November 30

“He answered him nothing.”—Luke 23:9.

IT is His punishment of long-continued sin. If a man is joined to his idols, if he clings perseveringly to his darling iniquities, if he persists year in and year out in hearkening to the voice of his passions rather than to the voice of God, there comes a time when the Spirit of the Lord strives no longer, and when even the merciful Saviour has not a word to say. There is not room for sin and for Christ side by side in the citadel of my life.

It is His rebuke of idle curiosity. No higher motive prompted Herod, when Jesus confronted him, than a superficial inquisitiveness and wonder. When my heart cries out, What must I do? Christ will not fail to respond to my appeal and to give me peace. But when my mind is only momentarily excited and stirred, I have none of the qualities He will bless. I am living in a fool’s paradise; and how can He help and save one who is so indifferent?

It is His sentence on scepticism and scorn. Herod was an unbeliever, a scoffer, who laughed at all earnestness, and who lived without God in the world. It is the ultimate penalty of such infidelity that at last the heavens are impregnable iron and brass overhead, and no word of the Lord breaks the dreary stillness. May I never know the awful loneliness and desertion! May I never look up for the divine Eye, and find only an empty, black, bottomless socket!

I would put far off from me Herod’s temper of soul. I would make sure that nothing in me hinders Him from speaking, whose word awakens the new day and stirs the new song. I would rather miss all other melodies and concords than lose the music of His voice.

December.

THE TRUE SHEPHERD.

SHALL one be scourged by wind and tide,

While ninety-nine are warm asleep?

Dost Thou remember with what pride,

"The Shepherd dieth for His sheep,"

Thou saidst, and none denied?

Here it is sweet. The stars are sweet;

The dews are falling, heavy with scent;

And winged folk go on silvery feet,

Tending Thy white flock innocent;

And days and nights are fleet.

But even now one perisheth,—

Yea, Shepherd, even a lamb of Thine.

Lo! the wolf crieth, drunk with death,

And this is caught in marsh and brine,

And no man succoureth.

Nay, wilt Thou go? Then, Lord, return

At dawn, when many stars are red—

Stained at the heart and pierced with scorn,

But on Thy breast that helpless head,

Over which Thou dost yearn.

KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON.