thoughts to the gentleness with which the Divine Shepherd leads these His burdened ones “He shall GENTLY lead those that are with young.”

The Leader is Jesus—the Shepherd. He claims this as one part of His pastoral office. “The sheep hear his voice: and he calleth his own sheep by name, and leadeth them out.” “He leadeth them out”—leadeth them out of their unregenerate nature, out of their state of condemnation, out of the world, and out of their families. And whither does He lead them? He leads them to His cross, to Himself; and, thus accepting and resting in Him as their righteousness, and their salvation, and their portion, He then leads them out to the green pastures He has provided for the flock, where He causeth them to lie down in safe and quiet resting-places. Oh, what a momentous step is this, the first that His people take! To be led out of our own righteousness and unrighteousness, out of our wrecked and polluted selves, out of the false confidences, the spurious hopes, the ritual worship, and pharisaical religion to which we had been so long and so fondly wedded, and led to embrace the Lord Jesus as our one, our sole, our sure hope for eternity, oh, it is heaven’s first, heaven’s last and latest step; this step taken, heaven is sure! Test your religion, beloved, by this. Has Jesus so taught you? Has His sovereign grace been exhibited in leading you out of your worldly circle? His converting grace in leading you out of your self-righteousness? His pardoning, justifying grace in leading you to peace, holiness, and hope?—then, if this be so, you are Christ’s, and Christ is yours. Thus does the Lord lead His people. He leads them through the wilderness, up the steep ascent, and down into the low valley, through water and fire, cloud and storm, thorn-brake and desert, watching them with an eye that never slumbers, keeping them by a hand that never wearies, and encircling them with a love that never chills. Thus, step by step He leads them on, from grace to glory, from earth to heaven, from the wilderness below to the paradise above. Not one of that flock, thus led, thus guarded, thus loved, shall be missing when the Shepherd folds them on high. His “rod and His staff” will be found to have restored them, guided them, comforted them, and at last to have brought them home—little faith, and fickle love, and weak grace, and limited experience, and defective knowledge, and faltering steps, finding their way, through trial and temptation and suffering, home to God—not one “vessel of mercy” missing. Oh, who but Christ could accomplish this? Who but the Divine Shepherd could thus have kept, and thus have gathered, and thus have folded the sheep scattered up and down in the cloudy and dark day? What an evidence of the Godhead of Christ! Oh, crown His deity! crown it with your faith, crown it with your love, crown it with your praise, ye who have “now received the atonement;” for nothing short of this could place you within the realms of glory. And this, when there, will be your crown and joy for ever.

The “gentleness of Christ” is a theme on which the Holy Ghost frequently dwells. It is an essential perfection of His nature. The nature of Christ is gentle. It is not an accident of His being, an engrafted virtue, a cultivated grace—it is essential to His very existence. Recollect that the two natures of our Lord were perfect. If we look at His superior nature—the divine—the wondrous truth meets the eye as if emblazoned in letters of living light, “God is love.” Now, Christ was an embodiment of the essential love of God; consequently, gentleness was a perfection of His being. If we view His inferior nature—the human—not less manifest was His gentleness, since His humanity, though identified with the curse, and laden with sin, and encompassed with infirmity, and shaded with sorrow, yet was sinless humanity, free from all and the slightest moral taint; and so gentleness, in its most exquisite form, was one of its most distinguished attributes. If, too, we connect with this truth the fulness of the Spirit in our Lord’s human nature, the evidence of its essential and perfect gentleness is complete. And was not the gentleness of Christ visible in His every act? There was nothing censorious in His disposition, nothing harsh in His manner, nothing bitter or caustic in His speech. If, with withering rebuke, He denounced the hypocrisy of the scribes, or the self-righteousness of the Pharisees, or the extortion of the lawyers, or His rejection by the nation He had come to save, while no voice could speak in words more fearful, yet none in tones more tremulous with the deepest, tenderest emotion. But oh, how much oftener the blessing breathed from His lip than the woe! Judgment was His strange work; mercy His delight. Truly in all His works, in all His ways, in all His discourses, the beautiful prophecy that foretold the gentleness of His grace was fulfilled: “He shall come down like rain on the mown grass, as showers that water the earth.” “The bruised reed shall he not break, and the smoking flax shall he not quench.” But let us consider this specific illustration of Christ’s gentleness—His dealings with the burdened. “He gently leadeth those that are with young.”

We have an apposite illustration of this in the considerate tenderness of Jacob: “And he said unto him, My lord knoweth that the children are tender, and the flocks and herds with young are with me; and if men should over-drive them one day, all the flock will die. Let my lord, I pray thee, pass over before his servant: and I will lead on softly,” (Gen. 33:13,14.) If such the tenderness, such the considerateness of man, what must be that of Christ! Who can portray the gentleness with which He leads His people? His gentleness, as displayed in conversion, how great! drawing them with cords of love, and with the bands of a man—gradually unvailing their vileness, and thus step by step leading them into assured peace. His teaching, how gentle! “I have many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them now.” Here a little and there a little, He, by the Spirit, softly leads us to truth—doctrine explaining doctrine, precept leading to precept, promise following promise, and so, by a gradual unfolding of the gospel, by a process of instruction the most gentle, we are fed, first with the milk, and then with the strong meat of the Word, and so grow up into Christ, the Truth. Submit yourself, then, beloved, to His teaching. Burdened with a sense of your ignorance, wearied with the teaching of men, perplexed and discouraged by the conflicting of human judgment, come and learn of Christ. You will advance more in Divine instruction in one day at the feet of Jesus than in a lifetime at the feet of Gamaliel. The very gentleness of His teaching instructs. His patience, forbearance, and painstaking, His words of heart-cheer and commendation, untinged by an unkind look, and untinctured by a harsh word, will advance your experimental knowledge of Himself, and so advance your soul heavenward.

Not less gentle is His guidance. Is the path our heavenly Father has chosen for us paved with flint and sown with briar? Is it narrow and serpentine, difficult and perilous, often lone and dreary? How gently the Shepherd leads us along! How he goes before, straitening the crooked, and smoothing the rough places, and rolling the stone from before us! What unexpected mercies and interpositions and aids He causes to spring forth in our way; how He mitigates expected suffering, allays foreboding fears, and disappoints all our unbelieving and mournful anticipations, preventing us with His goodness! And when we have reached that event in our life which we the most dreaded, the spot which looked the darkest in our history, lo! we have stood amazed at the marvellous loving-kindness of our God—that very event has proved our greatest blessing, and that very spot the sunniest and the brightest in the wilderness—so gently has Jesus led us!

In affliction and sorrow, how gentle His dealings! Perhaps, it is then that we learn more of this perfection of our dear Lord than at any other time. The time of trial is a time that tests the reality of things. It brings to the proof the friendship of the world, the real help of the creature, the actual sufficiency of all earthly things. Times of affliction are verily times of trial. But the greatest and grandest discovery of all is the sufficiency, the preciousness, and the gentleness of Christ. Oh, how little is known of the “Man of sorrows” but in the hour of sorrow! There are soundings in the depths of His infinite love, tenderness, and sympathy only made in the many and deep waters of adversity. How gently does He deal with our burdened hearts then! There is not a being in the universe that knows how to deal with sorrow, how to heal a wounded spirit, how to bind up a broken heart, as Jesus. Lord, teach us this truth! Lead us into the depths of Thy love. Unvail the springs of Thy sympathy. Shew us that in the languor of sickness, in the tortures of pain, in the agony of bereavement, in the woundings of trial, in the losses of adversity, Thou still art gentle, and that Thy gentleness maketh us great.

