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lessons which friends and foes accept as the wisest the world has ever heard, He was about His Father's business. When He had compassion on the multitude, and healed their sick and cast out devils, He was about His Father's business. And not less was He about His Father's business when His sweat in Gethsemane was as it were great drops of blood-when He was arraigned before Pilate's bar-when He fainted beneath the weight of the cross on His way to Calvary-when He consented to be nailed to the accursed tree-and when He drank the cup the bitterness of which made Him exclaim, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me ?" Not less, do we say, was He then and in these scenes doing His Father's business? Most specially of all was He then and in these scenes doing His Father's business. Another might have been endowed to teach with the highest wisdom, and to work with the highest power; but only He could give His soul an offering for sin; only He could die the just One for the unjust. And without the cross His mission into the world would have remained for ever unaccomplished. -His work for ever unfinished. the cross, and only on the cross, could He say, 66 My Father's business is now accomplished-the work which my Father gave me to do is done-It is finished."

On

One saying more, and He died. "He cried with a loud voice, and said, Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit." (Luke xxiii. 46.) "And having said thus, he gave up the ghost." In these, His last words, He most significantly declared His oneness with His people. His majesty

and His lordship over the unseen world were manifested in His reply to the penitent malefactor, "This day shalt thou be with me in paradise." But now He speaks not as the Lord of the living and the dead, but as a dying man, the fellow of dying men, one with them, about to enter the unseen world-"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit." For this condescension, this fresh proof of His being very man, we bless God.

Nor should we overlook the condescension which used the words of an Old Testament saint to express His last petition on the cross: "Into thy hand I commit my spirit," said the Psalmist: "Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth;" (Ps. xxxi. 5;) -words in which the Psalmist committed the care of his spirit into the hands of God not in death but in life, not when passing out of this world but when abiding in the world; thus reminding us that our spirits are safe only in God's hands whether we live or whether we die, and that the care and power to which we appeal when we are dying are equally needful while we are living.

While Jesus attested His oneness with us by the manner of His dying, by the very last words He uttered on the cross we are soon after reminded of His lordship over death and the invisible world. "Behold I see heaven opened," said Stephen, the first martyr of the Church," and the Son of man standing on the right hand of God." And when stoned by his merciless persecutors, he called on this glorified Son of Man, and said, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." These thoughts should never be separated. Our Lord passing through a full human experience, with all its

sinless wants and sinless dependence -and yet this same Lord able to comfort us not merely by the sympathy which grows out of experience, but by such assurances as He gave to John in Patmos Fear not, I am the

first and the last. I am the living one, and I was dead, and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of the invisible world and of death."

EDITOR.

"GRACE ABOUNDING :"-THE STORY OF ROBERT ANNAN.*

1. WANDERING.

ROBERT ANNAN was born at Hilltown, Dundee, on the 5th of October, 1834. He was the son of respectable parents, who sent him when a child to school. The boy was fonder of play than of books; and often, instead of striving to master his lessons, he was contending with his fists. Active even to restlessness he would rise before the break of day, and hie to the fields for sport. To secure his early awaking he would hang out at his bedroom window a string, one end of which was fastened to his ancle; at early morn, ere yet any one in the house was astir, his companions came and pulled the string, and the sleeper arose. Fearless and fond of daring, he would plunge into the water-river or sea -wherever and whenever he found an opportunity. He would bathe in time of frost or snow, and quickly became an accomplished and courageous swimmer. He attained such ease and power in the water that he was named "The Water-dog;" and this mastery he successfully turned to one of the noblest uses, the saving of

human life.

As he grew up, the native wildness of his character developed itself with

alarming rapidity. He became reckless, wayward, ungovernable, and fierce. Neither his master nor his parents could hold him in check. His pas sionate and lawless nature would frequently break through all bounds, and spend its force in terrible doings, like the foaming billows upon the seashore. Yet, amidst all this impetuo sity and violence of character, there was something gallant and chivalrous in the man—he was kind-hearted and generous to a fault.

