Chapter Twelve

THIS earnest and affectionate exhortation continues the preceding chapter. Solomon had warned the young man by emphatic irony against those passions and pleasures, to which his slippery age is most addicted. Now for the grand object set before him—thy Creator. For he who created the universe is the Creator of man—not only of the first man, but of all men, whose birth—however natural—was only wrought by his Omnipotent and Sovereign influence.

For not only did he “form the spirit in man” (Zech. 12:1), but his body also—so fearfully and wonderfully made (Ps. 139:14–16). It is he, and no other, who is here presented before us—the Creator—the Almighty—the only wise—the chief good—in whose name we were baptized (Matt. 28:19)—to whose service we are consecrated. For if we be of him, should not we be for him? Do not we owe our service to him, from whom we have received our being?

If he has made us—much more if he has new-made us—what a weight of obligation! We cannot resist it. Each Person in the Sacred Trinity equally claims our interest and our service. This remembrance of God—though our paramount duty—is far from being our nature and habit. What says conscience?

Is not forgetfulness of God our course—keeping him out of mind—like the heathen—“not liking to retain God in our knowledge?” (Rom. 1:28) Alas! do we not naturally make every effort to shrink from him? The heart too plainly witnesses to this revolt.

‘Any opinion which tends to keep out of sight the living and loving God—whether it substitute for him an idol, or an occult agency, or a formal creed—can be nothing else than a portentous shadow projected from the selfish darkness of the unregenerate heart. Our concern is with the God of the Bible. To worship any other is to deify the creature of our own imagination. The remembrance of our Creator is in connexion with every godly exercise.

Does a day ever pass in the wilful neglect of the Bible without serious loss? Do we not suffer seriously in our own souls by giving too little time—too little heart—to secret prayer? Wharever God can be found, let us be in the act and energy of seeking him.

‘Acknowledge’—as one says—‘his Word, by consulting it—his Providence, by observing it—his Wisdom, by admiring it—his Sovereignty, by acquiescing in it—his Faithfulness, by relying on it—his Kindness, by being thankful for it. Who of us will doubt the claim, which God makes upon us for constant, remembrance? It is the duty bound upon all men—every age—every time.

The whole of our time is not our own but God’s. And lest there should be only a moment in our life subtracted from his claim—the exhortation directs—“Be thou in the fear of the Lord all the day long.” (Prov. 23:17. Also Ps. 16:8.) Yet there is one season of special application—the days of thy youth. Here, however, the great enemy meets us with the ungodly adage—‘Youth for pleasure—age for business—old age for religion. ‘Let the devil have the prime, and God the dregs.

Time enough to think of religion when we are old—when we can serve the world no longer. Now is the time for pleasure—to see as much of life as we can. Religion will come in course. Frightful delusion! The delusion of him who “is a liar, and the father of it.” (John 8:44.) Who then shall have the present now—the only sure part of life? If any man can shew a better title to youth than God, let him bring it. Meanwhile the call is: Let manna be gathered early in the day.

Let youth’s days be choice days—choosing days. Oh! what a mercy—when the two masters are claiming our service—to be enabled to make the choice—not as the slave of sin—but the happy child of God—the youthful witness for his name! This is the bright star in the dark night of a miserable world. What minister would not delight in a galaxy of these stars in his spiritual horizon? Do we want any argument to enforce the present remembrance of our Creator?

Think of the evil days at hand—not necessarily days of moral—but of painful—evil without natural pleasure; and, as one remarks—‘If thou wilt have God to pity and help thee in evil days, thou must serve him in thy good days. Old age, with all its train and retinue of weakness and infirmities, will come. But if it bends thy back, do not keep thine iniquities to break it.

Since the days of old age will be evil days, lay up as many graces as thou canst to sweeten it—as many comforts as thou canst to strengthen thine heart against the evils of it. Gather in summer against such a winter as this (Prov. 10:5), that old age may not be to thee an evil age, but as it was to Abraham “a good old age” as respects the natural evils.

“I am this day”—says one, speaking from painful experience of these pleasureless days—“fourscore years old, and can I discern between good and evil? Can thy servant taste what I eat, and what I drink? Can I hear any more of singing men and singing women?” (2 Sam. 19:35.) Such days will come, and when they come without God, evil indeed they are—days of painful weariness, and dark foreboding.

‘I am determined’—said a worn-out man of pleasure—‘to kill time in the speediest way I can, now that it has become my greatest enemy. Is it not then the part of the prudent man—“foreseeing the evil”—to provide against it—to have a staff to lean upon, that will bear his whole weight; when “the earthly house of this tabernacle is dissolving, to know that he has a building of God—an house not made with hands—eternal in the heavens?” (2 Cor. 5:1.) The time then before the evil days come—which may draw out to years—is the time for God—for the remembrance of our Creator.

Every day is lost that is not spent for him. Let not the deceiver cheat us out of all time, by cheating us of the present time. ‘Believe me, my dear son’—writes a Christian mother lately alluded to—‘old age is the worst time we can choose to mend either our lives or our fortunes.