We need as much the gentleness of Christ in the smooth as in the rough path. Smooth paths are slippery paths. Times of prosperity are perilous times to the Christian. Never is the man of God, the man of Christian principle, more exposed to the corruption of his own nature, the assaults of Satan, and the seductions of the world, as when the world prospers with, and the creature smiles upon him. Then is he walking upon enchanted ground,—then he needs to pray, “Hold thou me up, and I shall be safe.” “Let integrity and uprightness preserve me.” Oh to be kept from this sinful, ungodly, treacherous world! If riches increase, to give the more to Christ; if honours accumulate, to walk the humbler with God; if influence and position and power augment, to write upon it all, “HOLINESS UNTO THE LORD.” But what can thus preserve, thus sanctify, but the gentleness of Christ, who will not “suffer the moon to smite us by night, nor the sun by day”—who, in the night-season of adversity and in the daytime of prosperity hides us in the cleft of the rock, and thus gently leads us heavenward?

And now, beloved, what a help heavenward, what strength and heart-cheer, will you find in a believing reception of this truth—the gentleness of Christ! Never doubt, never question, never reject it. It is an ingredient in every cup you drink, it is light in every cloud you behold, it is an accent in every voice you hear of Christ’s dealings, leadings, and teachings. He is, He must be, gentle. He is not only gentle, but He is gentleness. Gentleness is His nature, because love is His essence. The heart of Christ is such that it cannot be otherwise than gentle in its every feeling. The physician is not less kind because he prescribes a nauseous remedy, nor the surgeon less feeling because he makes a deep incision, nor the parent less loving because he employs the rod. Nor is your Lord less so, because the way by which He leads, and the discipline by which He sanctifies, and the method by which He instructs you, may for a moment vail the reality, light, and comfort of this truth—“He gently leadeth those that are with young.” Did Jacob lead the flocks and herds with young gently and softly lest they should die? Oh, how much more gently and softly does our Jacob, our true Shepherd, lead us! “He shall feed his flock like a shepherd; he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and shall gently lead those that are with young.” Lest we should be weary, He will not overdrive us; lest we should faint, He leads us by springs of water; lest our soul should be discouraged by reason of the way. He causeth us to lie down beneath the shadow of the Rock that is higher than we.

If this be so, then yield yourself to the Lord’s leading. Be satisfied that He is leading you by the right way homeward. Do not distrust His wisdom, nor question His love, nor fret, murmur, and rebel that the way is not exactly just as you would have chosen. Be sure of this, it is the right way; and if it is one of self-denial and of difficulty, one of straitness and of cloud, yet it is the way home, the ordained way, the only way that will bring you into the beatific presence of Jesus. And His gentleness will constrain Him to bear with you, and will suggest just such wise and holy discipline as will impart robustness to your religion, completeness to your Christian character, and sanctity to all the relations and doings of life.

O Lord, I am oppressed, undertake for me; I am burdened, gently lead me; I am in darkness, stay my soul upon Thee; I am in perplexity, skillfully guide me. Let me hear Thy voice saying, “This is the way, walk ye in it.” Let Thy pillar of cloud by day, and of fire by night, lead and guide me gently homeward. Make Thy way straight before my feet. My foes watch for my halting, my enemies wait for my stumbling—hold Thou me up, and I shall be safe. Sorrow swells my heart, tears dim my eyes, the billows swell, the sky lowers, the cloud darkens, the winds sigh mournfully, and all my landscape is wintry and cheerless—draw me within thy warm, thy sheltering love. Thou hast laid me upon this bed of weakness and of pain—come and make it in my sickness, and pillow this sleepless, weary head upon Thy breast. Thou hast nipped my favourite flower, hast withered my pleasant gourd, hast removed my strong stay, hast dried up my present resources, and hast left me to tread the vale of life in loneliness, in want, and in tears—soothe, succour, and uphold my trembling heart, my weak faith, my desponding mind. “In the multitude of my thoughts within me, [let] thy comforts delight my soul.” In my widowhood, in my orphanage, in my friendlessness, in my desolateness, in my need, I look, I run, I cleave to Thee. Cast me not off from the bosom to which I fly. Shelter me from the storm and tempest within Thy wounded side. Let that eye that never wanders in its glance of love, that voice that never falters in its accents of tenderness, that hand that never droops in its outstretched help, that heart that never chills, that faithfulness that never veers, restore, soothe, and engirdle me. Lord, no parent, no brother, no friend, no lover is like Thee; and I am learning Thy worth, Thy gentleness, and Thy preciousness in Thine own appointed, wise, and holy way. Only let the result of this Thy present dealing be my deeper holiness, my richer experience, my maturer Christianity, my greater usefulness, my more advanced meetness for heaven, my more simple, single, unreserved consecration to Thee, and Thy more undivided, undisputed, and supreme enthronement within my soul.

“Is there a thing beneath the sun
That strives with Thee my heart to share?
Oh! tear it thence, and reign alone,
The Lord of every motion there!”

I cite you, my Christian reader, as Christ’s witness to this truth. Has not the Lord dealt gently with you? Gently has He carried you over the rough place,—gently has He led you through the swelling tide, —gently has He wounded, and with what gentleness has he healed you,—gently has He chastened, and how gently has He dried your tears. With what gentleness has He dealt with you in sickness, in suffering, and in grief. How gently He has corrected your backslidings, restored your wanderings, guided your perplexities, removed your burdens; and thus, with a power that is never exhausted, with a skill that is never baffled, with a patience that never wearies, with a love that never falters, and with a gentleness that never overdrives, Christ is leading you step by step heavenward, where, with a depth of gratitude and an emphasis of meaning unfelt before, you shall exclaim, “Thy gentleness hath MADE ME GREAT.”

Beloved, burdened with sin, burdened with grief, burdened with sorrow, listen to the gentle voice which bids thee “cast thy burden on the Lord, and He will sustain thee.” Thy burden—whatever it may be—thy burden of care, thy burden of anxiety, thy burden of sickness, thy burden of weariness,—cast it upon Jesus the Burden-bearer, roll it from off thy shoulder upon His, transfer it from thy heart to His heart, in the simplicity and directness of a faith that doubts not, hesitates not, demurs not, because His word has promised that His grace and strength and love shall sustain you. No burden will Jesus have you feel but the easy burden of His commands, the gentle burden of His love, the honoured burden of His cross. In bearing these you shall find rest; for there is real rest in obedience, in love, in the cross, yea, in whatever binds the heart to Christ.

Imitate Christ in His gentleness. Be gentle to others as He is gentle to you. “The servant of the Lord must be gentle.” The great apostle could say, “We were gentle among you, even as a nurse cherisheth her children.” “The wisdom that is from above is first pure, then gentle,” and it teaches us “to speak evil of no man, to be no brawlers, but gentle, shewing all meekness unto alt men.” Be gentle to the lambs of the flock; be gentle to them whose grace is little, whose faith is weak, whose strength is small, whose infirmities are many, whose sorrows are keen, whose trials are severe, whose positions and paths in life are difficult and perilous. Oh, I beseech you, by the meekness and gentleness of Christ, that you be in this particular, Christ-like. Be gentle to them that have fallen by the power of temptation; those who have travelled in the ways of the Lord with so slow and tardy a step that they have been overtaken by evil. Be gentle to the bruised reed and the smoking flax. Be gentle, very gentle, to the broken heart and the wounded spirit. Speak gently to those whom shame and grief and sin have bowed down to the earth. Speak gently of those who, through weakness and frailty, have erred in judgment or in practice. Oh, learn of Jesus, in the gentleness with which He leads the burdened, and consider yourself as never so closely assimilated to Him as when meekness, lowliness, and gentleness clothe you as with a garment, and beautify your whole carriage with their lustre.

