need of the pardoning mercy of God, and that this sense of the need of pardon should lead him to embrace this plan which proposes forgiveness. That the heart is

depraved and polluted is, I presume, at some period of life, the conviction of every man. Never do I urge a

doctrine of the Bible that I am more sure commends itself to every one of my hearers, than when I preach the doctrine of depravity, and when I appeal to themselves for the consciousness of its truth. There are moments when the most hardened, and gay, and thoughtless have some misgivings that all is not right, and that their lives are such as to expose them to the displeasure of God. There are moments when there is pensiveness, sadness, melancholy; when somehow the remembrance of guilt troubles the soul; when sins long since forgotten seem to come in groups and clusters as if conjured up by some magic wand; when the whole sky seems overcast with a gathering tempest; and when there is a fearful apprehension that all that the Bible has said about sin, and woe, and a judgment to come, is true. At one time it may be a momentary conviction coming over the complacencies of the heart, and the joyous scenes of life, like a dark cloud flying suddenly over the disk of the sun, and that soon passes away. At another it is like the gentle and quiet shades of an evening settling on the mind, on which the sun does not rise for weeks and months, leaving the soul in long and distressing sadness. At another it is like a tempest that rolls, and flashes, and thunders along the sky. At another it is like a dense and dark night-a night without moon or stars, and where the soul is involved in impenetrable gloom.

Now the gospel appeals to men by this conscious need of pardon. Man wants peace. He wants light. He wants forgiveness. And the gospel comes and professes its readiness to extend forgiveness, and to furnish relief for a mind thus darkened and sad. Man is conscious that he is a sinner; and when he feels that, I ask no other proof that the gospel is a scheme fitted to him than to be permitted to go to him in that state, and to tell him that through that plan, those sins though like scarlet may be white as snow; though red like crimson, that they may

be as wool. The gospel then meets man as running streams and fountains that break forth in the desert, do the caravan; and is as much fitted to that dark and benighted soul as such fountains are to the fainting traveller there.

(2.) I mean further, that when men look at the trials of life, they feel the need of some system like that of the gospel that shall be fitted to give consolation. It is in vain for men to attempt to avoid trial. No strength however great; no plan however wise; no talent however brilliant; no wealth however unbounded; no schemes of pleasure or amusement however skilfully planned, will drive disappointment, and care, and sickness, and pain from our world. Life is after all a weary pilgrimage, and is burdened with many woes. Man's heart is filled with anxiety, and his steps are weary as he walks onward to the grave. Now I mean that man feels the necessity of some balm of life; some alleviation of cares; something that shall perform the friendly office of dividing the cares of this world, and that shall put an upholding hand beneath our suffering and exhausted nature. Men seek universally some such comforter and alleviator of care and sorrow, and if they do not find it, life is a weary and wretched journey. One retreats to the academic grove, and seeks consolation in philosophy-in calm contemplation, far away from the bustle and tumult of life. Another goes up the sides of Parnassus, and drinks from the Castalian fount-seeking it in the pursuits of elegant literature, and in the company of the Muses. Another flies to the temple of Mammon and seeks it in the pursuit and possession of gold. Another aims to find it in the brilliant and fascinating world of song and the dance; another in the pursuits of professional life; another in orgies of the god of wine, and the cup that is supposed to drown every care. In all these there is a sense of the need of something that shall give comfort; something that shall wipe away falling tears; something that shall bind up broken, and pour consolation into heavy hearts. Amidst these things proffering consolation, the gospel also comes, and offers to the weary, the heavy-laden, and the sad, its consolations. That also offers support; proposes a plan of wiping away

tears; of comforting the hearts of the sad, and points the sufferer to the river of life, and asks him to come and take freely-and never fails.

(3.) I mean further, that when men look at the shortness of life, and at the certainty of death, there is a consciousness that some such system as that of the gospel is needed, and that by this deep consciousness the gospel appeals to men. "We all do fade as a leaf," and we cannot but be conscious that however blooming and vigorous we may now be, the time is not far remote when we shall be cut down as the flower, and wither like the green herb. Our day, even in its highest meridian glory, hastens, as Wolsey said his did, to its setting; and in spite of all the aid of philosophy, and all the amusements of life, men will feel sad at the prospect of death. A death-bed is a melancholy place. The parting with friends forever is a sad and mournful scene. closing up of all the plans of life, and the starting off on a journey to a dark and unknown world from which "no traveller returns," is an important and a deeply-affecting event. The dying chill; the clammy sweat; the fading eye; the enfeebled delirious mind, are all sad and gloomy things. The coffin is a gloomy abode; and the grave, for him who has reposed on a bed of down, is a cold and cheerless resting-place. The thought of corruption and decay until the frame, once so beautiful and active, is all gone back to its native dust, is a gloomy thought, and one that should make a deep impression on the human mind.