If the foundations of solid piety are not laid betimes in sound principles and virtuous dispositions; and if we neglect, while strength and vigour last, to lay up something ere the infirmities of old age overtake us—it is an hundred to one odds, that we shall die both poor and wicked. Early principle inwrought in the inner man is therefore the line of temporal—(so this mother in Israel lays down)—no less than spiritual prosperity.

As to the latter—in the evil days when we shall say, ‘I have no natural pleasure,’—God’s pleasures will still remain—full—fresh—heavenly—abiding. There will indeed be no dark and evil days. “My flesh and my heart faileth; but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever.” (Ps. 73:26.) What better can we do, than take those exquisite words from Charles Wesley’s dying lips?—

In age and feebleness extreme, Who shall a helpless worm redeem? Jesus! my only hope thou art— Strength of my failing flesh and heart. O let me catch a smile from thee, And drop into eternity.

These evil days are yet further described—a mental gloom, as if—like Job—we were going “mourning without the sun” (Job 30:29), or as if the lesser luminaries were eclipsed, as in the Apostle’s voyage, “when neither sun, nor stars, in many days appeared; and all hope that we should be saved was taken away.” (Acts 27:20.) Another feature of the desolation—not “the shining,” but the clouds returning—after the rain—a tempestuous sky—one cloud following another—one evil treading upon another—the end of one trouble—the beginning of another.

Such is the general picture of old age—in its gradual weakness of nature—decaying of sense—weakness of physical energy. One cannot wonder that the heathen philosopher—knowing nothing of its divine alleviations—should describe it as ‘a load that lies heavier than Mount Ætna. Cheerless indeed it is without religion—earthly comforts withering like the plants in the desert—nothing to supply their place—leaving one world, with no hope or joy for another.

And is this time of darkness the season to begin the service of God, which asks for man’s energy in his best estate? Let us look then—What resources have we to meet this last stage of life? ‘No sun can dispel the clouds and sorrows of old age, but Christ, who is the Sun of Righteousness. They roll along the stormy sky.

Let every intermission of the trouble bring in solemn—active preparation for the last great storm—storing the heart with such remembrance of our Creator, as may be a stay, when all is sinking around us. The presence of the chief good will sweep away threatening evil. “The hoary head, if found in the way of righteousness,” is indeed “a crown of glory.” (Prov. 16:31.)

The last verse is a prelude to this elegant and figurative picture of old age. Criticism has wasted much useless ingenuity in its explanation. The more common interpretation—apart from one or two doubtful points—is mainly satisfactory. Solomon had before given a general view. He now enters into particulars—the succession of pains and discomfort, which usually belong to this period of life.

Such a picture of infirmity! sometimes sinking almost to the level of mere animal existence. Yet upon this feeble stay are often borne the vast concerns of eternity. That which ought to be filling the most vigorous energy of life is delayed to the last stage of an enfeebled habit! The figure is that of a house—“the house of clay”—the “earthly house of this tabernacle” (Job 4:19; 2 Cor. 5:1)—its gradual dissolution—every part in decay—hastening to ruin.

The keepers of the house evidently represent the hands and arms hanging down in tremulous weakness “in age”—the time when our “strength faileth. The strong men bowing picture the legs and thighs—before so robust—now beginning to bend under a burden hitherto carried with vigour. (Isa. 35:3.) In the grinders, we see the teeth performing the millstone work for our food, cutting the meat, and breaking it into small pieces, preparing it for the digestion and turning it into nourishment.

Yet even here, when the grinders are few, the masticating labour makes the meals a daily drudgery. Still more grievous is the trial, when they that look out of the windows are darkened—a very common affliction—when the eyes looking through the socket are dim, so that they cannot see, or see only indistinctly. The prospect is a blot—all is mist and shadow—all pleasures of reading are more and more fading.

To supply this failure—even the kindly effort of public reading is defeated by the dulness of hearing. The doors are shut in the streets. The opening for the mutual intercourse is barred up—and though unnatural effort may partially open the door, yet it is a poor compensation for the easy-flowing pleasures of younger and brighter days. The door of speech as well as of hearing is shut up. The sound of the grinding is low. The loss of the teeth affects the speech.

The impaired organ sounding low deprives social life of half its charms. Early wakefulness is another trial. Sleep is no longer ‘tired nature’s sweet restorer. He rises up at the noise of the bird—not “going forth to his work and to his labour” (Ps. 104:23), but in feeble weariness. All the daughters of music shall be brought low.

The lungs—the voice—the ear—the organs employed in the production or enjoyment of it shall be brought low—as in the case of Barzillai—utterly incapable of performing their functions. ‘By these defects we are instructed in the days of our youth, to open all the doors of our heart, to let Christ in; that in old age he may be with us, and when our appetite faileth, he may sup with us (Rev. 3:20); and when our sleep faileth, he may give us rest; and when all other delights are worn out, a good conscience may be a continual feast, and may “give songs in the night.” ’ The picture proceeds—marking the feebleness of the feet.

They shall be afraid of that which is high. Every ascent—which in earlier days they had bounded with youthful elasticity—becomes a trouble. They have lost their enterprise. The fears of stumbling in the way are a matter of apprehension. “The hoary head” is like an almond-tree—covered with its snow-white blossoms. So extreme is the feebleness, that—proverbially speaking—the grasshopper—even in its lightest hop, is a burden.

