given with a double meaning to the Lord who had raised her brother from the grave?

THE

HE first thing to impress us in this story is Christ's rich interpretation of the deed. It was a simple action, done by a sinful woman, yet Jesus drew a wealth of meaning from it. To the disciples it was a foolish exhibition. Even the best of them thought lightly of it. Christ had no need of it, so they began to reason; He came not to be ministered unto but to minister. Were there no paupers in the village of Bethany? Were there no starving children in Jerusalem? And might not the ointment have been sold for their behoof? A murmur of disapproval ran round the table, scarce audible, perhaps, when it reached John, but loud and positive when Judas voiced it (John xii. 4). And then, had you asked the woman what she meant, I dare say she would have stammered in reply. She might have said she had never stopped to reason; she had only listened to her heart, and there she was. None of the disciples knew what she was doing; I question if she really knew herself. Only Jesus saw the meaning of the deed, and felt its glory in the love that filled it. Never forget, then, that we serve a Lord who can read the humblest actions gloriously. The Son of Man in the midst of the seven candlesticks has eyes as it were a flame of fire (Rev. i. 14). He sees in the simple deed, inspired by love, meanings and purposes we never dreamed of. He so interprets our poor and tangled service that we shall hardly know it in the morning. All which is fitted to make us very hopeful when, loving the Master, we first try to serve Him; and to restrain us from judging or troubling anybody when they serve in ways we fail to understand.

BUT the heart of this exquisite story lies in this, that this deed was the dying of Jesus, in a figure. It was not merely because love inspired it that Jesus crowned

it with unequalled praise. It was because He found in it the very spirit that was leading Him on so steadily to Calvary. Had Mary stopped to balance or to weigh, we should never have heard of the alabaster box. Had the gift been calculated to a nicety, it had never been part of the undying Gospel. But the love of Mary never asked how little; the love of Mary only asked how much. With a magnificent and glorious disregard, it broke the box and lavished everything. Now there is no need to make the alabaster a type and figure of the body of Jesus. It was not the vase that was like the body of Christ; it was the act that was kindred to His death. For Jesus, like Mary, never asked how little. He lavished everything in saving men. He gave with a glorious fulness like that of Mary's, when He gave Himself to the cross and to the grave. And wherever the love of Christ is known and felt, and the wonder of its lavish sacrifice awakens, 'there shall also this, that this woman hath done, be told for a memorial of her.'

THIRTIETH SUNDAY

Morning

SOLOMON'S FALL

Passages to be read: 1 Kings xi. 1-13, 41-43.

N the book of Deuteronomy (xvii. 16-17) we have a portraiture of the kind of king whom the Israelites were to set upon their throne. He was to be one whom the Lord their God would choose. He was to be one of their own people, too, for in the kingship of Israel, as in that of the Kingdom of heaven, men must feel that there was a brother (Heb. ii. 11) on the throne. Then follow three negative marks, as we might call them; three things that the King of Israel was not to do; and it is these that leap into remembrance when we think of Solomon. In the first place, he was not to multiply horses, nor cause the people to go down to Egypt for horses. Secondly, he was not to multiply wives, lest his heart should turn away. And thirdly, while due regard was to be had to the requisite state and splendour of a king, he was not greatly to multiply to himself silver and gold.

NOW it is notable that these three prohibitions were conspicuously disregarded by King Solomon. Through all his glory, like a polluted stream among the sun-bathed hills, there ran a growing current of disobedience. There is an Arabian story of Solomon (and no life excepting that of Jesus has yielded such a wealth of striking legend), that he used to lean upon a staff of

ebony, and that a worm was gnawing at the centre of it. The worm was a symbol of the disobedience that was eating away the heart of all his power. The King of Israel was not to multiply horses-yet the horses and chariots of Solomon were reckoned by thousands (1 Kings x. 26). We have seen how Josephus, in telling of the glory of Solomon, quite revels in the splendours of his chariotry (Antiq. VIII. vii. 3). The King of Israel was not to multiply silver-yet Solomon made silver to be in Jerusalem as stones (1 Kings x. 27). And the King of Israel was not to multiply wives-yet Solomon had seven hundred wives (1 Kings xi. 3). Do you not feel the truth of the Arabian tale about the worm in the king's staff of ebony? Do you not see how hollow his grandeur was, when it was rooted in such a disobedience? I sometimes think that our Lord was not speaking of the beauty of the lilies merely, but was hinting at their purity and sweet dependence, and at their perfect obedience to the laws of the Creator, when He said that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these (Matt. vi. 29).

NOW there is a great saying of our Lord that might

well be graven on our hearts to-day. 'A man's foes shall be they of his own household,' said Jesus; and 'he that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me' (Matt. x. 36-37). Christ means that love may ruin no less than hatred; for love may lessen (and finally may extinguish) the loyal devotion of the heart to Him. We have only to read the verses of our chapter to find that that was the secret of the ruin of Solomon. Solomon did not fall through cherishing hate; he fell through foolish and extravagant love (vs. I and 2). He set his affections (not without solemn warning) on those who had no reverence for the true God, until at last his loyalty was tarnished; his heart was no longer perfect towards the Lord (v. 4). Professor Drummond

used to give an illustration of the delight we take in the things of those we love. You tell a carpenter, he said, to make a chest for you, and when you get it there is something wrong with the lock, and there are ugly scratches on the varnish. And you are quite indignant at its workmanship, and refuse to take it off his hands. But an hour or two later your little brother comes, with a box which he has made with his own tools. And it isn't varnished, and it is quite off the square, and it cannot boast of any lock at all. But you are delighted with it—you never saw such a splendid box!—and it is love, says Drummond, that has made the difference. That is a picture of the delight we take in the imperfect things of any one we love. And it will help us to understand (what at first reading might almost seem incredible) how the heart of Solomon was turned from God and led to the idols in which his wives delighted.

LET it be noted, too, that our verses tell us that all this happened when Solomon was old (v. 4). How old he was, we cannot say precisely-certainly not more than sixty years of age. But the Bible means that he was old enough to have felt the worth of the friendship of Jehovah. When a boy has known another for a week and then deserts him for a new companioneven in that there is something of dishonour, it does not promise well for coming days. But when the friendship has been matured through years, and stood the test of many hours of strain, and been enriched with countless kindnesses-then to play false to it is utterly base. Now when the Bible tells us that Solomen was old, it means to hint that his conduct was like that. He was rejecting a friendship and a friend whose worth had been simply priceless in the past. It might have seemed impossible; but it happened. The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked (Jer. xvii. 9). It is never too late to mend, the proverb says; remember that it is never