Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: THE OLIVE LEAF]
[Illustration: HOUSE BEAUTIFUL BY A • L • O • E]
[Illustration: THE ARK OF BULRUSHES]
THOMAS NELSON & SONS
LONDON, EDINBURGH AND NEW YORK
[Illustration]
HOUSE BEAUTIFUL;
OR,
The Bible Museum.
By
A. L. O. E.
Authoress of "The Shepherd of Bethlehem," "Exiles in Babylon,"
"Rescued from Egypt," & c.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
————————
1868.
[Illustration: PREFACE]
THE narrative portions of the Holy Scriptures are full of striking
biographies of those whose virtues are set before us as examples, or
whose errors as warnings. We are led, as it were, into a Gallery of
Portraits, drawn with faultless accuracy by a sunbeam. But besides
these portraits, there are many objects of deep interest for the
student of Scripture, the accounts of which have been "written for our
learning," objects which we are intended to contemplate with earnest
attention, and from which we may draw rich spiritual lessons. Such
are Noah's Ark, the Brazen Serpent, the Manna from Heaven, which have
been commented upon by apostles, and by our Saviour Himself. If the
biographies in the Bible form the Portrait Gallery of Scripture, such
objects as those to which I have referred—gathered together for our
contemplation—suggest the idea of a Museum, and we are reminded of the
instruction which Bunyan represents to have been gained from such in
House Beautiful. I have never yet met with a work in which a number of
such objects have been specially collected for the contemplation of
Christians, and it has occurred to me that such a volume of reflections
might assist us more vividly to realize much of what is contained in
the Word of God.
Come then with me, my Christian reader, and let us examine together
some of those ancient objects rescued by the inspired writers from
oblivion, and undimmed by the dust of many ages. Let us not handle them
with superstitious reverence as relics, but make use of them to raise
our minds from the absorbing cares and pleasures of the present, to
holy musings on the past. May the Spirit of Wisdom and Truth assist us
in our meditations, and increase our deep reverence for those sacred
Scriptures in which these objects of interest are preserved.
A. L. O. E.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: CONTENTS]
I. FORBIDDEN FRUIT
II. CAIN'S OFFERING
III. NOAH'S OLIVE LEAF
IV. ABRAHAM'S TENT
V. HAGAR'S BOTTLE
VI. JACOB'S PILLOW
VII. THE COAT OF MANY COLOURS
VIII. THE ARK OF BULRUSHES
IX. PHARAOH'S CHARIOT
X. THE TABLES OF STONE
XI. THE HIGH PRIEST'S MITRE
XII. THE HIGH PRIEST'S MITRE,—_Continued_
XIII. BALAAM'S STAFF
XIV. RAHAB'S SCARLET CORD
XV. GIDEON'S EPHOD
XVI. THE JAWBONE OF AN ASS
XVII. RUTH'S BARLEY-EARS
XVIII. JOB'S SACKCLOTH
XIX. DAGON'S STUMP
XX. SAUL'S SPEAR
XXI. JONATHAN'S BOW
XXII. DAVID'S HARP
XXIII. ABSALOM'S HAIR
XXIV. SEED CORN FROM BARZILLAI'S GIFT
XXV. TEMPLE LILY WORK
XXVI. THE WIDOW'S CRUSE
XXVII. ELIJAH'S LETTER
XXVIII. JONAH'S GOURD
XXIX. THE FETTERS OF MANASSEH
XXX. THE DEED OF PURCHASE
XXXI. JEHOIAKIM'S KNIFE
XXXII. THE RAGS OF EBEDMELECH
XXXIII. THE GOLDEN SCEPTRE
XXXIV. A VESSEL OF THE TEMPLE
XXXV. THE TRUMPET OF NEHEMIAH
XXXVI. WRITING TABLE OF ZACHARIAS
XXXVII. THE MANGER
XXXVIII. THE APOSTLES' NET
XXXIX. THE BED OF THE PARALYTIC
XL. THE CROSS
XLI. THE STONE AT THE SEPULCHRE
THE QUEEN AND THE TWELVE NAMES
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
HOUSE BEAUTIFUL
I.
Forbidden Fruit.
CAN this object, so small, so beautiful, be yet through its effects
more deadly than any weapon of war ever forged for man's destruction,
more deadly than the poison-flask, the dagger, or the thunderbolt! It
lies before us fresh and fair as when, nearly six thousand years ago,
it hung amongst the green foliage of Paradise, more beautiful than any
fragrant peach on which the last ripening sunbeam glows in a now fallen
world.
On the fruit of Eden, which could so lightly yield to Eve's touch, and
be marked by the soft pressure of her fingers, we see not the trail of
the serpent; it is goodly to look upon, and what mortal dare say that
had he been in the place of our first parents, the fair but fatal fruit
would have hung untasted on the bough? In looking on it, how awful a
lesson we learn of the poisonous nature of what we dare to call "little
sins!"
Who amongst us, beholding Eve in her beauty plucking the fruit which
tempted her eye, would not have been ready to have echoed the first
lie ever breathed on our planet, "thou shalt not surely die." Bright,
guileless, and, until now, sinless being; God will not severely judge
thee, He has threatened, but He will not perform.