The desire faileth—even for the world of pleasure—in which Solomon had attempted to find or to make a centre of rest. (Ecclesiastes 2.) “The world passeth away, and the lust thereof” (1 John 3:17)—all is passed away with the glowing warmth, or the vigour of maturity. How quickly does old age sweep away the comfort in them! A dream! a dream!

Alas! such a dream as will bring to the now deluded sleeper—the voice of cutting eternal consciousness—“Son, remember!” (Luke 16:25.) And what does this affecting picture prove?—man is close to the end of his journey. “The earthly house of tabernacle” is falling to pieces. The inhabitant is on the brink of his long home. And the mourners go about the streets.

The Jewish custom of public or hired mourners was probably referred to—a mercenary, because unnatural sorrow—a burden indeed to our secrecies and sympathies. Thus did they honour Josiah, who so well deserved honour from his people. With us the picture is but too familiar; yet still it is the profitable picture in the streets of a world of sorrow. ‘Since the grave is our longest home, let our greatest fare be to have that a home of rest and of hope unto us.

The imagery of the next verse—beautiful as it is—presents some difficulties in the interpretation. It evidently describes the loosing of the inexplicable bond of union between the body and soul. Hitherto we have seen the gradual wasting. We have now come to the final struggle—the extinction of the vital principle. The figure appears to be that of drawing water from the well.

Here is the cord (called silver, and the bowl—gold for preciousness)—the bowl or bucket—the pitcher and a wheel. As, when these are broken, we can draw water no more; so when the vital parts are decayed, there is no hope to draw life into the cistern of the body. Here then is the moment of death. Then shall the dust return— Such are the evil and dark days—the days of feebleness and trouble—the last stage of mortality—man sinking under the infirmities of dissolving nature.

“Their very strength is labour and sorrow.” (Ps. 90:10.) To advert again to an instance before alluded to—‘I used to think’—said Sir. W. Scott, in his last desolate hours—‘a slight illness was a luxurious thing … It is different in the latter stages. The old post-chaise gets more shattered at every turn. Windows will not pull up. Doors refuse to open; or, being opened, will not shut again. There is some new subject of complaint every moment.

Your sicknesses come thicker and thicker.… The recollection of youth, health, and uninterrupted power of activity, neither improved nor enjoyed, is a poor stream of comfort. Death hath closed the long dark avenue upon loves and friendships; and I look at them, as through the grated door of a burial-place, filled with monuments of those who were once dear to me, with no insincere wish, that it may open for me at no distant period, provided such be the will of God.

Can we then too soon provide against these evil days—or ever—the last days come upon us in darkness? Is it time to begin the service of God, when we have scarcely power to serve ourselves? Have we a heart to give—a heart glowing with the first love—with the freshness of the morning dew? Oh! let it be given to Him, who claims it as the purchase of his blood—as his inalienable property—an acceptable sacrifice for his service.

He loveth—not only “a cheerful,” but an early “giver. He gives himself—an unspeakable portion!—to them who give themselves to him. If ever the cord he loosed, bind the exhortation upon thy heart. Remember now—thy Creator—in thy best days—the days of thy youth. Many have remembered too late—none too soon. It is the work of the whole man—of the whole life. We have spoken of the darkness and infirmities of old age, as if it were a mass of infirmity.

We must not forget, however, that it is often a season of cheerful serenity. The treatise of the heathen philosopher is read with lively, and not unprofitable interest. Physical energy often melts down into sources of quiet and enduring happiness. The silver cord is loosed so gently and so gradually, that little strain is felt. But more or less of this infirmity is felt in the ordinary course of life.

And the wise man naturally gives the general course, rather than the exceptional cases. Abundant above all thought is the compensation, when the youthful remembrance has been heartily cultivated. The God remembered in youth will be the Friend of old age. The prayer of one, who had grown old in this remembrance, is a confidence that can never be disappointed—“O God, thou hast taught me from my youth; and hitherto have I declared thy wondrous works.

Now also, when I am old and grey-headed, O God, forsake me not.” (Ps 71:17, 18.) And is not this promise the sure ground of confidence—the unfailing answer to prayer? “Even to your old age I am he; and to hoar hairs will I carry you; I have made, and I will bear; even I will carry, and will deliver you.” (Isa. 45:3, 4.) What was the good old age of Abraham, Simeon, and those like-minded with him? It was the sun breaking through the dark cloud—the entrance into eternal rest.

And for ourselves in the same spirit—‘When one sight after another fades away from your darkened eyes, look much more to Jesus. For if he be your joy, your hope, your life; the faster you are clothed with the snows of age, the sooner will you renew your youth in the realms of immortality. As an eminent dying Christian observed, ‘The golden chain, which binds the believer’s heart to heaven, is waxing stronger. Its links are growing more firm and massive.

All the powers of hell will not prevail to break them.’

Here is the end of our earthly history—all the vessels broken up—man in the stillness of death. A deep and solemn sorrow to those left behind! Who can I forbear the pang of inexpressible tenderness, even when life had long been burdensome, and exhausted age worn out in weariness? Old age we may never see—nor the dark and evil days, which are the harbinger of it. But whether or not—here is the winding up of all. Death is here.

