thy beloved, that says this. They are the words of one conscious of the position in which he is placed. He feels that he is outside-outside the heart which he has redeemed, for which he shed his blood-outside the heart which he has cleansed from its pollution, and freed from its guilt, and of which he is the very life, yea, to which he has given his own life. He knows that other objects have too much his place in that heart, and he is pained thereat. He speaks as one hurt and grieved. He seems to say, Why am I shut out from my own dear and chosen home, the breast of my beloved? Do we not understand this, brethren? Is it a strange doctrine to our ears? Have we not heard him say, "If a man love me, he will keep my words; and my Father will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him." Which of us have so loved him, and so kept his word, as thereby to make our hearts his permanent abode?

2. Jesus calls attention to his position, "Behold, I stand at the door." Behold! never was this word more fitly, more solemnly used. Behold, ye angelic host, your sovereign Lord, whose behests ye love to obey, and whom ye ceaselessly adore; behold him standing at the door of the heart of a poor child of man, for whom he has given his very life's blood; behold him there waiting, long waiting for admission. Behold, O sons of earth, the Son of God standing without, and appealing for a welcome into the hearts that owe their all to him: and that have tasted of the sweetness of his saving grace, the blessedness of his pardoning love. Behold, O fallen spirits, that Holy One, who suffered you to bruise his heel in death, that he might rescue

lost men from your doom; behold the treatment which he receives at their hands, and be astonished at conduct whose dark ingratitude, and whose base guilt, you have no opportunity to outvie. Behold, O redeemed, justified, cleansed, and saved sinner, loved of Jesus as the Father hath loved him, behold, he stands at the door. Lo, he calls you to witness his position, and to mark the patience with which he waits to be gracious unto you. Behold, behold, Jesus stands without. "He that hath an ear, let him hear.”

3. Jesus desireth admission. Behold, I stand at the door, and knock." He makes the loving, earnest, reiterated appeal for access into the breast of his beloved. Often has he stood there; often has he knocked there. He verily desires, O Christian, his resting-place in thy heart. He has redeemed it; he has consecrated it for himself; he cannot be content to be kept without. There is no place in the universe, save his Father's bosom, his eternal home, that he loveth so well. Hearken to his gracious voice, "Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for thy countenance is comely, and thy voice is sweet." Jesus desires a home in thy heart, O believer. He seeks no other place in the world than the hearts of his own redeemed ones. Give him a renewed, true, loving, confiding heart for his earthly abode, and he asks no more. Give him a heart that appreciates his love, that sincerely desires to reciprocate his affection, and that finds its happiness in himself; it matters not whether in the mansion or the cottage, whether on the throne or on the dunghill, whether in the palace or the workhouse, there he will rejoice to be, there he will

ever dwell. For "thus saith the high and the lofty one that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is holy:

dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones." Yes, these are the two places in his vast universe in which Jesus especially delighteth; the one, the bosom of the eternal Father; the other, the heart of his redeemed bride. In the one his repose is never disturbed, his joy never marred; in the other (O my soul, is it not so?) his rest is oft invaded, his pleasure sadly alloyed. Son of God! wast thou not content with thy dwelling-place in thy Father's bosom, and with thine abode in the heaven of heavens, that thou shouldest, even before the ages were born, bend thine eye and turn thine heart towards the future habitable parts of his earth, to seek thy delights with the sons of men? all the while knowing that such grievous ingratitude would be returned to thee for thy bitter agonies and manifold pains!

4. And yet Jesus speaks as though few would regard his appeal. "If any man hear my voice, and open the door." There were those who were not ready to give him a welcome. He knew this from experience. Many years had passed since he had called these saints by his grace; and long had he walked in patient longsuffering amongst them. And it is still ever the same. There are still those who heed not his voice, who regard not his loving appeal. Oh let the question again ascend up from the silent depths of each soul, Master, is it I? Gracious Master, is it I? Well might he say to each of us,

Is this thy kindness to thy friend? shall thy wife, thy child, thy husband, thy friend have their due place in thine heart, and shall thy kindest and best friend ask in vain for his? As he comes to his churches, and walks amongst his chosen saints, he might well renew his sad complaint, "The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man hath not where to lay his head." The foxes—the evil lusts—which destroy the buddings of the tender grapes; the birds-the worldly imaginations and desires, so rife in our hearts,-these find a place in the home which the Son of Man has consecrated for himself, while his loving and gentle appeal for access remains unheeded. Surely it is for an astonishment amongst the hosts of heaven, that we redeemed and saved sinners should for one moment be content without the felt presence of so blessed a guest.

would, with myself We do him wrong:

Bear with me, my brethren, while I urge this appeal upon your consciences and affections. My Lord's heart is wounded, his love is repelled, his tender breast is grieved, and I and with you, plead his cause. we withhold from him his joy: we solace not his heart with the rest which he seeks: we give him not his right place in our affections. We go into the busy scenes of life, and spend the hours of the day in our lawful calling. Wearied with labour, and pressed by care, we return, at eventide, to our home. Naturally and rightly we seek relief and solace amongst our loved ones. Perhaps we look for refreshing and repose in the voice of friendship, or in the pleasant writings of men-in the charms of poetry and music;

when all the while Jesus stands by, desiring to enter our hearts with the softer music of his love, with the more refreshing solace of his sympathy, and with the sweeter repose of his own peace. He stands and gently knocks, but other sounds drown the gentler whispers of his voice, and we hear them not. Or it may be that we retire to rest with scarcely a passing thought of him, or with a mere formal reference to our need of his mercy, in a hastily uttered prayer, and seek to forget our troubles and relieve our weariness in sleep. But, though forgotten of us, he forgets us not: he is still at hand. Certain feelings of disquietude arise in our minds and disturb our repose; we cannot rest. Then are we constrained to say, "I sleep, but mine heart waketh," and musing on the cause of our wakefulness, a small still voice pierces the ear of our souls, with its sweet and well-known accents, and, listening to its gracious yet faithful remonstrance, we exclaim, "It is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night." Yes, our Jesus loves us too well to allow us to find abiding rest on earth without him. He will not cease to address us in his word, by his Spirit, or in his providences, until he gains our ear, and wins back our hearts to himself. When shall his voice find its way into our souls, stirring their deepest affections, and constraining us to yield to his will? Shall it not be until he sends the earthquake to shake the foundations of our hiding-place; or the strong wind to rend the branches on which our nest is hung; or the fire to consume our household gods