Is not the same deluding idea at the bottom of all our carelessness,
our neglect of duty, our grasping at forbidden pleasure? "Thou shalt
not surely die" has been the whisper of the Tempter from Eve's time
till now. Let us answer him by pointing to that fruit. Was not the
death of myriads enclosed, as it were, in its rind? Could the stain
left by its fatal juice be washed out by floods of tears or rivers of
blood? Had no sin but that one sin of plucking it been ever committed
upon earth, could that sin have been atoned for by anything less than
the sacrifice of an Incarnate God?
Sin stands not alone by itself: as the seed is contained in the fruit,
so one transgression is the parent of many. Coveting what God had
withheld, longing for a luxury forbidden, ambitiously aiming at gaining
knowledge which should make her independent as a God, Eve at once
received into her heart "the lust of the eye, the lust of the flesh,
and the pride of life." They came as guests—to remain as tyrants. When
we feel their influence within ourselves, when covetousness, love of
pleasure, or pride of intellect would draw us from our lowly allegiance
to God, from our simple obedience to His word, let us look on the
forbidden fruit and tremble—let us look on it, and watch and pray.
The fruit of knowledge still,
Plucked by pride, may death distil.
When we make of intellect an idol; when we exalt reason above
revelation, and would draw down God's hidden mysteries to the level of
our finite comprehension, we are putting forth our hand, like Eve, to
pluck and taste the forbidden fruit; forgetful of the warning of the
Saviour: "He that receiveth not the kingdom of heaven as a little child
shall in no wise enter therein."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
II.
Cain's Offering.
MORE of the fruits of the earth are here, though no longer the fruit
of Eden. These, too, are rich and beautiful, and a special interest
attaches to them, for they are the offering made to God by the first
man who was ever born into a sinful world.
Have we ever realized the feelings with which Adam and his wife
must have watched the dawn of intellect in their firstborn son, or
the mingled grief, shame, and hope, with which they would tell him
the history of the Fall, and the mysterious promise linked with the
sentence passed upon them by the righteous Judge? Did young Cain share
the hope, which appears at one time to have been his mother's, that he
should be the one to whom it would be given to set his foot upon the
Serpent's head, and crush the Enemy of his race? We know not whether
such thought as this ever passed through the mind of the boy, but he
never seems to have entered, like his younger brother, into the solemn
meaning of sacrifice for sin.
Cain was not one to neglect all forms of religion; he had his
thank-offering for the God of Nature. It is possible that when he
looked around him on swelling fruits and ripening grain, and found
the earth beneath the labour of his hands yield thirty, sixty, or a
hundredfold, a feeling both of adoration and of gratitude may have
stirred within his soul. "Cain brought of the fruit of the ground an
offering unto the Lord."
But the offering was not accepted. And wherefore was it not? Let us
search a little more deeply into this matter, and see, if God help us
to understand, wherefore that sacrifice of Cain was rejected, and if
there be any danger that ours may be even as his.
It is clear that the case of Cain differs from that of the man utterly
indifferent to religion; the man who cares not to make any offering
at all. There are those, bearing the name of Christians, whose purses
(readily enough opened at any call of pleasure or pride) are kept
systematically shut when God's service or His people's need require
their contributions. It may well be a startling thought for such that
they do "less than Cain."
But what was it that marred the offering of Adam's firstborn son? Why
were those mellow fragrant fruits less acceptable to God than the
bleeding lamb presented by Cain's younger brother? We have the answer
in the words of inspiration. "By faith" Abel offered unto God a more
excellent sacrifice than Cain. And what was this acceptable faith? We
cannot think that it consisted in a mere belief in the existence of
God as the Creator and Preserver of mankind, that vague belief which
now satisfies so many who deem it a proof of higher intellect and more
liberal thought to reject the peculiar doctrines of Christianity.
Doubtless Cain held such belief, yet his offering was "not" the
offering of faith.
Abel came before God in God's appointed way, as a transgressor,
seeking grace through the medium of a sacrifice. We know not how far
he understood the meaning of the rite; whether it was revealed unto
him, more or less distinctly, that the promised seed of the woman was
also to be the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world; but
whether the light granted to Abel was dim or bright, he walked by it in
faith. The fruits gathered by the hand of Cain showed no recognition of
guilt—no consciousness of needing mercy—no hope of grace to be received
through a heaven-sent deliverer. And the offering was not accepted.
If the touchstone contained in the words "by faith" were applied to
a multitude of the gifts now placed upon the altar of God, would not
many—would not most of them be found to be offerings like those of
Cain? Pause, dear reader, and think over your own. Have you helped to
raise churches, or to ornament them, to provide for orphans, to assist
needy widows, is your name on many a subscription list—your gold often
seen on the collection-plate? Do you give the fruits of your intellect
to religious work, the best of your time to charitable labours? Are you
counted an active and useful member of the church to which you belong?
All this may be, and yet it is not impossible that you are presenting
the offerings of Cain.
Are you standing in your own righteousness, labouring in your own
strength, not deeming yourself a sinner needing forgiveness, but a
saint entitled to reward? Search well your motives, look closely at
your own heart. We shall not be judged according to the verdict of the
world, that sees the action but scans not the motive, but by Him who
reads the secret thought and intent.
Herod raised a magnificent temple to the Lord God of Israel, and his
liberality may have been lauded to the skies, yet, surely, his was the
offering of Cain. Let us be fully persuaded that no sacrifice of ours
can be acceptable but as made "for" Christ, and offered through Christ,
that we need "the blood of sprinkling" both on ourselves and on our
works, if we would not find that sacrifice—these works, however great,
however highly extolled—rejected at last!