At the age of fourteen he was ap prenticed to a merchant as clerk; but he would not settle at the desk, and after his time had expired he served his father as a mason. Ere this he had begun to frequent the tavern, and speedily became the ringleader in drinking, swearing, fighting, and kindred vices, till at last he found himself in prison, where he lay for three months. Sobriety and sense returned with solitude; and as he lay in his cell he resolved to amend his ways. Weary of his involuntary confinement, he prayed to God for release; and foolishly imagined that the sincerity of his heart, and the goodness of his resolutions were so meritorious in the sight of God, that an angel might be sent, as in the case of

* This narrative is taken from the first chapters of a little volume, "The Christian Hero. A Sketch of the Life of Robert Annan. By Rev. T. Macpherson, Dundee." Published by Morgan and Chase,-a volume which we cordially commend.

Peter, to deliver him out of prison. No angel came save the angel of justice at the end of three months Robert was free. But his good resolutions, like the green withs with which Samson was bound, vanished in the presence of the first temptation. He seemed now to be hopelessly gone in folly. His father gave him a sum of money and sent him to America, where, instead of recovering himself, as he had promised, and his friends. expected, he made a fresh start in the devil's service, and played the part of the prodigal son in the far country. Although he had suffered shipwreck on his way to the New World, and escaped death as by a hair-breadth, he no sooner set foot on land than he plunged headlong into sin, faster, even than before. In his utter abandonment, one night, in a freak of mad indifference, or of wild despair, he threw himself across a railway and slept, escaping destruction only by some miracle of God's providence.

His money was now spent and his clothes worn out. After sundry adventures he passed from the States into Canada, and during the rigours of winter he went about shivering with cold, and weak through hunger and want, searching for employment, but in vain. Here he met a man who had pity on the forlorn wanderer, and took him to his house. It happened that this man subsisted by rearing swine, and for a time Robert literally acted the part of the prodigal son, and assisted his host in feeding the swine. Finding no suitable employment, Robert enlisted in the 100th Regiment, which shortly afterwards went to England and encamped at Aldershot.

In the army he met with Christian

friends who took a kind interest in his welfare, tendered him good advice, and prayed and laboured for his salvation. Wherever he went during his unconverted days, as he used to tell, he was continually met and followed by the prayers and loving offices of earnest Christians. This he attributed to the sovereign grace of God, which pursued him from hill to valley, till at length the Good Shepherd laid the wandering sheep upon His shoulders and brought him back to the fold. It may here be mentioned that his godly friends in the army continued to pray for him long after he had forsaken them, plunged anew into folly, and disappeared; nor did they cease their intercession until they heard of his conversion.

For a short season the stern restraints of the service, together with the influence of Christian fellow-soldiers and others, wrought some external reformation on Robert; and being now employed as a teacher, he began to respect himself and be useful to others. Suddenly, however, one day the old spirit of evil obtained the ascendancy, and he deserted. Disguised in the cast-off clothes of a peasant, with a tattered jacket, a boot on one foot and a shoe on the other, he pursued his way across fields and through hedges towards London, which he reached in a miserable plight. His liberty brought him small pleasure, for he knew not what to do or where to go. Seeing a company of marines, he went and enlisted in the naval service for the sake of the bounty, on which he made merry and managed for a day or two to forget his misery. This did not last long. He had deserted because his regiment had been ordered to Gibraltar, and to be stationed on the rock

he imagined would prove to him sheer imprisonment. And now his ship, the Edgar, was sent to that very place. In this he marked the hand of that God whom he was constantly striving, but in vain, to forget. From the deck of the Edgar he could see his old comrades of the 100th Regiment on the rock. He became extremely unhappy. Might they not discover that Robert Mackie (he had now assumed his mother's patronymic) was none other than Robert Annan the deserter? Every time he saw a red-coat he fancied he was about to be seized. Conscience began to upbraid him, till at length he was constrained by the voice within to give himself up as a deserter. After suffering punishment for his of fences, he again resolved to turn over a new leaf, and now thought he had done with sin for ever. In this spirit he wrote to his parents, who procured his discharge, and Robert returned to his father's house, seemingly a sadder and a wiser man. One truth he well knew; in one text of Scripture he believed: "The way of transgressors is hard." (Prov. xiii. 15.)

II. RETURNING.

As yet (1860) Robert Annan knew only his own righteousness and strength. He had abandoned the tavern, the theatre, and his old companions. He became proud of his newly-begun moralities, and began to reckon himself "as good as there was any use for." When the doctrine of the new birth was discussed, he poured contempt upon the very idea of being born again, and went the length of saying that the narrative of our Lord's life was got up by designing men. A few days after this discussion, he

went, in the strength of his new refor mation, to a public house, to fetch away from the scene of temptation a friend of his own. His friend signi fied his willingness to go, if Robert would consent to drink a single glass. He did so; but immediately the desire to drink another, and remain with the company, took possession of him. The rest I need not tell: a drunken carousal followed. Next morning he looked around upon the total wreck of his resolutions, his reforms, and his hopes. The dog had returned to its vomit. He was filled with confusion and alarm. "What!" he said to himself, "has it come to this again? Am I past all redemption? Surely I have sold myself to the devil! What shall I do?" Chagrin at the failure of his good intentions and solemn vows confounded his pride, and stung him to the quick. The gall and wormwood of remorse embittered his soul, and a melancholy feeling of hopelessness began to possess him.

That night he was so far humbled as to go to a revival meeting-one of a series of meetings then being held in the Kinnaird Hall, in Dundee. During the meeting Robert felt as if he were a target for every shooter; the arrows of conviction stuck fast in his conscience; eternal realities burst upon his view, and the powerful striv ings of the Holy Spirit baffled his endeavours to maintain a sullen reserve.

At the close of the meeting he felt disposed to join the company of weeping enquirers, but shame prevented him. As he stood upon the doorsteps a young man exhorted him to decide, and then bade him good-night, saying, "We shall meet at the judgment seat." "The judgment seat," repeated the trembling sinner to him

self; "yes, yes, it is true, I must go there." Every old truth seemed now to flash new light into his soul; and just as he was going to enter the enquiry meeting, the hall door was closed in his face, and he reeled down the steps, exclaiming, "Great God, am I shut out of salvation for ever!" Away he went to the house of a friend, who assured him he might find an entrance into the hall by another door. In breathless haste he returned to seek the door, but in vain. These are small matters; but to an awakened soul such things seem to speak with the voice of God.

At the midnight hour he entered my room and stood before me, his eyes wild and red with excitement, and his countenance black and terrible. His whole body, a frame of iron, shook and quivered. Knowing something of the man, I feared he was about to lay hands upon me and take vengeance for some words of reproof.

Very different was the case. Robert had now no blows but for himself, and with words of keen and cutting self-condemnation he asked the question of questions, "What must I do to be saved?" I pointed him to the Lamb of God, but in vain; Robert went away as he came, smiting on his breast and calling aloud for mercy.

In his wretchedness he resolved to retire to the top of the Law, a hill which rises almost from the banks of the Tay and overlooks Dundee, and spend the night in solitude and prayer. But although a child could find its way to the summit, and he had been. familiar with the hill and its environs from infancy, Robert failed to reach the sought-for solitude. "I could see no hill," he afterwards said to me;

"the mountain of my sin rose before my eyes, and the wrath of God like a mist blinded me." A voice then seemed to say, "Go to Camperdown woods, where you used to desecrate the Lord's day, and end your existence." As he pondered this suggestion he said to himself, "If I do so, what next?" He shuddered at the thought, and turned his back on Camperdown woods. Then the voice said, "Go to Reres Hill, where you used to break the Sabbath, and pray to God on the spot where you sinned, and He will forgive you."

It appears to be a common device of Satan's, either to drive to despair, or draw into false peace. If a man utterly despairs he may be easily induced to destroy himself; if not, the rebound from despair will be some desperate penance and lying trust.

Robert did not go to Reres Hill to do penance; but returning home he went to a hayloft, where during the night and all next day, for the space of thirteen hours, he lay on his face before God, and with agonizing cries pleaded for mercy. Strange, indeed, was the scene enacted in that hayloft.

Too familiar had that sinner been with deeds of violence and of blood; but the hayloft struggle was more terrible than any he had ever passed through. Surely the angels were looking down upon that once hardened blasphemer and exclaiming, "Behold he prayeth!" Light and darkness were in conflict; grace and sin were striving for the mastery; Christ and the devil contended for that soul; while heaven and hell seemed to hold their breath in expectation of the issue.

Alarmed at his absence, his parents and sister sought him next day, and

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