But what is it after death?—what when the last breath—the last pulsation shall have gently died away? The two parts—body and soul—that unite to form that wondrous workmanship—man, are now separated. All connexion with earth is passed. Each finds his long home. Both are linked with eternity. The home of the body is whence it first came. “The Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground.” (Gen. 2:7) Poor, mean material! Yet, till sin came into the world, it was immortality.

Sin brought the sentence of death—“Dust thou art; and unto dust shalt thou return.” (Gen. 3:19.) This sentence stands in full force. “Thou takest away their breath, they die, and return to their dust. His breath goeth forth; he returneth to his earth.” (Ps. 104:29; 146:4.) Yet it returns to the earth—not to waste—not to be scattered and lost. There will be a reunion—for happiness or for misery—and that for eternity.

Meanwhile how precious the thought, in committing our beloved ones to the earth, and every particle of the redeemed dust is under charge—in safe keeping—under faithful guardianship! Not an atom of it can perish. Hear the acknowledgment of the charge—“This is the Father’s will which hath sent me, that of all which he hath given me I should lose nothing, but should raise it up again at the last day! How can this be?

The Omnipotence of the Redeemer answers every objection of reason, and subdues it to the reverence and simplicity of faith. It must be so, because he hath told it, and pledged it. When he comes, he will give account of his charge.

Every atom will be brought out united to his transfigured glory; death nor hell can never make void the interest in “our adoption”—to wit—“the” complete “redemption of the body.” (Rom. 8:23; Comp. Isa. 25:8.) But the spirit, who can tell what it is, and what is its destiny?

God gave it, when he “breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living soul.” (Gen. 2:7; Comp. Job, 33:4.) This is the Divine testimony: ‘The body indeed is the gift of God—but not the breath of God. It is not such an immediate gift of God as the soul is. When the body of man was made at first, God took the dust of the earth, and formed his body out of it. But when he gave him a soul, he breathed that from himself.

It was an immediate effect of God’s power, not dealing with, nor working upon any pre-existing matter. The spirit or soul of man is purely of God—solely of God. What then is the end of all? Each part of man returns to his original source—his body to the earth as it was; the spirit—to God of whom it is, and who gave it. And where now is the spirit found? In unconscious slumber of the grave? Far from it.

It returns to God—home whence it came—to “the Father of spirits,” who claims it for himself. The body sleeps as the earnest of awaking again. But the soul is in conscious immortality. The God of Moses was the God of the Patriarchs long departed.

But we are emphatically told, that he is “not the God of the dead, but of the living; for all live to him.” (Luke 20:37, 38.) ‘ “This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise” (Luke 23:43), said our Lord to the malefactor, who was dying at his side. And in what state there? Senseless and lifeless? No: alive to its glories; transported with its blessedness. And when Paul thought of being “absent from the body,” what did he connect with this absence?

What did he look upon as its immediate and necessary consequence? He knew that he should be “found with the Lord.” ’ (2 Cor. 5:6–8.) In this sure confidence of waking consciousness did the Divine Saviour yield his returning spirit into his Father’s hands. (Luke 23:46.) In the same confidence did he receive the spirit of his first martyr falling asleep in him. (Acts, 7:59, 60.) There had indeed been a mist upon eternity.

But the rays were bright enough to shine in the cloudy sky, and as here, to cheer the darker dispensation with joyous light. The life to come was not, therefore, an unconscious world, not a world of sleep, nor the promises of it a golden dream. As the philosopher, adverting to the dark clouds seen at early dawn, fringed with gold by the sun, remarks—‘They may serve as an image of the hopes of immortality derived from Revelation.

For we are sure, from the light reflected on those clouds, that the lands below us are in the brightest sunshine. Yet the spirit’s homeward return is for no indifferent end. It was sent here to glorify God. It returns to God to give an account of the great end proposed. The return to God is not always “the blessed hope.” (Tit. 2:13.) It conducted the rich man to the immortality of torment.

It brought Lazarus into Abraham’s bosom. (Luke 16:22–25.) Oh! let the Reader and Writer ponder it with solemn anxiety. Where will my return homeward to my God fix me for eternity—among the lost to share their despairing wail, or among the redeemed to tune my golden harp to their triumphal songs?

“There is but a step between us and death.” (1 Sam. 20:3.) This step—this great step—this step of transition from time into eternity—oh! let it not be taken without a God—a Guide—a Saviour. If life has been thrown away in wasteful folly—how awful the guilt—how imminent the danger—of throwing away eternity with it! “Turn ye, turn ye,” is the voice of your pleading God. “Why will ye die?” (Ezek. 33:11.)

The Preacher (so he calls himself three times in these verses) has now concluded his subject. He had begun with this statement as his text. (Ecclesiastes 1:2.) The whole book may be considered as the material and substance of his sermon, worked out with a large variety of illustrations and proofs. He is now shutting up his discourse; and how can he do it so impressively, as by leaving his text as his last word of demonstration?

He ‘took an inventory of the world, and all the best things in it. He cast up the account; and the sum total is vanity. He had now brought us to the universal terminus; and now looking back—what is the prospect before him and around him but one mass of vanity? If this world be indeed our all, what is it? The veil of fascinating delusion is torn from us. The emptiness of all earthly pleasure—we cannot deny it. It is the complaint of bitter disappointment—all is vanity.