And there is another way in which we may cause our gifts to be
accounted worthless by the Lord, even when we believe them to be
offered in faith—when the proud spirit of malice, jealousy, hatred,
which was especially the spirit of Cain, is suffered to pollute even
that which we bring unto God. Theological hatred has become proverbial
for bitterness: so fierce are the disputes upon subjects of religion,
that the nature of that "faith that worketh by love" seems to be often
entirely forgotten.
If we would not tread in the steps of the first murderer, let us follow
the command of our Lord. "If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and
there rememberest that thy brother hath ought against thee; leave there
thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy
brother, and then come and offer thy gift."
Of the deepest importance is it to all who come not empty-handed
before their Creator and Judge, to examine whether faith hallows or
self-righteousness mars what they bring, whether theirs be the accepted
sacrifice of Abel or the rejected offering of Cain.
[Illustration]
III.
Noah's Olive Leaf.
PRECIOUS little leaf, symbol of hope and of peace; well worthy art
thou of being thus preserved for thousands of years, to be viewed by
generation after generation of the sons of men as a pledge of God's
lovingkindness! Far more valuable art thou, leaflet once borne in the
bill of a bird, than the glittering diadem worn by Solomon in all his
glory. With what delight wert thou once hailed by all that survived
of mankind, by the whole Church enclosed in the ark; and we can well
believe that even in Paradise the spirit of Noah dwells with pleasure
on the recollection of that moment when he first looked upon thee!
To conceive what must have been the joy felt by the patriarchs at the
sight of the first leaf from a renovated world, let us try to realize
their position when the dove flew back with that leaf in its bill.
When Noah and his family first took refuge in the ark, and the windows
of heaven were opened, and the fountains of the great deep broken up,
their emotions were doubtless those of thankfulness for deliverance and
safety, when the great judgment, so long threatened, so long expected,
had come at length on the earth. While the storm raged around them,
they were secure; the waves that swept over a guilty world could
but lift their floating home nearer to heaven! With their emotions
of thankfulness would be mixed those of sorrow, pity, regret, for
neighbours, perhaps friends and relatives, who had been warned in vain,
then perishing beneath the terrible flood. Had not God Himself shut him
in, how often would Noah have thrown wide open the door of the ark to
receive the poor struggling, drowning wretches, whose dying eyes would
be turned to that refuge which they had rejected and despised until it
was too late to seek it.
But when the flood had fulfilled its terrible mission; when no cries
of the drowning were borne on the blast; when the cataract of rain
had ceased, and the dashing of waters was heard no more; then the
excitement, the strong emotions of the family in the ark must also
have sunk into comparative rest. As the wild raging of the tempest was
exchanged for the stillness of death, and the great vessel floated
tranquilly over placid waters, and week after week, month after month
passed, without bringing a change, great and probably wearisome
monotony would pervade the life of the inmates of the ark. That which
they had at first rejoiced in as a refuge, would gradually, but
increasingly, become to them like a prison. How long were they to be
confined within its narrow bounds; when would they be permitted again
freely to tread the earth, and partake once more of its fresh produce?
If the Israelites bitterly recalled to memory the riches of the gardens
of Egypt—the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks and the onions—would no
such regrets be felt by the family of Noah? Would not woman sigh for
the flowers that she had been wont to cherish, and an inexpressible
yearning oppress all, a yearning to look once more on the green,
smiling face of nature? For how many more months, or years, were
weary eyes to rest on the same objects, counting the beams above or
the planks below of the now familiar prison? A fear might even arise
that the supply of provisions, however large at first, might fail,
and privation and want ensue. The venerable Noah may have waited with
unshaken faith and calm submission for the hour of freedom, but it
is more than probable that the younger members of his family grew
impatient under the restraint of lengthened confinement.
At last Noah opened the window of the ark and sent forth a raven. In
the monotonous routine of the life which he led, this was an event
thought worthy of record; the creature appears to have been sent as a
messenger, and its return must have been anxiously awaited. But never
again did the dark bird re-enter the ark which he once had quitted.
Again Noah sent forth a bird, a dove; but in the beautiful language of
Scripture, "the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she
returned unto him into the ark, for the waters were on the face of the
whole earth: then he put forth his hand, and took her, and pulled her
in unto him into the ark."
Not yet had come the signal for release; patience had not yet had its
perfect work; the fathers of mankind, the inheritors of the world, must
wait longer ere entering into possession. Seven times the sun rose and
set ere the dove was sent forth again by Noah. But this time the gleam
of the silver wing was to bring joy to the waiting patriarch: "The
dove came in to him in the evening; and, lo, in her mouth was an olive
leaf pluckt off: so Noah knew that the waters were abated from off the
earth." When was earthly treasure ever received with the rapturous
welcome given to that leaf; the first brought from a world new-born, as
it were, from the dead!
If we regard the Church of Christ as the ark floating now on the
troublous waters of the world, the story of Noah's olive leaf becomes
a beautiful parable. "How long, Lord, how long," has been for ages the
weary cry of the people of God, waiting and watching for the final
deliverance and restitution of all things. They are "safe," for they
rest in Christ, but the heirs of the new heaven and the new earth may
seem to wait in vain. Unbelief suggests the discouraging thought,
"since the fathers fell asleep all things continue as they were from
the beginning of the creation." Virtue still suffers; evil still
spreads; sin and sorrow, like the waters of the flood, are covering the
face of the earth.
