Old Wine and New: Occasional Discourses. Cross Joseph

let him come unto me and drink!"

      But there is something, see you not? for the thirsty soul to do. Christ cannot save us till we come. He is indeed, as St. Paul calls him, "the Saviour of all men, especially of them that believe"—of all men, because he has opened the fountain for all and invited all to the fountain—especially of them that believe, because they accept the invitation and come to him for supply. Whoever, whatever, wherever you are—however great your obstructions, and however numerous and enormous your sins—called, you may come; coming, you will receive; receiving, you shall be satisfied forever. "Rivers of living water," Jesus offers every believer in him. See the adaptation—"water"—to assuage your thirst, to refresh the weary soul, to revive him who is fainting and dying. Observe the quality—"living water"—not a stagnant pool, but a salient spring, a fountain that never fails, a well of water within springing up unto everlasting life. Behold the abundance—"rivers of living water"—not one great stream, but many—an inexhaustible supply, having its source in a shoreless and unfathomable sea—

      "Its streams the whole creation reach,

       So plenteous is the store;

       Enough for all, enough for each,

       Enough forevermore!"

      But the coming is not all. Come and what? Come and see? Come and explore? Come and investigate? Come and analyze the water, and discuss its qualities, and speculate about its probable effects? Come and praise the fountain, and commend it to others, and enjoy its cool retreats, and admire its beautiful environs, and congratulate your friends upon its conveniences, and applaud the benevolence that opened it for the benefit of all? Nay, come and drink. Not all the water from the smitten rock could save the Israelite that would not drink. Not all the river of the water of life flowing through the City of God can quench the thirst of the soul that declines it. Personally you must appropriate the mercy. Personally you must experience its restoring power. Salvation is not a theory, but a fact; not a speculation, but a consciousness; not an ethical system to be reasoned out by superior intellect, but a divine blessing to be taken into the believing heart. It is a new life received from the Fountain-Life of the world. Gushing from the throne of God and the Lamb, "clear as crystal," with a copiousness and an energy which no dam can stay nor dike restrain, it offers its refreshment to all, free as the air, the dew, the rain, or the sunlight of heaven. Drink, and you shall never thirst again. Drink, and find your immortality in the draught!

      [1] Preached in Rochester, N.Y., 1842.

      VII.

SOJOURNING WITH GOD.[1]

      Ye are strangers and sojourners with me.—Lev. xxv. 23.

      I have a dear friend to-day on the Atlantic. Four days ago, in New-York Harbor, I accompanied him to the floating palace that bears him to Europe; and put a book into his hand, which may furnish him some entertainment on the voyage, and some service perhaps in the land of art and beauty for which he is bound. Next Lord's Day he hopes to spend in London; and thence, after a short pause, to proceed to Rome, where he means to remain three months or more. A summer in that city is to an American somewhat hazardous on the score of health, and the facilities for seeing and exploring are far less favorable than they are in the winter. Yet, as this is the only season he can command for the purpose, he is willing to encounter the dangers and dispense with some of the advantages, for the sake of a brief sojourn in the grand old metropolis that dominated the world in the days of the Cæsars, and has since ruled it with a rod of iron in the hands of the popes.

      In "the historic city" he will meet with much to entertain a mind like his—highly cultivated and richly stored with classic lore; and for all that he wishes to accomplish, he will find his opportunity far too brief. But he will not be at home there—a transient and unsettled visitor. Every thing will be different from what he has been accustomed to in his own country—government different—society different—manners and customs different—churches and worship different—dress, diet and language different—architecture, public institutions, general aspect of the city, and natural scenery on all sides, quite different from any thing he ever saw before. And while he daily encounters new objects of absorbing interest—new wonders of art—new treasures of antiquity—new illustrations and confirmations of history, and feels the charm of a thousand beauties to which he has not been accustomed, the very contrast will make him confess that he is a stranger and sojourner, and think frequently of his home beyond the sunset, and sigh for the fellowship of the dear hearts far over the western sea.

      And should he go farther, and visit the ruined lands of the Nile—the Jordan—the Euphrates, and wander over the silent wastes that once smiled with golden harvests, glowed with gorgeous cities, and teemed with tumultuous populations; everywhere—on the burning sands of the desert—in the savage solitudes of the mountains—amidst the crumbling memorials of ancient civilizations and religions—in the tent of the Arab, the wayside encampment, and the comfortless caravansera—he will constantly require the pledge of chieftains, the protection of princes, the safe conduct of governments, and the covenanted friendship of the rude nomadic tribes among whom he makes his temporary abode.

      This is the idea of our text: "Ye are strangers and sojourners with me." It is God speaking to his chosen people, about to take possession of the promised land, instructing them concerning their polity and conduct in their new home and relations. One of the specific directions given them is, that they are not to sell the land forever, because it belongs to him, and they are his wards—tenants at will, dwelling on his domain, under his patronage and protection. For six years he leased to them the land, so to say; but every seventh year he reclaimed it as his own, and it was to be neither tilled nor sown; and after seven such sabbatic years, in the fiftieth year, which was the year of Jubilee, every thing reverted with a still more special emphasis to the divine Proprietor; and the people were not permitted to reap or gather any thing that grew of itself that year even from the unworked soil, but were to subsist on the product of the former years laid up in store for that purpose. All this to teach them that the domain was Jehovah's, and they were only privileged occupants under him—that he was their patron, protector, benefactor, while they were strangers and sojourners with God.

      In a general sense, these sacred words describe the condition of all men. All live by sufferance on the Lord's estate, fed and sustained by his bounty. Whether we recognize his rights and claims or not, all we have belongs to him, and the continuance of every privilege depends upon his will. You may revolt against his authority, and fret at what you call fate; but his providence orders all, and death is only your eviction from the trust and tenure you have abused. What is your life, and what control has any man over his destiny? A shadow on the ground, a vapor in the air, an arrow speeding to the mark, an eagle hasting to the prey, a post hurrying past with despatches, a swift ship gliding out of sight over the misty horizon—these are the Scripture emblems of what we are. Every day is but a new stage in the pilgrim's progress—every act and every pulse another step toward the tomb. The frequent changes of fortune teach us that nothing here is certain but uncertainty, nothing constant but inconstancy, nothing real but unreality, nothing stable but instability. The loveliest spot we ever found on earth is but a halting-place for the traveller—an oasis for the caravan in the desert. The world itself, and all that it contains, present only the successive scenes of a moving panorama; and our life is the passage of a weaver's shuttle—a flying to and fro—a mere coming and going—an entry and an exit. For we are strangers and sojourners with God.

      But what is in a general sense thus true of all, is in a special sense true of the spiritual and heavenly-minded. As Abraham was a stranger and a sojourner with the Canaanite and the Egyptian—as Jacob and his sons were strangers and sojourners with Pharaoh, and the fugitive David with the king of Gath—so all godly people acknowledge themselves strangers and sojourners with God. This is the picture of the Christian life that better than almost any other expresses the condition and experiences of our Lord's faithful followers—not at home here—ever on the move—living among aliens and enemies—subject to many privations and occasional persecutions—every