ven, and pull him down from his throne to his Cross: they tear him with thorns, pierce him with nails, load him with reproaches. Thou hatest the Jews, spittest at the name of Judas, railest on Pilate, condemnest the cruel butchers of Christ; yet, thou canst blaspheme, and swear him quite over, curse, swagger, lie, oppress, boil with lust, scoff, riot, and livest like a debauched man; yea, like a human beast; yea, like an unclean devil. Cry hosanna as long as thou wilt, thou art a Pilate, a Jew, a Judas, an executioner of the Lord of life; and, so much greater shall thy judgment be, by how much thy light, and his glory, is

more.

O Beloved, is it not enough, that he died once for us? Were those pains so light, that we should every day redouble them? Is this the entertainment, that so gracious a Saviour hath deserved of us by dying? Is this the recompence of that infinite love of his, that thou shouldest thus cruelly vex and wound him with thy sins? Every of our sins is a thorn, and nail, and spear to him. While thou pourest down thy drunken carouses, thou givest thy Saviour a portion of gall: while thou despisest his poor servants, thou spittest on his face while thou puttest on thy proud dresses, and liftest up thy vain heart with high conceits, thou settest a crown of thorns on his head; while thou wringest and oppressest his poor children, thou whippest him, and drawest blood of his hands and feet. Thou Hypocrite, how darest thou offer to receive the Sacrament of God, with that hand, which is thus imbrued with the blood of him whom thou receivest? In every Ordinary thy profane tongue walks, in the disgrace of the religious and

conscionable. Thou makest no scruple of thine own

sins, and scornest those that do

crime enough.

not to be wicked is Hear him that saith, "Saul, Saul,

why persecutest thou me?" Saul strikes at Damascus ;

Christ suffers in heaven.

Thou strikest; Christ Jesus

These are the afterings

smarteth, and will revenge.

of Christ's sufferings. In himself it is finished; in his members it is not, till the world be finished. We must toil, and groan, and bleed, that we may reign: if he had not done so, it had not been finished. This is our warfare: this is the region of our sorrow and death. Now are we set upon the sandy pavement of our theatre, and are matched with all sorts of evils; evil men, evil spirits, evil accidents; and, which is worst, our own evil hearts; temptations, crosses, persecutions, sicknesses, wants, infamies, death; all these must, in our courses, be encountered by the law of our profession. What should we do but strive and suffer as our General hath done, that we may reign as he doth; and once triumph in our "It is finished." God and his Angels sit upon the scaffold of heaven, and behold us; our crown is ready; our day of deliverance shall come; yea, our redemption is near, when all tears shall be wiped from our eyes; and we, that have sown in tears, shall reap in joy. In the mean time let us possess our souls, not in patience only, but in comfort; let us adore and magnify our Saviour in his sufferings, and imitate him in our own; our sorrows shall have an end, our joys shall not; our pains shall soon be finished; our glory shall be finished, but never ended.'-Bishop Hall's Passion Sermon.

THE RED INDIAN'S REPLY.

YE ask me why, in pensive mood,

I turn from throng of men;
Why choose a gloomy solitude,
In forest or in glen?

Ah! Solitude there can be none,
In earth, or air, or sea;
The Spirit of the Mighty One
Is ever where I be.

Invisible to worldly eyes,

And from dark hearts conceal'd;
Yet to the humble and the wise
In thousand forms reveal'd.

Nature is His interpreter,-
Each thing a sacred cell,
Wherein too deep for those that err
The Spirit loves to dwell.

On the storm which sweeps our mountains

His Spirit rides abroad;

The clear streams and gushing fountains
Echo the voice of God.

I feel his quick'ning presence
In the bursting life of spring,
The ripe maize speaks his influence,
And leaves when withering.

Those far-off lights that nightly shine

On many a stately dome,

Declare alike his love divine

When shining on my home.

Ah! Solitude there can be none,

In earth, or air, or sea;

For the Spirit of the Mighty One

Is ever where I be.

TRE.

Rav. H. A. SIMCOB, (Penheale-Press,) Cornwall.

A SABBATH AT HOME.

THE Church bells are chiming cheerily for the morning worship; and now I hear the feet of the multitude as they go up to the house of God; now again all is become still; the congregation is assembled, and the Minister has commenced the service with our comprehensive and scriptural form of prayer. It is a comfort to me whilst lying here on my sick bed, feverish and in pain, and deprived of sharing in the service of the Sanctuary, to know what will be said there. I can feel confident that no petition will be offered to which I cannot say Amen; nothing will be omitted which I could wish to be mentioned. I cannot think what their ideas of prayer can be who prefer the often hasty, ignorant, and vain repetitions of some prayer-men, to those sober and spiritual forms. When the Church prayers are prayed, and (they will by every child of God,) what is there wanting which any other sort of prayer can supply? what is there said which suits not every one's condition, either of body or mind? I only wish it were my privilege to join such worship this day. I can, I trust, enter a little into that sentiment of the Psalmist, "How amiable are thy dwellings, O Lord of Hosts." Yes, how strange doth it seem to me that any can willingly absent themselves from public worship! That on such a day as this, any can lie indolently in bed, or pore over a newspaper, when the calm and elevating exercises of our holy religion are within their reach! How sad that in the face of a commandment, and in the neglect of all that concerns his real interest, the man of business can bring him