But there is an olive leaf still for the family of God in the ark.
It is the Saviour's promise, "I will come again and receive you unto
Myself." To find it and bear it home is not granted to mere human
reason, however keen of eye and strong of wing: the raven brought not
the emblem of hope. It is the Dove, the Heavenly Comforter alone who
brings to the waiting Church, to each weary individual heart, the
pledge and promise of a glorious inheritance, when Christ shall return
to throw wide open the bolted door, and bid His redeemed come forth to
rejoice and to reign for ever!
Has the Dove, dear Reader, brought that olive leaf to your soul; have
you rejoiced in the promise? Are you eagerly looking for Him, whom,
not having seen, you have loved; and is His word, "I will come again,"
more precious to you than thousands of silver and gold? Well may the
Christian, looking to the promise, adopt the language of the poet,— *
Oh! who could bear life's stormy doom,
Did not Thy Heavenly Dove
Come brightly bearing through the gloom
A peace-branch from above!
Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray,
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day.
* Slightly altered from Moore.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IV.
Abraham's Tent.
WE experience natural pleasure in visiting spots celebrated in history.
Though corn may wave, and fruit ripen over the scene of some celebrated
battle, we cannot look with indifference on the scene where was once
held a world-famous struggle for freedom. No modern palace would have
the interest which would be attached to the ruin of one which had been
trodden by famous monarchs of old. Were there buildings remaining of
which it could be said, "here Alexander planned his conquests;" or
"there Cyrus administered justice;" we should regard such buildings,
however crumbling and defaced, as places gilded by memories which time
could never destroy.
But no palace of monarch, no fortress of hero, could ever wake in us
such feelings of reverence as a tent of black goat's hair, such as
those which the nomade descendants of Abraham now pitch on the sands
of Arabia, if it could be certified to us,—"here dwelt the father of
the faithful; he who in Scripture is called the friend of God. In that
doorway sat the venerable patriarch in the heat of the day, when,
raising his eyes, he beheld three mysterious visitors from Heaven stand
before him. Behind yon curtain Sarah listened with eager interest to
the conversation between her lord and the angel, laughing to herself
at tidings which she would not at first believe. There also, when time
had rolled on, she laughed with joy over the babe, the promised gift
of God; the child from whom should descend a race as the stars in the
sky or the sands by the sea for number. It was there that Abraham first
embraced his Isaac, and blessed God for the fulfilment of that promise
which faith had grasped, when the aged man had 'against hope believed
in hope.'"
Though the patriarch's tent was most unlike our own habitations, and
though the dwelling of a wealthy sheik would contain fewer comforts
than many an English cottage, we turn to it for lessons of what a home
should be in all climates, and through all ages. Not that it can be
altogether a model even as regards the conduct of its inmates; Sarah's
chidings, Hagar's scorn, and Ishmael's mockings must not be forgotten;
but in four respects, at least, the tent of Abraham offers a scene
which we may contemplate with reverence and profit.
Firstly, it was the dwelling of faith. Wherever its stakes were driven
in, its cords stretched, its curtains spread, there rose a habitation
in which God was truly worshipped. The ground upon which it stood
became in a manner holy. Could that tent speak, of what fervent
prayers, what wrestling faith, what earnest adoration, could it tell,
and that at a time when idolatry had spread over almost all the earth!
In the midst of darkness a bright light shone from that tent; a light
which has never been, and never will be, extinguished.
Are our homes thus centres of light? Is God, the God of Abraham, Isaac,
and Jacob, thus constantly honoured in them? Could the word spoken of
the patriarch be also spoken, reader, of thee? "I know him, that he
will command his children and his household after him, and they shall
keep the way of the Lord, to do justice and judgment." Had thy walls a
voice, what witness would they bear to earnest pleadings in secret, or
humble devotion in family prayer?
Again,—Abraham's tent was the abode of conjugal, parental, and filial
affection. Sarah, with all her faults, is held up to us as a model
wife. Though, even in advanced life, celebrated for exquisite beauty,
Sarah's adorning appears to have been no "outward adorning of plaiting
the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel; she
obeyed Abraham, calling him lord," yielding loving reverence to her
husband. Isaac was brought up in the nurture and admonition of the
Lord; and his obedience to God, and submission to his aged parent,
were alike shown when he suffered himself to be bound, an unresisting
victim, on the altar of sacrifice.
In these days, when a spirit of lawless independence sometimes pervades
even the nursery, and wives too often forget that they have vowed to
honour and obey as well as to love, it is well that we should let our
thoughts dwell awhile in the tent of Abraham, to see that a home should
be as a monarchy, governed by laws of love, the husband and father a
wise beneficent ruler, emphatically a power "ordained of God."
Again: Abraham's tent reminds us of the duty of hospitality—that
hospitality without grudging, which alone is worthy of the title; not
that interchange of worldly courtesies—that asking in order to be asked
again—that ostentation which consumes at one luxurious meal what would
suffice to feed starving multitudes. Never let the name of hospitality
be profaned by being applied to such entertainments as these. But the
hearty welcome given even to strangers, the readiness to spread the
meal for the guest who may never be able to return the kindness, these
we learn from the patriarch. Abraham "entertained angels unawares;" and
the same may be said of many of those who exercise hospitality in a
spirit like his. In one sense the Lord of angels visits the dwellings
of those who welcome His servants for His sake. It is a privilege and
an honour to entertain the humblest of His saints; for He hath said,
"Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these My brethren, ye did it
unto Me."
Lastly, let us regard our dwellings, as Abraham did his, as a
tabernacle rather than as a settled home. Here we have no continuing
city, but we seek one to come. Let not our hearts cling too closely to
an earthly habitation, as if it were to be ours for ever, but let us
rather remember that, like the family of Abraham, we are strangers and
pilgrims on the earth:
"Here in the body pent,
Absent from Heaven we roam,
But nightly pitch our wandering tent,
A day's march nearer home."
Yes; for not only our dwellings, but even these our mortal bodies are
but tabernacles, to be taken down and laid aside, to be exchanged for a
building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.
In the meantime let us pray that they may be the abodes of peace and
joy and love, and that the Holy Spirit may be our guest, not as one who
tarries but awhile and departs, but as one who comes to abide with us
always.
[Illustration]
V.
Hagar's Bottle.
AN empty skin-bottle is before us, such as is used by Orientals to the
present day to carry what they emphatically term "the gift of God;" a
title to which our Saviour appears to have alluded when He said to the
woman of whom He had asked water, "If thou knewest the gift of God;"
seeking to raise her thoughts from the earthly well to the heavenly
Fountain.
Of the value of water in the wilderness, we, in our moist climate,
can scarcely form an adequate conception. Let me briefly quote from
a description of travelling in an Arabian desert, given by a graphic
author: * "On either hand extended one weary plain in a black monotony
of lifelessness . . . A dreary land of death, in which even the face
of an enemy were almost a relief amid such utter solitude . . . Day
after day found us urging our camels to their utmost pace, for fifteen
or sixteen hours together out of the twenty-four, under a well-nigh
vertical sun . . . Then an insufficient halt for rest or sleep, at
most of two or three hours, soon interrupted by the often repeated
admonition, 'If we linger here we all die of thirst.'"
* Palgrave.
But the scene which rises before us, the wilderness of Beersheba, is
not peopled with pilgrims and travellers urging on their weary camels;
there are but two figures in it—an exhausted, grief-stricken woman, and
the fainting lad at her side. That skin-bottle is in her hands—empty.
She has watched it shrinking as the precious fluid within was gradually
used, or wasted by evaporation; dry and parched as is her own tongue,
she has feared to relieve her burning thirst lest she should too soon
exhaust the priceless treasure. With a sickening feeling of fear Hagar
has given the last draught to her Ishmael; and then, with faint hope,
squeezed the skin hard with her feverish hands, trying to press out one
more drop—but in vain. She looks anxiously around her, but can see no
means of refilling that empty bottle.
Then, in anguish, Hagar turns from the parched shrub under which she
has cast her son; she wanders away—but let the account be given in the
touching words of Scripture: "She went and sat her down over against
him a good way off, as it were a bowshot: for she said, Let me not see
the death of the child. And she sat over against him, and lift up her
voice, and wept."
While Hagar was weeping, her son appears to have been praying; for
it is written, "God heard the voice of the lad." Ishmael's cry was
answered: "The angel of God called to Hagar out of heaven, and said
unto her, What aileth thee, Hagar? fear not; for God hath heard the
voice of the lad where he is. And God opened her eyes, and she saw a
well of water; and she went, and filled the bottle with water, and gave
the lad drink." When the cool bubbling liquid filled out the swelling
skin-bottle in the hand of the rejoicing, thankful mother, as she bent
eagerly over the well, far more emphatically than the first supply was
it to her—the gift of God.
There are times when life appears to us as the wilderness of Beersheba
did to Hagar and Ishmael. Our troubles may have been of our own making;
like the proud youth who had mocked at his brother, we may, perhaps, be
able to trace our sorrows to their source in our sin; but whether it
be so or not, we stand in a dry, thirsty land, where no water is; we
seem to have drained our last drop of earthly enjoyment—our lips are
parched—our bottle is empty—we feel that we can but lie down and die!
Few pass the meridian of life, perhaps few reach it, without knowing
something of this desolation of heart, this emptiness of all joy.
Blessed to Ishmael was the trouble which made him cry unto the Lord;
blessed to us these disappointments which dry up our cherished
supplies, if in our baffled thirst for happiness we turn to our Saviour
in prayer. The same God who gave to Hagar a well in the desert has
also a message of mercy for us: "Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye
to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea,
come, buy wine and milk without money and without price." Would we
seek more specific direction to the Fountain that bursts forth in the
desert, to change that desert to an Eden, and supply our deep thirst
for peace and joy? The Saviour Himself repeats the invitation; "If any
man thirst, let him come unto Me and drink."