“Gently, Lord, oh, gently lead us,
Through this gloomy vale of tears,
Though the changes Thou’st decreed us,
Till our last great change appears.

“When temptation’s darts assail us,
When in devious paths we stray,
Let thy goodness never fail us,
Lead us in Thy perfect way.

“In the hour of pain and anguish,
In the hour when death draws near,
Suffer not our hearts to languish,
Suffer not our souls to fear.

“When this mortal life is ended,
Bid us in Thine arms to rest,
Till, by angel bands attended,
We awake among the blest.

“Then, oh, crown us with thy blessing,
Through the triumphs of Thy grace:
Then shall praises never ceasing
Echo through Thy dwelling-place.”
—Octavius Winslow

https://www.reformedreader.org/

A Gentle Heart (J. R. Miller, 1896)

Matthew 11:29

“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.” 

2 Corinthians 10:1

"Now I Paul myself beseech you by the meekness and gentleness of Christ, who in presence am base among you, but being absent am bold toward you:"

Galatians 5:22

"But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith,"

Philippians 4:5

"Let your moderation be known unto all men. The Lord is at hand."

Ephesians 4:2

"With all lowliness and meekness, with longsuffering, forbearing one another in love;"

Colossians 3:12

"Put on therefore, as the elect of God, holy and beloved, bowels of mercies, kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness, longsuffering;"

1 Thessalonians 2:7

"But we were gentle among you, even as a nurse cherisheth her children:"

1 Timothy 6:11

"But thou, O man of God, flee these things; and follow after righteousness, godliness, faith, love, patience, meekness."

2 Timothy 2:24

"And the servant of the Lord must not strive; but be gentle unto all men, apt to teach, patient,"

1 Peter 3:4

"But let it be the hidden man of the heart, in that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price."

Gentleness is a beautiful quality. It is essential to all true character. Nobody admires ungentleness in either man or woman. When a man is harsh, cold, unfeeling, unkind, and crude and rough in his manner—no one speaks of his fine disposition. When a woman is loud-voiced, dictatorial, petulant, given to speaking bitter words and doing unkindly things—no person is ever heard saying of her, "What a lovely disposition she has!" She may have many excellent qualities, and may do much good—but her ungentleness mars the beauty of her character.

No man is truly great, who is not gentle. "Your gentleness has made me great." Psalm 18:35. Courage and strength and truth and justness and righteousness are essential elements in a manly character; but if all these be in a man and gentleness be lacking—the life is sadly flawed. We might put the word gentleness into Paul's wonderful sentences and read them thus: "If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not gentleness, I am become sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal. And if I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not gentleness, I am nothing. And if I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and if I give my body to be burned, but have not gentleness, it profits me nothing."

If any Christian, even the Christliest, would pray for a new adornment, an added grace of character—it may well be for gentleness. This is the crown of all loveliness, the Christliest of all Christly qualities.

The Bible gives us many a glimpse of gentleness as an attribute of God. We think of the Law of Moses as a great collection of dry statutes, referring to ceremonial observances, to forms of worship, and to matters of duty. This is one of the last places where we would look for anything tender. Yet he who goes carefully over the chapters which contain these laws, comes upon many a bit of gentleness—like a sweet flower on a cold mountain crag.

We think of Sinai as the seat of law's sternness. We hear the voice of thundering, and we see the flashing of lightning. Clouds and darkness and all dreadfulness surround the mountain. The people are kept far away because of the fearful holiness of the place. No one thinks of hearing anything gentle at Sinai. Yet scarcely even in the New Testament is there a more wonderful unveiling of the love of the divine heart than we find among the words spoken on that smoking mountain. "I am the Lord, I am the Lord, the merciful and gracious God. I am slow to anger and rich in unfailing love and faithfulness. I show this unfailing love to many thousands by forgiving every kind of sin and rebellion." Exodus 34:6-7

There is another revealing of divine gentleness in the story of Elijah at Horeb. A great and strong wind rent the mountains, and broke in pieces the rocks—but the Lord was not in the wind. After the storm there was an earthquake, with its frightful accompaniments—but the Lord was not in the earthquake. Then a fire swept by—but the Lord was not in the fire. After the fire there was heard a soft whisper breathing in the air—a still, small voice, a sound of gentle stillness. And that was God. God is gentle. With all His power, power that has made all the universe and holds all things in being, there is no mother in all the world so gentle as God is.

Gentleness being a divine quality is one which belongs to the true human character. We are taught to be perfect as our Father in heaven is perfect; if we would be like God—we must be gentle!

This world needs nothing more than it needs gentleness. All human hearts hunger for tenderness. We are made for love—not only to love, but to be loved. Harshness pains us. Ungentleness touches our sensitive spirits as frost touches the flowers. It stunts the growth of all lovely things.

We naturally crave gentleness. It is like a genial summer to our life. Beneath its warm, nourishing influence beautiful things in us grow.

Then there always are many people who have special need of tenderness. We cannot know what secret burdens many of those about us are carrying, what hidden griefs burn like fires in the hearts of those with whom we mingle in our common life. Not all grief wears the outward garb of mourning; sunny faces often times veil heavy hearts. Many people who make no audible appeal for sympathy yet crave tenderness—they certainly need it, though they ask it not—as they bow beneath their burden. There is no weakness in such a yearning. We remember how our Master himself longed for expressions of love when he was passing through his deepest experiences of suffering, and how bitterly he was disappointed when his friends failed him.

Many a life goes down in the fierce, hard struggle—for lack of the blessing of strength which human tenderness would have brought. Many a man owes his victoriousness in sorrow or in temptation—to the gentleness which came to him in some helpful form from a thoughtful friend. We know not who of those we meet any day, need the help which our gentleness could give. Life is not easy to most people. It duties are hard. Its burdens are heavy. Life's strain never relaxes. There is no truce in life's battle. This world is not friendly to noble living. There are countless antagonisms. Heaven can be reached by any of us, only by passing through serried lines of strong enmity. Human help is not always ready, when it would be welcomed. Too often men find indifference or opposition—where they ought to find love. Life's rivalries and competitions are sharp, and often times deadly.

We can never do amiss in showering gentleness. There is no day when it will be untimely; there is no place where it will not find welcome. It will harm no one—and it may save someone from despair. The touch of a child on a woman's hand, may save a life from self destruction.

It is interesting to think of the new era of love which Jesus opened. Of course there was gentleness in the world before he came. There was mother love. There was friendship, deep, true, and tender. There were marital lovers who were bound together with most sacred ties. There were hearts even among heathen people in which there was gentleness almost beautiful enough for heaven. There were holy places where affection ministered with angel tenderness.

Yet the world at large was full of cruelty. The rich oppressed the poor. The strong crushed the weak. Women were slaves and men were tyrants. There was no hand of love reached out to help the sick, the lame, the blind, the old, the deformed, the insane, nor any to care for the widow, the orphan, and the homeless.

Then Jesus came! And for thirty-three years he went about among men—doing kindly things. He had a gentle heart, and gentleness flowed out in his speech. He spoke words which throbbed with tenderness. There was never any uncertainty about the heart-beat in the words which fell from the lips of Jesus. They throbbed with sympathy and tenderness.

The people knew always, that Jesus was their friend. His life was full of rich helpfulness. No wrong or cruelty ever made him ungentle. He scattered kindness wherever he moved.

One day they nailed those gentle hands to a cross! After that the people missed him, for he came no more to their homes. It was a sore loss to the poor and the sad, and there must have been grief in many a household. But while the personal ministry of Jesus was ended by his death, the influence of his life went on. He had set the world a new example of love. He had taught lessons of patience and meekness which no other teacher had ever given. He had imparted new meaning to human affection. He had made love the law of his kingdom.

As one might drop a handful of spices into a pot of brackish water, and therewith sweeten the waters—so these teachings of Jesus fell into the world's unloving, unkindly life, and at once began to change it into gentleness. Wherever the gospel has gone these saying of the great Teacher have been carried, and have fallen into people's hearts, leaving there their blessings of gentleness.

The influence of the death of Jesus also has wonderfully helped in teaching the great lesson of gentleness. It was love that died upon the cross! A heart broke that day on Calvary. A great sorrow always, for the time at least, softens hearts. A funeral touches with at least a momentary tenderness, all who pass by—loud laughter is subdued even in the most careless. A noble sacrifice, as when a life is given in the effort to help or to save others, always makes other hearts a little truer, a little braver, and a little nobler in their impulses.

The influence of the death of Jesus on this world's life is immeasurable. The cross is like a great heart of love beating at the center of the world, sending its pulsings of tenderness into all lands. The life of Christ beats in the hearts of his followers, and all who love him have something of his gentleness. The love of Jesus, kindles love in every believing heart. That is the lesson set for all of us in the New Testament. We are taught that we should love as Jesus loved, that we should be kind as he was kind, that his meekness, patience, thoughtfulness, selflessness, should be reproduced in us.

There is need for the lesson of gentleness in homes. There love's sweetest flowers should bloom. There we should always carry our purest and best affections. No matter how heavy the burdens of the day have been, when we gather home at nightfall we should bring only cheer and gentleness. No one has any right to be ungentle in his own home. If he finds himself in such a mood he should go to his room—until it has vanished.

The mother's life is not easy, however happy she may be. Her hours are long, and her load of care is never laid down. When one day's tasks are finished, and she seeks her pillow for rest, she knows that her eyes will open in the morning on another day full as the one that is gone. With children about her continually, tugging at her dress, climbing up on her knee, bringing their little hurts, their quarrels, their broken toys, their complaints, their thousand questions to her—and then with all the cares and toils that are hers, and with all the interruptions and annoyances of the busy days—it is no wonder if sometimes the strain is almost more than she can endure in quiet patience.

Nevertheless, we should all try to learn the lesson of gentleness in our homes. It is the lesson that is needed to make the home-happiness a little like heaven! Home is meant to be a place to grow in. It is a school in which we should learn love in all its branches. It is not a place for selfishness or for self indulgence. It should never be a place where a man can work off his annoyances, after trying to keep polite and courteous to others, all the day. It is not a place for the opening of doors of heart and lips to let ugly tempers fly out at will. It is not a place where people can act as they feel, however unchristian their feelings may be, withdrawing the guards of self control, relaxing all restraints, and letting their worse tempers have sway.

Home is a school in which there are great life-lessons to be learned. It is a place of self-discipline. All friendship is disciple. We learn to give up our own way—or if we do not we never can become a true friend.

It is well that we get this truth clearly before us, that life with all its experiences is our opportunity for learning love. The lesson is set for us is, "Love one another. As I have loved you—so you must love one another." Our one thing to master this lesson, is love. We are not in this world to get rich, to gain power, to become learned in the arts and sciences, to build up a great business, or to do great things in any other way. We are not here to get along in our daily work, in our shops, or schools, or homes, or on our farms. We are not here to preach the gospel, to comfort sorrow, to visit the sick, and perform deeds of charity. All of these, or any of these, may be among our duties, and they may fill our hands; but in all our occupations the real business of life, that which we are always to strive to do, the work which must go on in all our experiences, if we grasp life's true meaning at all—is to learn to love, and to grow loving in disposition and character.

We may learn the finest arts—music, painting, sculpture, poetry; or may master the noblest sciences; or by means of reading, study, travel, and converse with refined people, may attain the best culture. But if in all this, we do not learn love, and become more gentle in spirit and act—we have missed the prize of living. If in the midst of all our duties, cares, trials, joys, sorrows—we are not day by day growing in sweetness, in gentleness, in patience, in meekness, in unselfishness, in thoughtfulness, and in all the branches of love, we are not learning the great lesson set for us by our Master, in this school of life.

We should be gentle above all—to those we love the best. There is an inner circle of affection to which each heart has a right, without robbing others. While we are to be gentle unto all men—never ungentle to any—there are those to whom we owe special tenderness. Those within our own home belong to this sacred inner circle.

We must make sure that our home piety is true and real, that it is of the spirit and life, and not merely in form. It must be love—love wrought out in thought, in word, in disposition, in act. It must show itself not only in patience, forbearance, and self control, and in sweetness under provocation; but also in all gentle thoughtfulness, and in little tender ways in all the family interactions.

No amount of good religious teaching will ever make up for the lack of affectionateness in parents toward children. A gentleman said the other day, "My mother was a good woman. She insisted on her boys going to church and Sunday-school, and taught us to pray. But I do not remember that she ever kissed me. She was a woman of lofty principles—but cold and reserved—lacking in tenderness."

It does not matter how much Bible reading, and prayer, and catechism-saying, and godly teaching, there may be in a home. If gentleness is lacking, that is lacking which most of all, the children need in the life of their home. A child must have love. Love is to its life, what sunshine is to plants and flowers. No young life can ever grow to its best—in a home without gentleness.

Yet there are parents who forget this, or fail to realize its importance. There are homes where the scepter is iron—where affection is repressed—where a child is never kissed after baby days have passed.

A woman of genius said that until she was eighteen she could not tell time by the clock. When she was twelve her father had tried to teach her how to tell time; but she had failed to understand him, and feared to let him know that she had not understood. Yet she said, that he had never in his life spoken to her a harsh word. On the other hand, however, he had never spoken an endearing word to her; and his marble-like coldness had frozen her heart! After his death she wrote of him, "His heart was pure—but cold. I think there was no other like it on the earth."

I have a letter from a young girl of eighteen in another city—a stranger, of whose family I have no personal knowledge. The girl writes to me, not to complain, but to ask counsel as to her own duty. Hers is a home where love finds no adequate expression in affectionateness. Both her parents are professing Christians, but evidently they have trained themselves to repress whatever tenderness there may be in their nature. This young girl is hungry for home-love, and writes to ask if there is any way in which she can reach her parent's hearts to find the treasures of love which she believes are locked away there. "I know they love me," she writes. "They would give their lives for me. But my heart is breaking for expressions of that love." She is starving for loves' daily food!

It is to be feared that there are too many such homes—Christian homes, with prayer and godly teaching; and with pure, consistent living—but with no daily bread of lovingness for hungry hearts.

I plead for love's gentleness in homes. Nothing else will take its place. There may be fine furniture, rich carpets, costly pictures, a large library of excellent volumes, fine music, and all luxuries and adornments; and there may be religious forms—a family altar, good instruction, and consistent Christian living; but if gentleness is lacking in the family communion—the lack is one which leaves an irreparable hurt in the lives of the children.

