November 5

"If it die, it bringeth forth much fruit."—John 12:24.

OUT in the fields Christ finds for me the pattern of the highest consecration. Except a corn of wheat, He told the Greeks,—the Greeks who craved a joyous life,—fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone.

Of Himself He speaks. He is the grain soon to be buried in the earth. For Him there is no highway to glory, no path to harvest and power, no gate into vitalising and quickening energy, but the gate and the path and the highway of death. So Jesus dedicates Himself to the mournful cross and the gloomy sepulchre.

But to me He speaks also. I must learn to die daily. I must be crucified, not only in what is sinful, but in desires and habits which seem harmless and innocent. If I would save others, I cannot save myself. If I would bless men, I must enter Gethsemane with its shadows, must climb Golgotha with its reproach. If I would fill the world with the fragrance of the precious ointment, I must be content to be a shattered cruse.

Yes, but though the knife is sharp, though the fire burns, though the draught is bitter, let me be of good comfort. Christ's Calvary has budded into wondrous fertility; His death has given life to a great multitude which no man can number. When I drink of His cup, He turns me to good account. There is a winning power about disciples who have fallen into the ground, and died, and risen again. It is the humblest who are strongest. It is those who most deny themselves who are crowned most with influence. Flowers out of frost and plenty out of pain: it is His rule for me no less than for Himself.