The

Now men may blunt the force of these thoughts as much as they can. They may fly from them to business; to their professions; to amusement; to sin-but all will not do. Nature will be true to herself, and true to the designs of God, and it cannot be but that when a man thinks of the grave, there should be a "fond desire," a "longing after immortality." Man would not die for

ever.

He would live again. He would be recovered from that horrid, chilly sleep, from that cold grave, from that repulsive stillness and gloom. There is an inextinguishable desire to live again; a feeling which we can never get rid of, that God did not form the wondrous

powers of mind for the transient pleasures of this brief life. Man feels his need of the hope of heaven; and when the gospel comes to him and invites him to drink of the river of life, and to live forever, he cannot but feel that it is a system adapted to his whole nature, and is just such a system as his circumstances demand. The invitation of the gospel is one that meets all the deep aspirations of his soul, and is just fitted to his condition. It is such as a dying and yet a deathless being ought to desire; it is fitted to meet the woes and sorrows of a wretched world. And all that is in man that is great, all his desire of consolation and of immortal happiness, prompts him to come and take the water of life; and the gospel designs to keep the truth of the guilt and the sorrow of the world before the mind, to induce the sufferer and the sinner to come and embrace pardon and peace.

Thus far I have not adverted to the direct invitations of the gospel. I have spoken rather of the character and circumstances of man. I turn now to one other topic,

and with that I shall close.

III. I refer, therefore, in the third place, to the special direct invitations in the Scriptures to embrace the gospel. I shall dwell mainly on those referred to in the text, but shall, in a rapid manner, glance at some others also. I observe, then

That God the Father invites you, and presses the gospel on your attention. On this I need not dwell. If any one doubts that the eternal Father invites men to come to him, and is willing that the wanderer should return, let him ponder the parable of the prodigal son. In that most beautiful and touching of all compositions, how tenderly and pathetically are the feelings of God portrayed in the joy of the aged father when he sees his son afar off; when he goes forth to meet him, and when he greets that long-lost son in an affectionate embrace. With such joy does God the Father come forth to meet the returning sinner; and with such desires does he proffer pardon to the guilty, and a home to the wandering. Open your Bibles. Is there one of the human race, however guilty and wretched, to whom God does not extend the offer of mercy? Is there one who has gone off so far that he is

not invited to return? Is there one who would not be welcomed should he again come back to his Father's house and arms? O, no. There is not one. God, the eternal Father, all along your way has lifted up the voice of invitation and entreaty, and is saying every where and every day to man, "Let him return to the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him, and to God, for he will abundantly pardon." My hearer, all along your way, from the cradle to the present hour, God the Father has uttered but one voice, the voice of mercy; he has expressed but one wish—it is that you should turn and live. Heaven he has offered you with the fulness of its glory; and by all that is there of peace, and beauty, and bliss; by all that is valuable in his favor and attractive in his own house, he speaks to you and says, "Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."

So has spoken the Son of God. Need I dwell on this? To invite sinners to return, he came forth from the bosom of the Father, and dwelt among men. It was not because he was not happy that he became an exile from the skies; it was not because he did not wear a crown that was brilliant enough, or sway a sceptre over an empire that was not vast enough; it was because here was a race of lost and ruined sinners which might be restored; because they needed some such interposition to save them from eternal ruin. And he came. And what was his life; what was his ministry; what were his sufferings and toils, but unwearied invitations to the guilty and the wretched?"Behold, I stand at the door and knock," said he, "if any man will open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me." "Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” "Every one that asketh receiveth, and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened." Did Christ ever utter a word that expressed an unwillingness that the most guilty and vile should be saved? Did he ever spurn from his presence one broken-hearted and penitent sinner? Lives there a man in all the regions where Christian light illuminates the face of the world, who can doubt for one moment that the Redeemer desires his salvation, and invites him to come and take the water of life freely? No, sinner,