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escape the shame: the fact shall be close, the match gainful: it will be long, ere I get so much by my service; if I fare well for the present, I shall shift well enough for the future." Thus, secretly, he claps up another bargain; he makes a covenant with death, and with hell an agreement. O Judas, didst thou ever hear ought but truth fall from the mouth of that thy Divine Master? Canst thou distrust the certainty of that dreadful menace of vengeance? How then durst thou persist in the purpose of so flagitious and damnable a villainy? Resolved sinners run on desperately in their wicked courses; and have so bent their eyes upon the profit or pleasure of their mischievous projects, that they will not see hell lie open before them in the way.

As if that shameless man meant to outbrave all accusations and to outface his own heart, he dares ask too, Master, is it I? No disciple shall more zealously abominate that crime, than he that fosters it in his bosom. Whatever the Searcher of Hearts knows by him is locked up in his own breast: to be perfidious is nothing, so he may be secret his Master knows him for a traitor, it is not long that he shall live to complain; his fellows think him honest: all is well, while he is well esteemed. Reputation is the only care of false hearts; not truth of being, not conscience of merit: so they may seem fair to men, they care not how foul they are to God.

Had our Saviour only had this knowledge at the second hand, this boldness had been enough to make him suspect the credit of the best intelligence. Who could imagine, that a guilty man dared thus browbeat a just accusation? Now, he, whose piercing and unfailing eyes see things as they are, not as they seem, can peremptorily convince the impudence of this hollow questionist, with a direct affirmation; Thou hast said.

Foolish traitor! couldst thou think that those blear eyes of thine would endure the beams of the sun; or that counterfeit slip, the fire? Was it not sufficient for thee to be secretly vicious, but thou must presume to contest with an Omniscient accuser? Hast thou yet enough? Thou supposedst thy crime unknown. To men it was so; had thy Master been no more, it had been so to him: now his knowledge argues him Divine. How durst thou yet resolve to lift up thy hand against him, who knows thine offence, and can either prevent or revenge it?

As yet the charge was private, either not heard, or not observed by thy fellows: it shall be at first whispered to one, and at last known to all. Bashful and penitent sinners are fit to be concealed; shame is meet for those, that have none.

Curiosity of knowledge is an old disease of human nature: besides, Peter's zeal would not let him dwell under the danger of so doubtful a crimination; he cannot but sit on thorns, till he know the man. His signs ask, what his voice dare not.

What law requires all followers to be equally beloved? Why may not our favours be freely dispensed where we like best, without envy, without prejudice? None of Christ's train could com

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plain of neglect; John is highest in grace. Blood, affection, zeal, diligence have endeared him, above his fellows.

He, that is dearest in respect, is next in place: in that form of side-sitting at the table, he leaned on the bosom of Jesus.

Where is more love, there may be more boldness. This secresy and entireness privileges John to ask that safely, which Peter might not without much inconvenience and peril of a check. The beloved disciple well understands this silent language, and dares put Peter's thought into words. Love shutteth out fear. O Saviour, the confidence of thy goodness emboldens us, not to shrink at any suit. Thy love shed abroad in our hearts bids us ask that, which in a stranger were no better than presumption.

Once, when Peter asked thee a question concerning John, What shall this man do? he received a short answer, What is that to thee? Now, when John asks thee a question, no less seemingly curious, at Peter's instance, Who is it, that betrays thee? however thou mightest have returned him the same answer, since neither of their persons was any more concerned, yet thou condescendest to a mild and full, though secret satisfaction. There was not so much difference in the men, as in the matter of the demand. No occasion was given to Peter of moving that question concerning John: the indefinite assertion of treason amongst the disciples, was a most just occasion of moving John's question for Peter and himself.

That, which, therefore, was timorously demanded, is answered graciously; He it is, to whom I shall give a sop, when I have dipped it. And he gave the sop to Judas. How loth was our Saviour to name him, whom he was not unwilling to design! All is here expressed by dumb signs. The hand speaks, what the tongue would not. In the same language, wherein Peter asked the question of John, doth our Saviour shape an answer to John: what a beck demanded, is answered by a sop.