Where is the ground for satisfaction? Take away the home and confidence for eternity—all is poor indeed—not only illusion, but tasteless to the last degree. Oh! let the cry be—‘Put me not off with such trifles. Let me not wrap my heart in these wretched objects of vanity. The Christian can find no interest here, simple because his great objects connected with eternity fill up every vacuum with solid satisfaction. And what at the end?

If nothing else, we can lift up our head in the dying hour with gladness—“I know whom I have believed.” (2 Tim. 1:12.) But is the Preacher’s sermon only fitting for the gay and thoughtless? Is it only for those whose best and most glowing affections are centred in the world, and whose stamp of character is—“lovers of pleasure more than lovers of God?” (2 Ti 3:4.) Let the most eminent saint of God look to it.

Let him carefully search the heart, and see whether the world is not loved in its hidden secrecies more than is good for his soul. Let him see, whether it is not the real danger—the world living in us—not we in the world. Oh! do we not all need deeper apprehensions of its vanity even at its best show, and brighter enjoyment of the substantial portion contrasted with it?

It surely was not without just cause and reason that the beloved Apostle was directed to warn—not the ungodly and dissipated—but the “little children—the young men”—nay even “the fathers” in the Church. “Love not the world, nor the things that are in the world. What! they who had known their “sins to be forgiven”—who had “overcome the wicked one”—nay—who have been maturing in the knowledge of God and his Christ—do they need the warning?

Who in the Church that knows his own heart, but will bear testimony to the need, in deep and humbling conviction? For have we not each a world of our own—an inner as well as an outer world, entwining itself in a countless variety of ways with our tenderest heart-strings?

Surely we have advanced only a step—if indeed so much—in the course of non-conformity, when we have turned away from the outward show, or when we have failed to see upon our own world the stamp—Vanity of vanities—all is vanity. Shall we not then value the prayerful application of this book of Scripture to our hearts?

For how graphic is the representation of “all that is in the world”—with the clear mark, that it “is not of the Father, but is of the world”—with the manifest proof before our eyes—that it “passeth away, and the lust thereof”—and with the bright contrast of the Christian’s substance for eternity—“He that doeth the will of God abideth for ever!” (1 John 2:12–17.) The Christian substance is indeed a fine contrast with vanity—the real with the unreal.—‘The more I exaggerate’—writes the saintly Martyn—‘these ideal joys, the more do I treasure up subjects of woe.

O what vanity has God written upon all things under the sun! Adored be the never-failing mercy of God! He has made my happiness to depend—not on the uncertain connexions of this life, but upon his own most blessed self—a portion that never faileth. ‘My God’—exclaimed the holy Baxter—breathing after this soul-satisfying portion—‘in thee I expect my true felicity and content. To know thee, and love thee, and delight in thee, must be my blessedness, or I must have none.

The little tastes of this sweetness which my thirsty soul hath had, do tell me that there is no other real joy. He dreameth, who doth not live to thee. Oh! let me have no other portion, no reason—no love—no life—but what is devoted to thee, employed on thee, and for thee here, and shall be perfect in thee—the only perfect, final object for evermore.’

Ere the Preacher shuts up, he adds a few words concerning himself, calculated to give weight and authority to his sentence. His wisdom was the special gift of God (1 Kings 3:5–12)—a special talent for his people.

How could he forbear the diligent use of it, as the only reparation he could make to them for the sad misuse of it, when for a time “the light that was in him was darkness,” and we had been left to mourn—“how great is that darkness?” (Matt. 6:23.) Now, therefore, the more wise he was, the more ready was he still—to the end—to teach the people knowledge. Physical science in all its diversified branches might have formed the matter of his teaching.

But this was not his object—certainly not his main object—though to the eyes of many doubtless it would have been the more desirable one. That which attracted the Royal stranger’s interest was “his wisdom concerning the name of the Lord”2—the knowledge and service of God. To this he applied himself under Divine Inspiration with unwearied energy. He was not negligent in exercising the wisdom already attained.

Never did he indolently rest in the discoveries of those who had gone before him. Nor did he write at random, but he took pains in laborious study—giving good heed, and seeking out all that was true and profitable. One exercise seemed specially to have interested him—setting in order many proverbs.

And here, probably, was the completion of that book (with the exception of chap. 25–31.)—such a storehouse of practical wisdom—so deep in the knowledge of the heart—so accurate in the observation of human life—“the Proverbs of Solomon—the son of David—King of Israel.

Thus, indeed, ministers must be men of store (Matt. 13:52), and men of distributive activity, if they would “make full proof of their ministry.” (2 Tim. 4:5.) When their exercises are (as an old writer expresses it) ‘not the children of their brain, but the travail of their soul,’ God puts honour upon such faithful and diligent workmen, and will let none of their words fall to the ground.

Whatever be our station in the Church—Oh! let it not be forgotten—that—to be fitted for mutual helpfulness, there must be a “rich indwelling treasure of the word of Christ.” (Col. 3:16.) Have we not discovered how largely we enrich ourselves, in the very exercise of distributing our treasure to the Church?