There are many people who, when their loved ones die, wish they could send some words of love and tenderness to them, which they have never spoken while their loved ones were close beside them. In too many homes gentleness is not manifested while the family circle is unbroken; and the hearts ache for the privilege of showing kindness, perhaps for the opportunity of unsaying words and undoing acts which caused pain. We would better learn the lesson of gentleness in time, and then fill our home with love while we may. It will not be very long until our chance of showing love shall have been used up!

But home is not the only place where we should be gentle. If the inner circle of life's holy place have claim on us, for the best that our love can yield—the common walks and the wider circle also have claim for our love and gentleness. Our Master manifested himself to his own—as he did not to the world; but the world, even his cruelest enemies, never received anything of ungentleness from him. The heart's most sacred revealings are for the heart's chosen and trusted ones, as the secret of the Lord is with those who fear him; but we are to be gentle unto all men, as our Father sends his rain upon the just and upon the unjust. What we learn under home's roof, in the close fellowship of household life—we are to live out in our associations with others.

As Moses' face shone when he came down among the people, after being with God in the mount—so our faces should carry the warmth and glow of tenderness from love's inner shrine—out into all other places of ordinary social interaction. What we learn of love's lesson in our home—we should put into practice in our life in the world, in the midst of its strifes, rivalries, competitions, frictions, and manifold trials and testings.

We must never forget that true religion—in its practical outworking—is love. Some people think religion is mere orthodoxy of belief—that he who has a good creed is truly religious. We must remember that the Pharisees had a good creed, and were orthodox; yet we have our Lord's testimony that their religion did not please God. It lacked love. It was self-righteous, and unmerciful.

Others think that true religion consists in the punctilious observance of forms of worship. If they are always at church on Sundays and other church meetings, and if only they attend to all the ordinances, and follow all the rules—they are religious. Yet sometimes they are not easy people to live with. They are censorious, dictatorial, judges of others, exacting, severe in manner, harsh in speech. Let no one imagine that any degree of devotion to the church, and diligence in observing ordinances, will ever pass with God for true religion—if one has not love, is not loving and gentle.

The practical outworking of true religion—is love. A good creed is well; but doctrines which do not become a life of gentleness in character and disposition, in speech and in conduct, are not fruitful doctrines. Church attendance religious duties are right and good; but they are only means to an end—and the end is lovingness. The religious observances which do not work for us kinder thoughts, diviner affections, and a sweeter life—are not profiting us. The final object of all Christian life and worship—is to make us more like Christ—and Christ is love. For the whole law is fulfilled in one word, even in this, "You shall love." "The one who loves another has fulfilled the law. The commandments are all summed up by this: Love your neighbor as yourself." Romans 13:8-9

Those who live the gentle life of patient, thoughtful, selfless love—make a melody whose strains are enrapturing.

Someone asks almost in disheartenment. "How can we learn this lesson of gentleness?" Many of us seem never to master it. We go on through life, enjoying the means of grace, and striving more or less earnestly to grow better. Yet our progress appears to be very slow. We desire to learn love's lesson—but it comes out very slowly in our life.

We must note, first of all, that the lesson has to be learned. It does not come naturally, at least to most people. We find it hard to be gentle always, and to all kinds of people. Perhaps we can be gentle on sunny days; but when the harsh north wind blows—we grow fretful, and lose our sweetness. Or we can be gentle without much effort to some gentle-spirited people, while perhaps we are almost unbearably ungentle to others. We are gracious and sweet to those who are gracious to us; but when people are rude to us, when they treat us unkindly, when they seem unworthy of our love—it is not so easy to be gentle to them. Yet that is the lesson which is everywhere taught in the Scriptures, and which the Master has set for us.

It is a comfort to us to know that the lesson has to be learned—and does not come as a gift from God, without any effort. We must learn to be gentle, just as artists learn to paint lovely pictures. They spend years and years under masters, and in patient, toilsome effort—before they can paint pictures which at all realize the lovely visions of their soul. It is a still more difficult are to learn to reproduce visions of love in human life—to be always patient, gentle, kind. It gives us encouragement, as we are striving to get our lesson, to read the words in which Paul says that he had learned to be content whatever his condition was. It adds, too, to the measure of our encouragement to see from the chronology of the letter in which we find this bit of autobiography, that the apostle was well on toward the close of his life—when he wrote so triumphantly of this attainment. We may infer that it was not easy for him to learn the lesson of contentment, and that he was quite an old man before he had mastered it!

It is probably as hard to learn to be always gentle—as it is to learn to be always contented. It will take time, and careful, unwearying application. We must set ourselves resolutely to the task; for the lesson is one that we must not fail to learn, unless we would fail in growing into Christliness. It is not a matter of small importance. It is not something merely that is desirable, but not essential. Gentleness is not a mere ornament of life, which one may have, or may not have—as one may, or may not, wear jewelry. It is not a mere frill of character, which adds to its beauty, but is not part of it. Gentleness is essential in every true Christian life! It is part of its very warp and woof. Not to be gentle—is not to be like Jesus.

Therefore the lesson must be learned. The golden threads must be woven into the texture. Nothing less than the gentleness of Christ himself, must be accepted as the pattern after which we are to fashion our life and character. Then, every day some progress must be made toward the attainment of this lovely ideal. "See that no day passes, in which you do not make yourself a somewhat better Christian." The motto of an old artist was, "No day without a line." If we set before us the perfect standard—the gentleness of our Master—and then every day make some slight advance, though it be but a line, toward the reproducing of this gentleness in our own life, we shall at last wear the ornament of a gentle spirit, which is so precious in God's sight.

We must never rest satisfied with any partial attainment. Just so far as we are still ungentle, rude to anyone, even to a beggar, sharp in speech, haughty in bearing, unkind in any way to a human being—the lesson of gentleness is yet imperfectly learned, and we must continue our diligence. We must get control of our temper, and must master all our moods and feelings. We must train ourselves to check any faintest risings of irritation, turning it instantly into an impulse of tenderness. We must school ourselves to be thoughtful, patient, charitable, and to desire always to do good. The way to acquire any grace of character—is to compel thought, word, and act in the one channel—until the lovely quality has become a permanent part of our life.

There is something else. We never can learn the lesson ourselves alone. To have gentleness in one's life—one must have a gentle heart. Mere human gentleness is not enough. We need more than training and self-discipline. Our heart must be made new—before it will yield the life of perfect lovingness. It is full of self and pride and hatred and envy and all undivine qualities. The gentleness which the New Testament holds up to us as the standard of Christian living—is too high for any mere attainment. We need that God shall work in us, to help us to produce the loveliness which is in the pattern—Christ. And this divine co-working is promised. "The fruit of the Spirit is gentleness." The Holy Spirit will help us to learn the lesson, working in our heart and life the sweetness of love, the gentleness of disposition, and the graciousness of manner, which will please God.

There is a legend of a great artist. One day he had labored long on his picture, but was discouraged, for he could not produce on his canvas the beauty of his soul's vision. He was weary too; and sinking down on a stool by his easel, he fell asleep. While he slept an angel came; and, taking the brushes which had dropped from the tired hands, he finished the picture in marvelous way.

Just so, when we toil and strive in the name of Christ to learn our lesson of gentleness, and yet grow disheartened and wary because we learn it so slowly—Christ himself comes, and puts on our canvas the touches of beauty which our own unskilled hands cannot produce! "Your gentleness has made me great." Psalm 18:35

Psalms 18:35

“Thou hast also given me the shield of thy salvation: and thy right hand hath holden me up, and thy gentleness hath made me great.” 