What do we need, dear brethren in affliction, to make us come unto Him
in whom the weary find refreshment, and the broken-hearted peace? We
need that by the Spirit "our eyes should be opened." The Fountain is
near us, but we see it not until then. We view the bare waste around
us, the withered hopes that strew it; we vainly try to press out one
more drop of pleasure from the earthly vessel which once held it, and
find the bottle utterly empty and dry. In such moments of dreariness,
O Thou who art the Comforter indeed, Thou who canst fill up the empty
void, and satisfy the aching soul with abundance, come to us, speak
to us, open our eyes to behold the depths of Thy lovingkindness; lead
us beside the still waters, and let the promise of our Redeemer be
graciously fulfilled unto us: "He that cometh unto Me shall never
hunger, and he that believeth on Me shall never thirst."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VI.
Jacob's Pillow.
LET us linger before this ancient stone, used first by the benighted
patriarch as a resting-place for his head; then raised and anointed by
his hands in the morning, as a solemn memorial of a night to be much
remembered by him through all his mortal life, and beyond it. If we may
judge of the previous spiritual state of Jacob by his conduct towards
his father and brother, we shall be inclined to date his conversion to
God, the new birth of his soul, to that midnight hour when the wanderer
dreamed his glorious dream.
Some of the ideas suggested by Jacob's pillow have been embodied in a
beautiful hymn.
"If, in my wanderings,
My sun go down,
Darkness encompass me,
My rest a stone,—
Still in my dreams I'll be
Nearer, my God, to Thee—
Nearer to Thee!
"Then let my ways appear
Steps unto heaven;
All that Thou sendest me,
In mercy given;
Angels to beckon me,
Nearer, my God, to Thee—
Nearer to Thee!
"Then, with my waking thoughts
Bright with Thy praise,
Out of my stony griefs
Bethels I'll raise;
Still by my woes to be
Nearer, my God, to Thee—
Nearer to Thee!"
But a yet deeper meaning seems to be given to the sacred dream by the
words of our Saviour, if it be indeed to Jacob's ladder that they
allude as type. "Verily, verily, I say unto you, Hereafter ye shall see
heaven open, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the
Son of man." What the patriarch beheld in a dream, faith views as a
glorious reality. Christ, by His incarnation, linked heaven with earth;
by His ascension, joined earth to heaven. He formed a pathway of light,
by which the angels ascend and descend. Wherever we receive first into
our hearts this glorious truth—first look unto the Saviour as the Way,
the Truth, and the Life—that place becomes to us as memory's holy
ground, and we can say, as the patriarch said, "This is none other but
the house of God—this is the gate of heaven."
Jacob's pillow and his mysterious dream naturally suggest to us
meditation on the ministry of angels, of which glimpses are given to us
ever and anon in Holy Writ. The bright tenants of a world unseen may be
hovering near us, when we have little thought of their presence.
How wondrous was the scene that opened on the servant of Elisha, when,
at a time of imminent peril, the prophet's prayer, "Lord, open his
eyes, that he may see," was granted! With chariots and horses the
fierce enemy was encompassing the city; but lo! Above, a defence,
before invisible, was seen to girdle round the prophet: horses and
chariots of fire, the legions of Heaven, guarded the servant of God,
and no puny arm of flesh had power to hurt one hair of his head. Were
our eyes thus enabled to behold the spirits of light, we might see
bright winged visitors entering, as familiar guests, the lowly cottage,
the attic, the cellar—abodes which proud, luxurious sons of dust would
not stoop to enter; we might see angels still encouraging a Peter in
prison, refreshing a weary Elisha, rejoicing over a repentant sinner,
or bending with celestial smiles over a dying Lazarus, waiting for
the signal to welcome a seraph new-born to the skies. But on whatever
missions of love these bright beings may come to our earth, we owe
their ministry to the Lord of angels: they are "descending upon the Son
of man."
And we have our "ascending" angels too—those whose upward flight we
fain would follow—blest ones, whom we dare not even wish to detain, as
they mount:
"Onward to the glory,
Upward to the prize,
Homeward to the mansions
Far beyond the skies!"
Our eyes are dim with tears, as in vain we try to track their course,
lost in a haze of glory; but this we own, with thankful hearts—they owe
their exaltation to the King of saints alone: angels are "ascending,"
as well as "descending, upon the Son of man."
In the dark, bitter gloom of bereavement, we rest our aching heads on
the tombstone which covers the relics of one most dear, peacefully
sleeping in Jesus. Like Jacob, we feel benighted and alone. But if, in
the midnight of sorrow, God reveal Himself to us as He revealed Himself
to the patriarch, even that stone will become to us as a Bethel. Does
it bear the dear name of our dead—no, rather a name that is written,
we trust, in God's Book of Life! Above the stone rises the ladder of
light; its foot may rest in the grave, but its summit is hidden in the
radiance of Heaven.
[Illustration]
VII.
The Coat of Many Colours.
A MOURNFUL relic this, all torn and stained, defiled with dust, and
blood, and tears! We seem to hear the wail of the miserable father, as
with anguish he gazed upon the once goodly garment. "It is my son's
coat; an evil beast hath devoured him! Joseph is without doubt rent in
pieces!"
In the excess of his grief, "Jacob rent his clothes, and put sackcloth
upon his loins, and mourned for his son many days."
In vain they who had inflicted the deep wound in a parent's heart,
hypocritically attempted to heal it. His traitor sons "rose up to
comfort him;" but Israel refused to be comforted. "And he said, For I
will go down into the grave unto my son mourning. Thus his father wept
for him."
How bitterly the marred garment of many colours recalled to the mind of
Jacob the joy and pride with which he had placed it on his favourite
son—the son of his old age, whom he loved more than all his children!
