THE KING’S BUSINESS
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dation! A h ! but He that lays the foundation and pledges His Name for that, also builds the building and pledges His name for that, too. God is the contractor from foundation to roof, and He completes His contract and stands surety for the result. He guarantees • with the oath of His trademark. He stamps with His pro fessional seal every atom of His own production. The stars in their mazy whirl are merely His finger opera tions, but the conversion of a soul is His arm-work. All the shoulder mus cle to this! (Ps. 8:3; cf. Isa. 53:1). God has placed Himself for the eter nal security of the humblest believer in Christ. The chains of the iron work on this structure can never snap. “Whom He did predestinate, them He also justified; and whom He justified, them He also glorified.” Not the smallest, feeblest link can give way, or hell with its shouts of triumph would drown out the harps- of heaven into an everlasting hush. Fear not, humble believer, you are safe as Almightiness can make you. His contract He completes, for His honor is at stake in it. Sir Thomas Bouch, when the Tay Bridge of his engineering dissolved that night in the hurrying deep, sickened and died at the fateful news. So, indeed, should the very feeblest saint fail to get home, should God’s handiwork give way to the snapping of a single tiny rivet among the million million girders of His engineering feat of eternity, the Almghty would also turn His face to the wall for ever! Oh, so feeble the faith in my poor heart! Oh, so tiny the flicker oi grace in my faltering soul ! Oh, so trembling the touch of life in my fear ing spirit! Yes, but it is of God, and cannot be obliterated! It is the En gineering of Eternity, and nothing can touch it. Is Jesus thy Lord? Oh, yes, yes; “My Lord and Mv
God!” Now, then, “how readest thou?” “None can call Jesus Lord but by the Holy Ghost.” The Holy Ghost! Ah! here is the safety. Faith is not of earth; it is the product of eternity, and endureth as long as that “golden pavement” and “crystal sea” of the Everlasting City of God. Look at this little match. Rub the phosphorus tip—a wee, tiny flame! Yes, but it is not of this dull clod of earth. It belongs to that mighty center sun of ours: His is the mo ment’s spark, and he will look after it. Harnessed to this yellow speck in my hand is the whole immense mass of universe filled caloric! Every blazing star in the firmament stands surety for our little flicker, and hastens to its help! So with that maybe only microscopic faith in your heart. It is not of earth, not of nature, not of you, but of the Holy Ghost, and the Holy Ghost is of God, and God is God. Oh, isn’t this enough, sad heart ? It is ! It is ! “Safe in the arms of Jesus, Safe on His gentle breast, In the tree-shadowed nook of “God’s acre,” where the dead lie, you wander. In the dear country kirk- yard you meditate at the sundown hour when “thought is born.” Silence and solemnity surround you, and the soul takes wings and passes beyond the horizon of time. Here is an old gravestone. At the top you read, “Sacred to the Memory of ----- ,” but what is that name below? Whose memory was this inscription to per petuate ? Alas! time’s grim teeth have been silently gnawing and gnaw ing for years, and the cunning handi work of the chiseller is now eaten out, and the pitying moss has drawn There by His love o’ershaded, Sweetly my soul shall rest.” II. The Inscription
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