‘As the widow’s oil increased, not in the vessel, but by pouring out—and as the barley-bread in the gospel multiplied, not in the whole loaf, but by breaking and distributing—and as the grain bringeth increase, not when it lieth on a heap in the garner, but by scattering upon the land; so are these spiritual graces best improved, not by keeping them together, but by distributing them abroad.

The talent gathereth nothing in the napkin, unless it be rust and canker; but travelling in the bank, beside the good it doth as it passeth to and fro, it ever returneth home with increase.’

Here was his wisdom—seeking to find out acceptable words! Think of the great moment belonging to them—of the great care to seek and find them out—like the pearls in the ocean. They were not men-pleasing words—not flattering words of vanity, but such as find an easy access to the heart—“pleasing our neighbour for his good unto edification.” (Rom. 15:2.) The most considerate human wisdom can never make the humbling truth of God acceptable to the natural heart.

Yet crude and revolting statements may add needlessly and hurtfully to the offence. Mr. Cecil wisely remarked—‘It is a foolish project to avoid giving offence. But it is our duty to avoid giving unnecessary offence. Good taste should be connected with good things; and the word is not less faithfully spoken, because it is “more fitly spoken.” (Prov. 15:23; 25:11.) To seek to be acceptable—is by no means inconsistent with faithfulness.

Christian consideration directs us carefully to distribute unpalatable truth in all the sweetness of persuasion and sympathy. We have the Preacher’s warrant for this. Look but at the very outside—the shell of the letter—and we must grant that the Preacher hath found out pleasant words. ‘The nine first chapters of Proverbs are a fine specimen of this wise teaching—such love combined with Divine authority and ministerial faithfulness!

In doctrine let us shew uncorruptness—in mode acceptableness; like our Heavenly Master, regarding—not so much what we are able to speak, but what our people are able to hear. But here lies the grand responsibility—that the suavity of the mode be never without the boldness of the matter. Let the Preacher be sure that his dcceptable words—whether written or spoken—are upright—even words of truth.

Great indeed is the danger of adulterating the Gospel in the well-intentioned attempt to commend it more widely. A self-deceiving delusion indeed!—to deprive it of its saving power. And happy, indeed, is it for ministers to have the humble “rejoicing testimony of their consciences”—“We are not as many, which corrupt the word of God; but as of sincerity; but as of God, in the sight of God speak we in Christ.

By manifestation of the truth, commending ourselves to every man’s conscience in the sight of God.” (2 Cor. 2:17; 4:2.) But let us look to it in our familiar Christian intercourse. Oh! we have great need of unceasing godly exercise. Be sure that the words of truth—not of man’s wisdom—are the weapons for conviction. Beware lest Christian accommodation descend to rational contrivance.

Zeal for the souls of our fellow-men must be “according to knowledge,” holy simplicity, and uprightness—not colouring but truth—not disputing, but leaving upon the conscience the plain testimony. To live near to God, while we are walking before men, is a Divine reality. Hence flows the power to deal out words of delight (marg.)—in singleness of aim and object.

Think of the power and weight of a kind word, as one of old—a Great Master of these words—could testify—“Even as I please all men in all things—not seeking mine own profit, but the profit of many, that they may be saved.” (1 Cor. 10:33.)

What are these words of the wise? They are no light words. They cannot be the maxims of human wisdom, because—unlike these multifarious tossings—they are given from One Source. This Source is He, ‘on whom all of us ought to depend and stay—the Everlasting Son of God—the Church’s Chief and Supreme Shepherd.

They must therefore be his words—’Here by then is marked the Divine Inspiration of the Holy Scriptures delivered by Inspiration unto the penmen thereof for the use of the Church—the Spirit of God being in those that wrote them. They are his words, and they come from him. They are not therefore only partly Inspired—and therefore only partly the word of God.

But it is the Shepherd breathing his own mind into the mind of his several penmen; thus preserving the Revelation contained therein from all possibility of error;—and bringing out for our repose an unfaltering testimony and an infallible appeal. Though the Masters, through whom the word is given, are many, the authority is the One Shepherd.

The Prophets—Apostles—Preachers—Ministers of all ages—of all degrees—are separated as the Masters of assemblies directing the service, and stirring up the affections of the assemblies, and upholding the visible glory of the Great Head and King in his Church. And how striking is the sight—each of these Masters receiving his Authority from the One Shepherd—all acting by his Authority—all, serving in dependence upon his promised grace and blessing.

Solomon illustrates the power of the words of the wise by goads—so needful to urge on the sluggish oxen in their forward pace—turning neither to the right hand nor to the left. And who of us does not need the goad?

Slumbering as we are in cold formality—hearing the word, as if we heard it not—what a mercy is it to feel the piercing point of the goad, experimentally to know the “Scripture as profitable for reproof” (2 Tim. 3:16)—awakening—alarming—stirring up the cry of anxious distress, “What shall we do?” (Acts, 2:37.) Is it not fearful to be under the power of the word, and yet to continue so insensible? as if the goad just touched the skin, and did not penetrate the heart?