Joseph, beauteous in person, gifted in mind, virtuous in character,
was well fitted to be the pride and delight of his parent. We marvel
not that the son of the beloved Rachel—he who inherited his mother's
outward attractions, with the piety of his father—should have been to
the heart of Jacob peculiarly dear.
And yet, perhaps, the first thought which this part of Joseph's history
suggests to the mind is, how great an evil is partiality shown by a
parent! How it draws upon its object many dangers!—Envy, enmity from
without, with the yet greater peril arising from fostered vanity and
pride within. Had Joseph remained with his doting father, wearing
the distinctive garment with which partial affection had robed him,
his noble character might have been utterly marred. Presumption,
self-righteousness, and vanity, might, and probably would, have sorely
tempted his soul. Joseph's Heavenly Father loved him as tenderly as
did his earthly father, but with a far wiser love. God gave the bitter
antidote to the sweet poison bestowed by a parent's hand. Oh, that
those whose blind and cruel partiality is sowing the seed of discord in
their families, and that of pride in the hearts of their best beloved,
would earnestly consider the history of Jacob and Joseph! How terrible
were the trials which the old patriarch's partiality drew upon his boy!
His weak affection tended to injure its object: God knew that, and
divided—for how many long and bitter years divided—the father from the
son!
Again, in yonder torn and bloody garment we see a terrible comment on
the inspired declaration, "he that hateth his brother is a murderer."
How many thoughts of envy, how many glances of malice, how many bitter
words, must there have been in the family of Jacob, before hatred in
Joseph's brethren ripened into the horrible crime which deprived a
brother of his freedom, almost of his life, and nearly brought the gray
hairs of a father with sorrow to the grave! Was there not a time when,
if it could have been foretold to the elder sons of Jacob that they
would sell their own brother into slavery, and then, by an acted lie
of the most cruel kind, try to conceal their guilt by almost breaking
their parent's heart—could this have been foretold to them, would not
each have exclaimed, in the language of Hazael, "Is thy servant a dog
that he should do this thing?"
Let us be watchful against the appearance of envy, even in its least
startling form. If we see the crocodile's egg, let us crush it; nor let
the destroyer come forth and gain strength, so that it get the mastery
over us. The slightest stirring of ill-will towards one more favoured
than ourselves, should place us at once on the watch. The humility that
is content with a lowly place—the love that rejoices in the exaltation
of a brother—these are the guardians of the soul against envy; and,
where these are wanting, can the Spirit of God be said to dwell?
Once more, by Joseph's coat of many colours, rent and blood-stained,
we are reminded of the marvellous way in which God's providence brings
good out of evil, and makes the darkest events in His servants' lives
links in a chain of mercies. The beautiful garment given by paternal
love, and worn perhaps with some pride, was torn indeed from the
persecuted Joseph—first to be replaced by the scanty apparel of a
slave, then afterwards by the garb of a criminal in prison; but it
was from wearing the dress of humiliation that Joseph was raised to
power and honour. It was not the garment made by his father that he
put off, in order to assume robes of high office in the court of King
Pharaoh. Had Joseph remained in his home at Hebron, unharmed by malice,
untouched by persecution, he would never have been the ruler in Egypt,
the benefactor of a nation, the friend of a king, the earthly preserver
of all Israel's race. It has been said that "evil is good in the
making;" so, even from the malice of Joseph's brethren, the grief of
his father, and his own anguish when "the iron entered into his soul,"
God brought forth blessings unnumbered to the man who feared and obeyed
Him.
We cannot leave the stained vestment of the ancient patriarch without
turning our thoughts to Him of whom it is written, that "He was clothed
in a vesture dipped in blood: and His name is called The Word of God."
In Joseph we see a remarkable type of our blessed Redeemer, sent by His
Father to visit man, as Joseph was sent to his brethren in Shechem.
"He came unto His own, and His own received Him not." For envy, the
chief priests delivered Christ into the hands of the Gentiles; and the
betrayer received money for Him whom the children of Israel did value,
even as their fathers sold Joseph for twenty pieces of silver.
But it is in his subsequent exaltation to be a prince and deliverer—it
is in his exercise of boundless liberality and free pardoning
grace—that Joseph is especially a type of our Lord. "God sent me before
you to preserve you a posterity in the earth, and to save your lives
by a great deliverance," said the patriarch to his penitent brethren,
who owed preservation from famine to him. And it was to those whom He
deigned to call brethren that Christ addressed the gracious assurance,
"I go to prepare a place for you."
To Him the sun, and the moon, and the stars pay homage; to Him all the
world shall bow down; in His hands is the bread of life; and His word
is still, "Look unto Me, and be ye saved, all ye ends of the earth."
Once sinners parted Christ's garments amongst them, and upon His
vesture did they cast lots; but the hour is approaching when they shall
look upon Him whom they pierced, and behold His glory,—
"Whose native vesture bright,
Is the unapproached light,
The sandal of whose foot the rapid hurricane!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VIII.
The Ark of Bulrushes.