O Saviour, I do not hear thee say, "Look on whomsoever I frown, or to whomsoever I do a public affront, that is the man;" but, To whomsoever I shall give a sop. Surely a bystander would have thought this man deep in thy books; and would have construed this act, as they did thy tears for Lazarus, See how he loves him. To carve a man out of thine own dish, what could it seem to argue, but a singularity of respect? Yet, lo, there is but one whom thou hatest, one only traitor at thy board; and thou givest him a sop. The outward gifts of God are not always the proofs of his love; yea, sometimes are bestowed in displeasure. Had not he been a wise disciple, that should have envied the great favour done to Judas, and have stomached his own preterition? So foolish are they, who, measuring God's affection by temporal benefits, are ready to applaud prospering wickedness; and to grudge outward blessings to them, which are incapable of any better.

After the sop, Satan entered into Judas. Better had it been for that treacherous disciple, to have wanted that morsel: not that there was any malignity in the bread, or that the sop had any

power to convey Satan into the receiver, or that by a necessary concomitance that Evil Spirit was in or with it. Favours ill used make the heart more capable of further evil. That Wicked Spirit commonly takes occasion by any of God's gifts, to assault us the more eagerly. After our sacramental morsel, if we be not the better, we are sure the worse. I dare not say, yet I dare think, that Judas, comparing his Master's words and John's whisperings with the tender of this sop, and finding himself thus denoted, was now so much the more irritated to perform, what he had wickedly purposed. Thus Satan took advantage by the sop, of a further possession. Twice before, had that Evil Spirit made a palpable entry into that lewd heart: first, in his covetousness and theft; those sinful habits could not be without that author of ill: then, in his damnable resolution, and plot of so heinous a conspiracy against Christ. Yet now, as if it were new to begin, After the sop, Satan entered. As in every gross sin which we entertain, we give harbour to that Evil Spirit; so in every degree of growth in wickedness, new hold is taken by him of the heart. No sooner is the foot over the threshold, than we enter into the house: when we pass thence into the inner rooms, we make still but a perfect entrance. At first Satan entered, to make the house of Judas's heart his own; now he enters into it as his own. The first purpose of sin opens the gates to Satan: consent admits him into the entry: full resolution of sin gives up the keys to his hands, and puts him into absolute possession.

What a plain difference there is, betwixt the regenerate and evil heart! Satan lays siege to the best by his temptations; and sometimes, upon battery and breach made, enters: the other admits him by willing composition. When he is entered upon the regenerate, he is entertained with perpetual skirmishes; and, by a holy violence, at last repulsed: in the other, he is plausibly received, and freely commandeth.

O the admirable meekness of this Lamb of God! I see not a frown, I hear not a check; but, What thou doest, do quickly. Why do we startle at our petty wrongs, and swell with anger, and break into furious revenges upon every occasion, when the Pattern of our Patience lets not fall one harsh word upon so foul and bloody a traitor? Yea, so fairly is this carried, that the disciples as yet can apprehend no change; they innocently think of commodities to be bought when Christ speaks of their Master sold, and, as one that longs to be out of pain, hastens the pace of his irreclaimable conspirator, That thou doest, do quickly. It is one thing to say, " Do what thou intendest," and another to say, Do quickly, what thou doest. There was villainy in the deed; the speed had no sin. The time was harmless, while the man, and the act, was wicked. O Judas, how happy had it been for thee, if thou hadst never done, what thou perfidiously intendedst! but since thou wilt needs do it, delay is but a torment.

That steely heart yet relents not. The obfirmed traitor knows way to the high priest's hall, and to the garden. The watch

word is already given, Hail, Master, and a kiss. Yet more hypocrisy yet more presumption upon so overstrained a lenity? How knewest thou, O thou false traitor, whether that Sacred Cheek would suffer itself to be defiled with thine impure touch? Thou well foundst thy treachery was unmasked. Thy heart could not be so false to thee, as not to tell thee how hateful thou wert. Go, kiss and adore those silverlings, which thou art too sure of: the Master, whom thou hast sold, is not thine.

But O the impudence of a deplored sinner! That tongue, which hath agreed to sell his Master, dares say, Hail; and those lips, that have passed the compact of his death, dare offer to kiss him, whom they had covenanted to kill. It was God's charge of old, Kiss the Son, lest he be angry. O Saviour, thou hadst reason to be angry with this kiss; the scourges, the thorns, the nails, the spear of thy murderers, were not so painful, so piercing, as this touch of Judas: all these were in this one alone. The stabs of an enemy cannot be so grievous, as the skin-deep wounds of a disciple. Matthew xxvi. Mark xiv. Luke xxii. John xviii.

THE AGONY.

WHAT a preface do I find to my Saviour's Passion! a Hymn, and an Agony a cheerful Hymn, and an Agony no less sorrowful. A Hymn begins, both to raise and testify the courageous resolutions of his suffering; an Agony follows, to shew that he was truly sensible of those extremities, wherewith he was resolved to grapple.

All the disciples bore their part in that Hymn; it was fit they should all see his comfortable and Divine Magnanimity, wherewith he entered into those sad lists: only three of them shall be allowed to be the witnesses of his Agony; only those three, that had been the witnesses of his glorious Transfiguration. That sight had well forearmed and prepared them for this: how could they be dismayed to see his trouble, who there saw his Majesty? How could they be dismayed to see his body now sweat, which they had then seen to shine? How could they be daunted to see him now accosted with Judas and his train, whom they then saw attended with Moses and Elias? How could they be discouraged to hear the reproaches of base men, when they had heard the voice of God to him from that excellent glory, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased?

Now, before these eyes, this sun begins to be overcast with clouds; He began to be sorrowful and very heavy. Many sad thoughts for mankind had he secretly hatched, and yet smothered in his own breast; now, his grief is too great to keep in: My sout is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death. O Saviour, what must thou needs feel, when thou saidst so? Feeble minds are apt to bemoan themselves upon light occasions: the grief must needs be violent, that causeth a strong heart to break forth into a passionate complaint. Woe is me, what a word is this for the Son of God! Where is that Comforter, which thou promisedst to send to others?

Where is that thy Father of all Mercies and God of all Comfort, in whose presence is the fulness of joy, and at whose right hand there are pleasures for evermore? Where are those constant and cheerful resolutions, of a fearless walking through the valley of the shadow of death? Alas! if that face were not hid from thee whose essence could not be disunited, these pangs could not have been. The sun was withdrawn awhile, that there might be a cool, though not a dark night, as in the world, so in thy breast; withdrawn in respect of sight, not of being. It was the hardest piece of thy sufferings, that thou must be disconsolate.

But to whom dost thou make this moan, O thou Saviour of Men ? Hard is that man driven, that is fain to complain to his inferiors. Had Peter, or James, or John thus bewailed himself to thee, there had been ease to their soul in venting itself; thou hadst been both apt to pity them, and able to relieve them: but now, in that thou lamentest thy case to them, alas! what issue couldst thou expect? They might be astonished with thy grief; but there is neither power in their hands to free thee from those sorrows, nor power in their compassion to mitigate them. Nay, in this condition what could all the angels of heaven, as of themselves, do to succour thee? What strength could they have but from thee? What creature can help, when thou complainest? It must be only the stronger, that can aid the weak.

Old and holy Simeon could foresay to thy Blessed Mother, that a sword should pierce through her soul; but, alas! how many swords at once pierce thine! Every one of these words is both sharp and edged; My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death. What human soul is capable of the conceit of the least of those sorrows, that oppressed thine? It was not thy body, that suffered now; the pain of body is but as the body of pain: the anguish of the soul is as the soul of anguish. That, and in that thou suf+ feredst: where are they, that dare so far disparage thy sorrow, as to say thy soul suffered only in sympathy with thy body; not immediately, but by participation; not in itself, but in its partner? Thou best knewest, what thou feltest; and thou, that feltest thine own pain, canst cry out of thy soul. Neither didst thou say, My soul is troubled;" so it often was, even to tears: but, My soul is sorrowful; as if it had been before assaulted, now possessed with grief. Nor yet this in any tolerable moderation; changes of passion are incident to every human soul; but, Exceeding sorrowful. Yet there are degrees in the very extremities of evils: those, that are most vehement, may yet be capable of a remedy, at least a relaxation; thine was past these hopes, Exceeding sorrowful unto death.

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What was it, what could it be, O Saviour, that lay thus heavy upon thy Divine Soul? Was it the fear of death? Was it the forefelt pain, shame, torment of thine ensuing crucifixion? O poor and base thoughts of the narrow hearts of cowardly and impotent mortality! How many thousands of thy blessed Martyrs have welcomed no less tortures, with smiles and gratulations; and have

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