The nails also form the Shepherd’s furniture to fasten his tent to the ground, and to make the sheepfold thoroughly secure, not less are they needed by us. If the smart of the goad is felt; yet how slight and transient! We want the fastening impression—the nails driven home to the conscience—a steady Divine influence fixing our hearts in the ways and service of God.

We want such truth as is commonly found in affliction—or in the exercise of deep mental conflict—such as maintains an enduring impression to the very end of life. This is truth fixed—not as a sound of words, but as an instrument of life. Christian! Do not you realize the immense moment and value of this fixing work? Every atom of truth is worth a mountain of gold.

If from want of care it slips away, how eagerly does the ever-watchful enemy fill up the vacuum with his sevenfold deadly poison! (Matt. 12:45.) Truth slightingly valued is easily lost, and unspeakably fearful is the loss! When we cease to value truth, we are already in the atmosphere of error. O my God! bind upon my heart these words of the wise.

Let me bow to their authority with the reverence of undisputing faith, and with the grateful acknowledgment of ready and unreserved obedience. Let the Bible satisfy me in all my disputations.

One more last word, ere the Preacher sums up—addressing the reader as his own son, and pouring out to him the yearnings of an affectionate heart, like the aged apostle in his many loving exhortations to the Christian disciples—My little children.—‘By these words of the wise, spoken by the Holy Ghost’2—By these, my son, be admonished.

Take them as thy most valuable monitors—“the men of thy counsel” (Ps. 119:24, marg.) given from the one Shepherd, “that the man of God may be perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works.” (2 Tim. 3:17.) To be wise without this light is to be altogether foolish. I might have written more. The subject is inexhaustible.—Of making books there is no end.—Let this suffice. The mass of books accumulating is the best comment upon this verse.

How many of them are utterly worthless! How small a proportion even of what is valuable can be read by one man! How many, written with much labour, are, probably, never read at all! “No end is there of making,” and often “wearisome to the flesh is the study of them. ‘Weariness to the body without any satisfaction to the soul. Therefore let these words, so few, and yet so full, be thy counsellors.

He that will not be admonished by these, shall never be satisfied with any others. He that refuseth the wheat will be but choked by the chaff.—Well may we say to this one Shepherd, as Peter did—“Lord! to whom shall we go? thou hast the words of eternal life.” (John 6:68.) Other writings are useful in their order. These only are the rule of faith and life.

Very thankful ought we to be, that the Book—the Book of God—is a portable Book—containing all that is necessary to “make wise unto salvation” (2 Tim. 3:15) in so small a compass. There is wisdom in the limitation as well as in the fulness.—Each of its weighty sayings is more valuable “than thousands of gold and silver.” (Ps. 119:72.) Oh, that we might come to its study with a more vigorous appetite and a more fervent love!

The more we live in the word, the deeper will be the impression—the more glowing the warmth, the more fruitful the result.—There will be little sense of weariness of the flesh, when the spirit is engaged in real communion with the Lord.

Here is the nail, which the great Master and Prophet of his Church would fasten “as in a sure place. The Preacher summons us, and summons himself with us—to hear the conclusion of the whole matter. Two short sentences sum up the whole—Fear God, and keep his commandments. The sentences are in the right order. The fear of God is the hidden principle of obedience—not of nature’s growth. It is the work of the Spirit in the heart of the regenerate.

It is the covenant promise, securing the faithfulness of the children of God. (Jer. 32:40.)—It is not a legal principle of terror or bondage, but the genuine spirit of confidence—the delicate expression of filial love in the heart of the child of God—the holy fruit of forgiveness. Here we walk with our Father, humbly, acceptably, securely—looking at an offended God with terror—but at a reconciled God with reverential love.

All the gracious influences on the soul—cherished under the power of the Spirit—all flow out in godly fear towards him. This true evangelical principle is fruitful in all practical results. Take it away; and what remains, but unbridled license to “walk in the way of our own hearts? The habit of godly obedience is the test of the principle.

For “The man, that feareth the Lord. delighteth greatly in his commandments.” (Ps. 112:1.) The inner principle produces the outward manifestation. If the religion is not expressed in the literal terms of the gospel, it fully implies them. The keeping of the commandments—at least in the case of the disciples of the Lord—primarily regards the great commandment—“to believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christ.

The gospel, therefore, is not obscured, even when the terms of it are not expressly given: so that—rightly understood, we fully identify the free grace and spiritual obedience of the gospel with the more legal exhortation to fear God, and keep his commandments. ‘By faith in God the heart is purified to fear and love God; and by that fear and love it is inclined to obey his commandment.

‘Quitting therefore the world with all its vanities, we betake ourselves to that, which alone is free from vanity—the fear and service of God. These two points—the Preacher pronounces to contain the whole of man—not his duty only, but his whole happiness and business—the total sum of all that concerns him—all that God requires of him—all that the Saviour enjoins—all that the Holy Spirit teaches and works in him.

We cannot here do better than give Abp. Leighton’s beautiful summary of the matter—’After Solomon had made his discoveries of all things besides under the sun, gone the whole circuit, and made an exact valuation, he found all beside this to amount to nothing but vanity and vexation of spirit.