A FRAIL bark, indeed, this cradle of woven bulrushes, to bear so
precious a freight! We read of the boat which carried Cæsar and his
fortunes; if we measure human greatness by the extent and durability
of a man's influence over his kind, the mighty Roman is dwarfed beside
Moses, and his "fortunes" appear comparatively a thing of a day. Many
ages have passed since Cæsar exercised sway in the world; all that
remains of him is a mighty name: Moses, who lived some fourteen hundred
years before him, is still a living power on earth. The nation which
Moses was the instrument of delivering reverence his laws to this day,
while myriads of Christians, yea, all who to the latest time will study
the Word of God, will honour Moses as a prophet, obey him as a teacher,
and drink in wisdom from his inspired writings.
Cæsar raised a Babel structure of grandeur, cemented not with slime
but with blood, and it has not left even a ruin behind it. The work of
Moses, heaven-guided as he was, resembled more one of the everlasting
hills which the Almighty Himself hath planted and made firm, from which
flow, and to the end of time will flow, pure streams to fertilize
earth, and which from age to age remain unchanged in their calm
majestic beauty. Cæsar was a great conqueror. Moses stands before us in
dignity of a loftier kind; so glorious as deliverer, lawgiver, prophet,
that we almost forget that he was a mighty conqueror also. Cæsar
climbed up to a point where a halo of fame shone around him. Moses
soared high above it; the glory which beamed from his countenance was
glory derived directly from God.
Did the hopes of Jochebed venture to picture anything like this, as
she laboured at forming this little ark, twining in and out every
green bulrush with a prayer for her helpless babe? A scene of touching
domestic interest rises before the imagination as we think of the home
of Amram the Levite, near the bank of the Nile, in these old, old
days which the Scripture narratives bring so freshly before us. There
is Jochebed, in a retired part of her dwelling, anxiously pursuing
her labour of love, working and weeping, and praying as she works,
trembling lest a cry from her hidden infant should betray the secret
of his existence to any Egyptian ear. Perhaps little Aaron disturbs
her ever and anon with innocent prattle, lisping in his childish
simplicity dangerous questions which the mother knows not how to
answer; while Miriam, the future prophetess, of an age to share her
parent's anxieties and guard their secret, watches to give notice of
the approach of any stranger, her child-face already stamped with the
impress of care too natural to one brought up in the house of bondage.
The story of Jochebed and her little ark of bulrushes seems to be one
especially recorded for the comfort of mothers. Though in our peaceful
land such perils as those which surrounded the cradle of Moses are
unknown, yet every parent who watches by a baby boy may learn a lesson
from the Israelite mother who, strong in faith, twined that green nest
for her little darling. For every infant born into this world of danger
and trouble an ark should be woven of many prayers. In two points of
view we may regard every such infant as in a position not unlike that
of Jochebed's babe, when found by Pharaoh's daughter in his little
floating cradle.
The child has been born to danger, and under the doom of death; he is
redeemed, adopted, and may be destined to great usefulness and exalted
honour. Should a mother's eye rest on these pages, let her follow out
with me a subject which can scarcely fail to be one of deep interest to
her heart.
Your child, my Christian sister, has, like Moses, "been born to danger,
and under the doom of death." You have transmitted to him a fallen
nature; he has first opened his eyes to the light in a world of which
Satan is the prince—that Pharaoh whose wages is death, that tyrant
who seeks to destroy the babe whom you so tenderly love. You cannot
keep your little one from all the perils and temptations which, if he
live to manhood, will certainly surround him. You cannot prevent his
being exposed to trials as perilous to his soul as the waters of the
Nile were to the body of the infant Moses. What can you do to guard
your child from dangers in which so many have perished? Like Jochebed,
strong in faith, make him a little ark of your prayers.
And to turn to the brighter side of the subject—if you have to share
Jochebed's fears, may you not inherit her hopes also? It is no earthly
princess, but the gracious Saviour Himself who has raised your child
from his low estate, reversed his doom, adopted him as His own, and
placed him as a little Christian in your arms, with the words, "Take
this child away, and nurse it for Me, and I will give thee thy wages."
The destiny which may await your babe, is one which is more great,
more glorious, than your imagination can conceive. Can the human mind
grasp all that is contained in the titles, "Member of Christ, child of
God, inheritor of the kingdom of Heaven?" You are tending an immortal
being; a future seraph may be cradled in your arms! Those soft lips,
pressed so closely to your own, may hereafter utter words that shall
influence the destiny of souls through the countless ages of eternity;
to that mind, which can scarcely yet hold even the sweet assurance
of a parent's love, may be unfolded mysteries into which the angels
desire to look. If care and anxiety press on your soul when you think
of what your child is—feeble, helpless, born to trouble as the sparks
fly upward—there is deep rapture in the thought of what that child may
be. Oh! Dedicate him now to his God; ask for him not fame, power, or
wealth, not the riches of Egypt, but ask for him grace to follow the
Lord fully, to choose "the reproach of Christ;" ask for him the spirit
of humility, faith, and love, which was given to Jochebed's favoured
son. In view of the glorious destiny to which he is called, as well as
of the perils which beset him, make him a little ark of your prayers.
An honoured woman was Jochebed, mother of Moses, Aaron, and Miriam,
all peculiarly favoured by God; and thrice blessed is every Christian
parent, whether her offspring live for usefulness below, or be early
taken to bliss above, who at the last day shall appear with an unbroken
family before the Heavenly King! "Thou whose blood hath redeemed me and
mine, and whose grace has preserved us—lo! Here am I, and the children
whom Thou hast given me!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IX.
Pharaoh's Chariot.