March 1

"He loved them to the uttermost."—John 13:1 (R.V., margin).

THIS is love in its essence, love in its consummate blossom and fruit, love in its ultimate and final perfection.

The love of Jesus bends very low. It travels from heaven to earth, and there is no science which can compute that distance. It seeks out the chief of sinners, and there is no philanthropy which is not poor beside that surpassing generosity. It is not ashamed even of me—me in my remoteness and my sin.

The love of Jesus gives very much. It wins my pardon, although my transgressions are scarlet in their dye and countless in their multitude. It brings me holiness, although my sanctification is a problem that passes the wit of man. It fills my cup to overflowing with the rich and gladdening wine of heaven.

The love of Jesus suffers very sore. It was not by some word of kingly majesty alone—it was not easily and in a moment—that He made me the possessor of these incalculable blessings. God spared not His own Son. The Son spared not Himself. There was no shame which He did not bear for me. There was no loneliness nor bitterness from which He shrank.

The love of Jesus lasts very long. Who shall separate me from it? Life will not, with its manifold moods and changes. Death will not, with its icy chill. Eternity will not, with its unending years. Man loves for a summer's day; slight love is his to lend; but Christ loves me from everlasting to everlasting.

It is the summum bonum—this love of Jesus, my Lord. "How sweet," cried one of the saints, "is the wind that bloweth out of the quarter where Christ is!"