The account he gives of all other things was only for this purpose, to illustrate and establish this truth the more, and to make it the more acceptable; to be a repose after so much weariness, and such a tedious journey, and so, as he speaks there (5:10, marg.) a word of delight as well as a word of truth; that the mind might sit down, and quiet itself in this from the turmoil and pursuit of vanity, that keeps it busy to no purpose in all other things.

But whereas there was emptiness and vanity, that is just nothing in all things; there was not only something to be found, but all in this one—the fear of God, and that keeping of his commandments, which is the proper fruit of that fear. The same track of inquiry had been traversed by the Patriarch ages before, and substantially with the same result. Successive disappointments had given their voice—“It is not in me.

Where then is the precious treasure to be found, but in the ways of God! “Unto man he saith—Behold! the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom, and to depart from evil is understanding.” (Job 28:12–28.) Here is our portion—our centre of rest. The more heart we give to this interesting research, the more pleasure we shall find in it.

The Book naturally ends with the winding up of our eventful history—the eternal destiny of every child of man. How solemn the stamp that it will give to the conclusion of the matter—the blessedness of the fear and service of God! The day will unmask all. All things—now so inexplicable—shall be made plain.

Solomon had propounded many dark sayings in this book—many things, which he could not comprehend—much that seemed inconsistent with the holy and just character of the Divine Government—goodness oppressed, wickedness triumphing. All these “hidden things of darkness will be” fully “brought to light” (1 Cor. 4:5), when “the Lord—the righteous Judge” shall bring every work to judgment, and good and evil shall be separated for ever.

The brighter displays of the Gospel Revelation bring the Judge before us in all his glorious and unspeakable majesty. God is the Judge in the person of the Divine Mediator. (John 5:22; Acts, 10:42; 17:31.) “The Great White throne” is raised up. The Judge of the world sits thereon. “Before his face the earth and the heaven flee away, and no place is found for them. The dead—small and great—stand before God.

The books are opened; and another book is opened, which is the book of life. The dead are judged of those things, which are written in the books according to their works. (Rev. 20:11, 12.)

Such is the scene of majesty unveiled, and shutting up the Revelation of God. With this view before us—can it be a matter of indifference—whether or not we be the true servants of God—that is whether or no we shall spend our eternity in heaven or in hell? This will be no judgment, from which any child of man can hide himself. “We must all appear before the judgment-seat of Christ.

Every one of us shall give an account of himself unto God.” (2 Cor. 5:10; Rom. 14:10–12.) Every work—the most minute or the most important—from the first movement of conscience to the last breath of life—all the hidden world of thought in every man’s bosom—hitherto secret—known only to himself and to his God—all the principles and colourings of action—every secret thing of every sort—whether it be good or whether it be evil—whether it be restrained or indulged—sins of childhood or youth, that have passed away without consciousness—every moment—every atom of our sad sorrows—of our defiled services—all will be found there—at that day—safely stored—nothing missing.

If this picture be a reality—Oh! let it be realized with a deep sense of our immense interest in it! What a restraint would it bring upon our words in the recollection, “that every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment!” (Matt. 12:36.) What a stimulus to self-denying consecration is the thought of the “stewardship” with which we are invested—the “account to be given of it”—and the awful guilt of “having wasted our Lord’s goods” in the indolent delusion that they were our own! (Luke 16:1, 2.) Whatever refinement may be mixed with selfish indulgence, it will be found to have carried with it a mass of neglected personal responsibility.

The day will declare it,—when conviction and repentance will have been too late—for truly this is the day of the revelation of God’s righteous judgment. (Rom. 2:5.) Hypocrisy shall be disclosed, sincerity shall be rewarded, because nothing is hidden from him. All other things are vain. But it is not vain to fear the Lord. “They that do good”—their works will follow them to heaven; “and they that have done evil”—their works will hunt and pursue them to hell.

The acceptance in that day will be proclaimed in strict accordance with the Preacher’s admonition—fearing God, and keeping his commandments. The line of demarcation will be sent at that day—drawn for eternity—Ah! sinner—There will be no covering—no middle—doubtful place—no difficulty in “discerning between the righteous and the wicked—between him that serveth God, and him that serveth him not.” (Mal. 3:18.) The boldness of delusion will melt away into deep, dark despair.—“The ungodly shall not stand in the judgment; nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.” (Ps. 1:5.) And yet—while men’s hearts are failing them for fear, and for looking after those things that are coming—Now—Christian—it is your time to “look up, and lift up your head.” (Luke 21:26–28.) The indescribable solemnity of this day has no fear for you—It is your day of unshaken and joyous confidence.

Those secret sins which are set before your God “in the light of his countenance” (Ps. 90:8) are screened from the claims of his justice. If the Omniscient God lays them open—“the Great High-Priest” covers them for ever, or manifests them sprinkled with atoning blood.—And when he cometh sitting on the “Great White Throne,” fear will find no place there.

For he that will sit upon the throne is no other than he that hung upon the cross—and will not the sunshine of the cross sweep away the terror of the throne? Yes—Christian, the Saviour will be the Judge.—We fear not—we faint not—In the assurance of his “coming quickly”—we respond with our hearty “Amen.”—So it is in thy promise—so let it be to our joy. So shall it be to thy glory!

“EVEN SO, COME, LORD JESUS.” (Rev. 22:20.)