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Herein Is Love (Charles H. Spurgeon, 1896)

1 John 4:10

“Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.” 

Are there not scenes and circumstances which now and then transpire before us that prompt an exclamation like that of the apostle, "Herein is love?" When we have seen the devotedness of a mother to her children, when we have marked the affection of friend for friend, and caught a glimpse in different human relationships of the kindness that exists in human hearts, we have said, "Herein is love!" Yesterday, these words seemed to rise up and float upon my tongue, although I did not use them, for they seemed to be consecrated to something higher than creature affection. I had the painful duty of attending the Abney Park Cemetery, to bury a beloved sister in Christ, one of the most useful women we had among us; and as I stood there to commit her body to the grave, I was pleased,—I cannot tell you how I was beyond measure pleased, on that dark foggy day, at that distance from town, to find nearly a hundred, mostly poor people, gathered there to show their respect to their friend, who had helped in many cases to feed them and clothe them, and in every instance had tried to point them to Christ. There were thousands of tears shod of the sincerest and most heavenly kind. Whilst conducting the service, I could not help feeling not only a sympathy with her bereaved husband, but with those who had been the objects of our sister's care,—men and women, who perhaps had given up a day's work, and walked long dreary miles in the unpropitious weather of yesterday, that they might come and mingle their tears together over the dust of one who, as a Christian woman, had served them well. I could not help thinking, and it suggested the text to me, "Herein is love!" fleeing what love had done, and seeing how love comes back in return, I said within myself, when love has learned its way into one bosom, it scatters its seed and fructifies in the hearts of hundreds more. Love begets love; let it once begin, and none can tell its end.

But the words were too sacred for me to use, even at that solemn service, though they came up go suddenly to the surface of my mind. The apostle had consecrated them to another love, still higher, more profound, more perfect, and more celestial. I shall ask you to-night to look at and consider the wonder which the apostle discovered, and made him, with uplifted hands, exclaim, "Herein is love!"

The wonder, he tells us, which astonished him was not that we loved God; for suppose that all men had loved God, what wonder would there have been in it? God created Us. We are wonderful specimens of his power and wisdom. The various devices for securing our comfort and maintaining us in life, the devices within the body and without the body, the way in which the whole world is made to be the servant of man, so that, as George Herbert says,—

"Man is one world, and hath another to attend him," these tokens of benevolence ought to have made all men love God. If every creature who sprang from the loins of Adam had lived a perfect life of obedience, and had continually reverenced the God who made him and supplied his needs, there would not have been anything so very remarkable in the fact, for God deserves the love of all his creatures. Making his sun to shine upon us, and giving us fruitful seasons, keeping us in life, and preserving us from going down into the pit, we ought to love him; and if we did, it would not be anything to excite astonishment.

And, beloved brethren, when the grace of God comes into the human heart, casts Satan out of it, and renders us capable of loving God, there is nothing very surprising in our loving him. I shall not ask you to think of the ordinary love which there is in common Christians. Indeed, the wonder about it is that it should be so ordinary, so little, so faint. It is a great wonder, to be spoken of with tears, that God should do so much for us, and that we should love him so little in return. Watts did well to pen those lines,—

"Dear Lord! and shall we over lie
At this poor dying rate?
Our love so faint, so cold to thee,
And thine to us so great?"Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly Dove
With all thy quickening powers,
Come, shed abroad a Savior's love,
And that shall kindle ours."

But now, think of the truly earnest missionary; think of such men as Carey, or Moffat, or John Williams,—men who give up all the comforts of life, all the hopes of emolument, and go forth amongst a barbarous people, to suffer insult, perhaps to meet with death for Christ's sake. They bravo the terrors of fever and pestilence; they pass through jungles; they dare tempestuous seas; no mountains are too high, no weathers are too stern to deter them. They force their way into the center of Africa, or high up amongst the Esquimaux, if they may but tell of the love of Jesus to dying men. It may seem very wonderful to us, but if you come to think of it, compared with what Christ has done for them, they may, and they usually do, sit down and confess that they have done nothing whereof to glory. They have done only what it was their duty to have done, and they all confess that they fall short of the service which Christ deserves. Though we might say, in a modified sense, "Herein is love," yet, after all, it is but faintly spoken, for it is but comparatively true.

As we have read Foxe's Book of Martyrs, or some other history of the saints, and conned the story of their confessing Christ before the Inquisitors, singing joyful hymns when their bones were out of joint upon the rack, or standing boldly up upon the blazing faggots while their flesh was being consumed, still testifying to the preciousness of Christ, have we not said, "Herein is love"? Well might we say so as we contrasted our love with theirs; but after all, if you will but think a minute, it is a little thing for a man to be willing to burn to death for one who saved him from everlasting burning. 'Tis sharp work, but it is soon over, and the reward makes up for it all, while grace sustains the sufferer under the fiery trial. There is nothing, even in the love of martyrs, worthy of praise when compared with the exceeding love of Christ. These are stars; let them hide their heads in the presence of the Sun. These are all sweet flowers; yet compare them not with the Rose of Sharon and the Lily of the Valley, whose fragrance fills both earth and heaven. Those whose spiritual senses are qualified to judge forget all else while they stand entranced before this one gathering up of everything, that is lovely, and cry, "Herein is love!"

Oh! this love of Christ; it is beyond all degree, standard, or compass. In comparison with it, other love, high and noble as that other love may be, dwindles into insignificance. Then let me ask you now, somewhat more in detail, to think of the love of God in Christ Jesus towards us, as the text sets it forth.

I. The love of God is LOVE TO THOSE WHO DO NOT LOVE HIM. "Not that we loved God, but that he loved us."

When God loves those who love him, it seems to be according to the law of nature; but when he loves those who do not love him, this must be above even all laws,—it is according, certainly, to the extraordinary rule of grace, and grace alone. There was not a man on earth who loved God. There was none that did good,—no, not one; and yet the Lord fixed the eye of his electing love upon sinners in whom there was no thought of loving him. No more love to God is there in an unrenewed heart than there is of life within a piece of granite. No more of love to God is there within the soul that is unsaved than there is of fire within the depths of the ocean's waves; and here forsooth is the wonder, that when we had no love to God he should have loved us. This is a mild way of expressing it, for instead of loving God, my brethren, you and I withheld from him the poorest tribute of homage. We were careless, indifferent. Days and weeks passed over our heads in which we hardly thought of God. If there had not been any God, it would not have made much difference to us as to our thoughts, and habits, and conversation. God was not in all our thoughts; and, perhaps, if somebody could have informed us that God was dead, we should have thought it a fine piece of news, for then we could live as we liked, and need not be under any fear of being judged by him. Instead of loving God, though now we rejoice that he loves us, we rebelled against him. Which of his laws have we not broken? We cannot put our finger upon one command without being compelled to acknowledge that we have violated its claims, or come short of its demands.

I do not want to dilate upon a general doctrine to-night, I rather want to press home to the conscience of every man here that God loves him. You know very well that God did not love you because you loved him, for there was not—you will confess it painfully,—anything like love to God in you, but much, very much, that sprang from natural enmity and aversion to him. Why, then, did he love you? Men do not generally love those who hate them, those who spite them, those who give them ill names; and yet God loved us! Why, there are some of the Lord's people that God loved who, before conversion, used to curse him to his face! The Sabbath-day was the day they took for sensual pleasure. They were drunkards; they were unclean; they were everything that is vile; and yet he loved them! Oh, the wonder of this! When they were reeking in the kennels of sin,—when there was no sin too black and too vile for them to commit,—God loved them. Oh, never dream that he began to love you when you began to love him! Oh, no! but it was because he loved you hard and fast, when you were revelling in your sin, that his love put its arms around you, lifted you out of your sin, and made you what you are. Oh, but this is good tidings to some of you! Perhaps you are still, as all God's people once were, living in sin. You hardly know why you have strayed in here, but perhaps, while you sit and listen, you may hoar that God has loved you. Oh, that it may come to be true, that you may prove to be one of his chosen people, whom he loves even though in sin, and whom he will love till you come out of sin and turn to Christ and got pardon for it! Pray, dear Christian people, pray that it may be so. God hears prayer. Put up the prayer silently now,—"Lord, attract some of thy chosen people to Christ to-night; let some who never thought of him, but were bent on sinning rather than of being brought to God, see Jesus, and find salvation though him." "Herein is love;" God loved the unlovely, the hateful, the vile, the depraved, and loved them though they loved not him.

II. Another part of the wonder lies in this, THAT THIS LOVE SHOULD COME FROM SUCH AN ONE AS GOD IS "Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us."
What does God want in loving us? You never saw a fly on the dome of St. Paul's; it would have been too small an object for you to see when walking round the Cathedral. Now, a fly on the dome of St. Paul's is a monstrous being, a marvellous individual, compared with you crawling about this world. Why, it bears a much larger proportion to St. Paul's than you do to this globe! What an insignificant little creature you are! Supposing you could love that fly,—it would seem a strange thing; or that an angel could love that fly,—'twere stranger still. But that God should love us, is much more a wonder. Lift up your eyes now to the heavens, and count the stars. Listen to the astronomer, as he tells you that those little specks of light are mighty worlds, some of them infinitely superior to this world of ours, and that there are millions upon millions of such worlds glittering in the sky, and that perhaps all these millions that we can see are only like one little corner, one little sand-hill of the worlds that God has made, while throughout boundless space there may be long leagues of worlds, if I may use the expression, innumerable as the sands that belt the there around the great and mighty deep. Now, one man in a world—how little! But one man in myriads of worlds, one man in the universe—how insignificant! And herein is love, that God should love so insignificant a creature. For what is God, compared with the worlds, their number, and their probable extent of space? God is infinitely greater than all the ideas we suggest by such comparisons. God himself is greater than all space. No conception of greatness that ever crossed a mind of the most enlarged faculties can enable us to apprehend the grandeur of God as he really is. Yet this great and glorious Being, who filleth all things, and sustaineth all things by the word of his power, condescends to rivet upon us—not his pity, mark you, not his thoughts, but the very love of his soul, which is the essence of himself, for he is love. "Herein is love!" An insignificant creature, vile, and filthy, and polluted, loved by the august Creator, and loved with all the infinite affection of Jehovah's heart. Stand still and wonder. You cannot fathom this depth, you cannot scale this height, for imagination's utmost stretch dies away at the effort.

III. And is it not a point of wonder THAT THIS LOVE SHOULD BE UNSOUGHT? "Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that God loved us, and sent his Son."
We never sent to him; he sent to us. Suppose that, after we had all sinned, we had fallen on our knees, and cried importunately, "Oh, Father, forgive us!" Suppose that day after day we had been, with many piteous tears and cries, supplicating and entreating forgiveness of God. It would be great love then that he should devise a way of pardoning us. But no; it was the very reverse. God sent an ambassador of peace to us; we sent no embassage to him. Man turned his back on God, and went farther and farther from him, and never thought of turning his face toward his best Friend. It is not man that turns beggar to God for salvation; it is, if I may dare to say it, as though the Eternal God himself did beg of his creatures to be saved. Jesus Christ has not come into the world to be sought for, but to seek that which is lost. It all begins with him. Unsought, unbidden by the object of his compassion, Jesus came into the world. Now, I wonder if it may come true to-night that some here shall be found of God, after whom they have never sought? Such things have happened. When John Williams was converted,—I think you know the story,—there had been an agreement made to go out with a little party of youths to commit sin,—very foul sin, too,—and they sent John Williams into Whitefield's Tabernacle to look at the clock, and the clock happened to be over the door, so that young Williams was obliged to go a little way up the aisle to see it. There was a crowd and something that was being said by the preacher caught his ear, and he stood and listened. His companions outside began to be vexed with him for keeping them so long, but he kept them longer still, and the deed of darkness that was to have been done that night was never done, for God had found out John Williams, who had never sought after him. I do not say this to encourage any of you to put off seeking the Lord, for the command is, "Seek ye the Lord while he may be found; call ye upon him while he is near:" but still, here is the mercy. It is written, "I am found of them that sought me not; I said, Behold me, behold me, unto a nation that was not called by my name." The grace of God sometimes comes in like a sheriff's officer, takes a man by the collar, and says to him, "You must turn to-night." Jesus Christ sometimes comes to men as he did to Zacchaeus, who was up in the sycamore tree; he says, "Come down, for to-day I must abide at thy house." It is not, "If you will," but "I must; I must; it must be so." So, O Lord, make a "must" of it tonight! Oh, make a "must" of it to many here, that thou must abide in their house; then they must give up their sins, and they must turn unto thee! But herein is love, the wonderful love of God in condescending thus, not only to wait for us, but to wait upon us, and come to us with his effectual grace, and save us. Though I speak but feebly on these points, I hope that your hearts will not beat feebly. I trust the children of God will be praising and magnifying the Lord, as they say to themselves, "That is just how he dealt with me; that is precisely how he showed his favor to me. 'Herein is love.'"

IV. How, too, may THE THOUGHTFULNESS OF DIVINE LOVE raise our admiration. "Not that we loved God, but that God loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins."
Now observe the consideration and counsel this implies. We had sinned against God's law, but his law was not an arbitrary despotism; it was the embodiment of a constitution equitably and benevolently adapted for the government of the universe. It was framed in such wisdom that obedience involved happiness, and violation entailed misery. And punishment for breaking God's laws was not in any respect irrelative or unconnected with the harmony of reciprocal interests. Not to punish the guilty were to exact the penalty of suffering from the innocent. Think what an injury and injustice would be inflicted upon all the honest men in London if the thieves were never punished for their roguery. It would be making the innocent suffer if you allowed the guilty to escape. God, therefore, not out of arbitrary choice, but from very necessity of rightness, must punish us for having done wrong. How was this to be avoided? His mighty love suggested the plan. Had it not done so, a parliament of angels could not have devised a scheme. The assembled senate of all the intellects that God had ever made could not have sketched a plan by which the eternal laws of right and wrong should stand unshaken, and God's honor should be untarnished, and yet he should be able to forgive us. But God's love thought out a plan, a wondrous plan, by which Jesus came to be a Substitute, to stand in our place, that we might go free. But I will not pause over the design, because there is the open manifestation of that kindness and love for us now to look at.

V. "Herein is love,"-SELF-DENYING LOVE, AMAZING LOVE, UNEXAMPLED LOVE,—language fails me; I know no words by which to set forth the excellence of this love. 'Tis love divine, love beyond degree: God "sent his Son to be propitiation for our sins."
It was necessary that this only-begotten Son of the Father should suffer in the flesh, that he should be delivered up into the hands of sinners, cruelly ill-treated, spit upon, nailed to a tree, and put to death. Who among us would give up his son? Dear, unspeakably dear to us are the children of our loins. Well, we might give them up for our country in the day of battle; we might say, "For our hearths and for our homes let the young men go," but 'twere hard, as many a widowed mother has known when she has read the list of the killed in battle, and seen that her brave boy has fallen. The blood-stained drapery of war has had but little glory in her eyes henceforth. But who among us would think of giving up his son to die for his enemy, for one who never did him a service, but treated him ungratefully, repulsed a thousand overtures of tenderness, and went on perversely hardening his neck? No man could do it. Ah! then think what manner of love it is that God's only-begotten Son should be willing to die, that the Holy One should be willing to become a man, willing to take our sins upon him, willing to suffer for those sins, willing to endure the bloody sweat, willing to bare his shoulders to the lictor's scourge, willing to give up himself, body and soul, to the pangs of such a death as was never known before or since. "Herein is love!" If ever I have coveted powers of speech such as God has committed to some men, powers of thrilling the soul and moving the heart, I covet them to-night, for how can I speak of the wondrous tragedy of the cross? How can I set forth the death-throes of my blessed Lord and Master?

Instead of attempting what I must certainly fail to accomplish, I do but ask you to let your mental vision look for a minute at the spectacle itself. He who is the Lord of glory is mocked by rough soldiers. They spit into his face; they pluck his hair; they call him king, and they bow with mimic homage before him. He is scourged, and the scourging is no child's play. He is made to carry his cross upon his shoulders through the streets of Jerusalem. He is brought to a rising knoll outside the city gates,—the Old Bailey, the Tyburn of Jerusalem. He is thrown upon his back; the iron is driven through his hands and feet; he is lifted up; the cross is fixed into its place with a jar to dislocate his bones. He cries, "I am poured out like water; all my bones are out of joint!" He suffers fever through the irritation of the nerves of the hands and feet, till his mouth is dried up like an oven, and his tongue cleaves to his jaws. He cries, "I thirst!" and they give him vinegar mingled with gall. Meanwhile, his soul is in tortures such as no man has ever felt. His spirit, lashed by a hurricane of divine wrath, is like a sea when it boils as a pot, seething and tossing to and fro. Oh, the unknown depths of Jesu's griefs!—and all this for his enemies; for us who loved him not; for us who never asked it at his hands; for us who refused to have it; for us who, when we are brought to accept the mercy, do not understand it; for us who, even when we somewhat understand it, do not feel anything like a corresponding gratitude; for us who, even if we feel the gratitude, do not show it, but go our way and forget it; for us who are utterly unworthy of anything like such affection!" Herein is love!" Oh, stand and wonder! I can do no more than ask you to wonder with me; and God grant that our wondering may end in something reciprocal by way of love to him, and something practical by means of love put into action!

VI. With this question I shall conclude, WHAT OUGHT TO BE THE EFFECT OF LOOKING UPON THIS GREAT WONDER?
As the apostle tells us in the next verse: "Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another." Christian, by the love which God has manifested to you, you are bound to love your fellow-Christians. You are to love them though they have many infirmities. You have some yourself; and if you cannot love one because he has a crusty temper, perhaps he may reply that he cannot love you because you have a lethargic spirit. Jesus loved you with all your infirmities; then love your infirm brethren. You tell me you cannot love because you have been offended by such a brother; but you also offended Christ. What! shall Christ forgive you all your myriad offenses, and you not forgive your brother? What was it, after all? "Well, he did not treat me respectfully." Ah! that is it,—a poor worm wants to be treated respectfully! "But he spoke disparagingly of me; and there is a sister here,—she may be a Christian woman, but she said a very unkind thing of me." Well, yes; but what does it matter? I have often thought, when people have spoken ill of me, and they have been very, very false in it, perhaps, if they had known me better, they might have found something true to say, and so I must be like we sometimes say of a boy when he is beaten and does not deserve it, "Well, he did deserve it, some time or other, for something else." Rather than get angry, smile over the offense. Who are we, that we should expect everybody to honor us when nobody honored our Lord? Oh, let us be ready at once to forgive even to seventy times seven. A beautiful spirit worthy of a Christian was that of a man who found his horse in the pound one day, and the farmer who put it in said, "I found your horse in my field, and I put it in the pound; and if ever I catch it there again, I'll put it in again." "Well," replied the other, "I found six of your cows in my farm-yard the other night eating my hay; I just drove them out, and put them into your farm-yard; I didn't pound them; and if ever I catch them in my yard again, I'll do the same." "Ah!" the farmer said, "you are a better man than I am;" and forthwith he went and paid the fees, and let his neighbour's horse out of the pound, ashamed of himself. Such a generosity of disposition becomes you, especially to your brother-Christians. If God has such wonderful love to us, do let us love those who offend us, and show bowels of compassion towards the Lord's poor people. It is easy to be courteous to those who are better off than ourselves, and show deference to those that wear respectable attire; but the thing is to love the Lord's people who are poor,—ay, and to love them all the more tenderly for their poverty, for they have in some respects more of the image of Christ than we have. Christ was poor, and so are they. And let us cleave close to God's persecuted ones. Some people always run away from a man as soon as anybody flings a handful of dirt at him; but if God so loved us when we were sinners, we ought to love our fellow-Christians when they are under a cloud. Are they persecuted for righteousness' sake? Then every brave spirit ought to say, "I am for that man,—I am for that man." I was pleased with the remark of a brother I met, the other day. Alluding to the love he felt for his minister, he said, "The first reason why I came to hear him and love him was that I saw him abused in all the newspapers," and I said, 'There is something good in that man, I am sure of it, and as he is the weaker one, and all are against him, I am on his side till I find something against him.'" Oh, take care to rally round the persecuted Christian! Whenever the child of God is evil spoken of, say, "My place shall be at his side; I will share in such an honor as that, that I may share in the honor which awaits the saints hereafter."

I have tried to speak to some here who are not converted, and to put a few very comforting thoughts before them. If they go home and seek the Lord, he will be found of them; ay, and if they trust Jesus As at once, they shall be saved. A young lady was reading a newspaper, and her mother said, "Have you done with it?" She said, "Yes, I have done with it; I was only looking at it to see the death of Jane—. Poor girl, she used to be a Sunday-school teacher with me." Well, she said she had done with it, but you may depend upon it she had not, for the fact that one was dead who had been her companion had not done with her; it would speak to her, and impress her, and if she shook it off, the responsibility would not have done with her. You have heard a sermon to-night, and you may think, "Now I have done with it." Well, it may be so, but it has not done with you. You will be called to account for every truth it contains, for every reminder to your conscience, and every affectionate invitation that reaches your heart. Very few sermons, alas! ever are done. The most of them are listened to and forgotten, but if they were all done,—that is, if their counsels and admonitions were carried into effect,—what a blessing it would be! No, you have not done with it and this text has not done with you. I think—nay, I seem to know—that there are some who never will have done with this text, neither in this life nor in the life to come, for the text is saying to you to-night, "Though you love not God now, yet you shall love him, for he has loved you, loved you with an everlasting love," and the thought of this text will entice you to go and seek Jesus to see if it be so; and when you find it so, you will say to your children, "There is no text in the Bible more beautiful to me than that one, 'Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us;'" and you may tell to your children's children that on such an evening that text seemed to get into your soul, and to be set a-ringing there like the old bell on the Inchcape Rock,—the higher the storm, the louder it rang; and you shall hear it ring, ring, ring till it rings you to Christ, and rings you into heaven, and then in heaven it will make sweet music in your ears, and you will say even there, "Herein is love, not that I loved God, but that he loved me, and gave his Son to be a propitiation for my sins."
 
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