Christ's Intercession for Peter.

HE Saviour was approaching the appointed time of that dreadful agony wherewith he was to redeem mankind. He knew to what he was coming. Nor was he unwilling to meet it. The dreadful apprehension which weighed down his spirit, making him exceeding sorrowful even unto death," did not prevent his affectionate solicitude for those whom he had chosen to be his disciples. 66 Having loved his own, he loved them

66

unto the end."

He clearly foresaw and fully appreciated all that was to come upon them, as well as all that he must suffer. He knew that when the Shepherd should be smitten, the sheep of the flock would be scattered. Even as a mother whose calm faith has triumphed over the fear of death, who has caught a beatific vision of the landscape beyond the river, and shrinks no more with timorous shivering from the plunge by which she must reach it-as such a one has a harder effort to still the tremulous solicitude of her maternal heart for the tender flock she is to leave; so did the warmer, tenderer love of Jesus hover with watchful, though not distrustful solicitude, over the little band of humble and attached, yet, as he knew, very imperfect disciples, who for years had clung to his person, and hung upon his lips, and followed his footsteps, and seemed to live upon his

company.

And as the solicitude of such a mother relates not chiefly to the bodily state or temporal condition of her children, but far more to their character and their eternal prospects; just so did the heart of Jesus throb with strongest earnestness of desire for the souls of his disciples. He pleaded with the Father, while he should choose to leave them in the world, that he would "keep them from the evil." He wished to have their souls secured. He doubtless foresaw the bitter persecutions through which they would pass for his name's sake; yet, while he would sympathise with

every pang of bodily torture, and with all the natural recoil of their minds from shame and obloquy, he regarded all that as of little moment, if only they could pass unscathed through the manifold temptations which would beset them.

His prayer for Peter did not have so prominent reference to that time, which Jesus doubtless foresaw, when Peter would be crucified, as to that earlier time when Satan would so craftily assail him with temptations, to draw him away from his Lord.

He addressed Peter, in connection with his fellowdisciples, and yet with an affecting speciality of assurance to him in particular. The malicious desire of Satan was for all the disciples. He would fain toss and shake them like the helpless grains of wheat upon the sieve. But, as if Peter were the special object of his malignity, as if he were to be more perilously shaken than the rest, the Saviour gives him the special assurance, "I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not."

And who shall say, or who will attempt to estimate, with what power the recollection of that kind assurance may have come to Peter when he found himself so deep in the meshes of Satan, to keep him from giving up the struggle, and sullenly sinking into complete and hopeless apostasy?

Peter's faith did stagger, but it did not wholly fail. He did stumble, but not to an irrecoverable fall. As once upon the stormy lake, amid the darkness and the terror, he began to sink, but the strong hand of Jesus upheld him ; so in that darker night, amid the more fearful billows of temptation, Peter's faith began to fail, and a gulf of apostasy more dreadful than the depths of Gennesareth yawned below him-but the Saviour's promised prayer upheld him, and the blessed influence which it invoked saved him and rescued him. We do not indeed know whether the Saviour's assurance that he had prayed for him occurred to Peter's recollection at the critical moment;

but we do know that the prayer was heard, and that he who offered it never asks anything of the Father in vain. The Saviour's assurance, "I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not," is equivalent to a divine promise that his faith shall not fail.

Tempted, timorous, frail disciple of Jesus, still clinging to him, and seeking no other, however guilty and frail you know yourself to be, you may trust him. He prays for you.

The Watchers.

HE joy felt in heaven for the rescue of a single human soul is something higher than we have any conception of. A faint idea of this was conveyed to me by a friend in Scotland, who had witnessed

a deeply interesting scene in one of its bays.

On a dark and wild night, a small fishing-boat was expected back; there was no lighthouse to guide its course; the wind howled, the storm raged, and the surf dashed madly over the bar of the harbour. Gathered round the bay, on every available spot of ground from whence a glimpse of the boat might be obtained, were all the inhabitants of the hamlet. At first they seemed powerless, but quickly beacon fires were kindled on both sides of the harbour, which was very narrow at its entrance. Fresh fuel was placed on these occasionally; those who fed the fires never flagged, those who watched seemed never weary. An intense and almost breathless suspense held the assembled multitude, as, out at sea, might be seen at times a little black spot, now seen for a moment, now again hidden from view in the hollow of the waves. The boat approached nearer and nearer the dangerous coast; there was little, very little chance of its escape. Expectation was strained to the utmost when the boat appeared on the crest of a

wave almost in the harbour. One moment would decide the doom of the brave men who were toiling for life in the midst of the danger, and in the presence of those they loved. It was agony. At last the waves seemed to rise to an immense height; and the boat, which was but a plaything in their giant grasp, was hurled safely into harbour. A woman, whose nerves had been strained to the utmost, was standing beside my friend. Now that all was safe, she uttered the cry, "He is saved! he is saved!" and fainted away. It was a wife's cry.

We are but at best as the watchers on that bay; we may indeed light the fires, and give some intimation to those who are in danger of perishing where there is safety for them, even in the love of Jesus the Saviour. When, through our instrumentality, a soul is saved, the joy to us ought to be great but it is far greater in heaven.

The Lord will provide.

CHAMOIS-HUNTER of Chamouni, crossing the Mer de Glace, endeavoured to leap across one of the enormous crevasses or fissures by which the ice

ocean is in many places rent. He missed his footing and fell in, but was able to moderate the speed of his descent, and thus reached the bottom, a hundred yards below, without a fracture of limb. But his situation seemed hopeless. He could not scale the slippery walls of his crystal prison, and in a few hours at most he must be frozen to death. A stream of water was rushing below the ice, downward toward the valley. He followed this the only possible path. Sometimes he had to bend low in the narrow tunnel; sometimes he waded, sometimes he floated down. At length he reached a vaulted chamber, from which there was no visible outlet. The water which filled it

darkly heaved. Retreat was impossible; delay was death. So commending himself to the help of God, he plunged down into the centre of the gurgling pool. Then followed a moment or two of darkness, tumult, and terror; then he was thrown up in safety and in view of the flowers, and the hay-fields, and the merry songs of the vale of Chamouni.

This very striking narrative will illustrate our theme. Our path may be often dark and dangerous. Escape may seem impossible. Death may put on its most appalling form. But, uttering our watchword, "Jehovah Jireh," let us still advance. Even if we see no light beyond, let us plunge into the darkness. It will be darkness for a moment only. We shall be ushered into that world of light and bliss, where we shall prove, in the fullest sense, that eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God has provided for them who love him.

Rev. Newman Hall.

Song of the Sojourner.

"I am a stranger with Thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers were."

A

PSALM Xxxix. 12.

PILGRIM and a stranger,

I journey here below;

Far distant is my country,
The home to which I go.
Here I must toil and travel,

Oft weary and opprest,

But there my God shall lead me

To everlasting rest.

I've met with storms and danger,

E'en from my early years,

With enemies and conflicts,

With fightings and with fears.

There's nothing here that tempts me
To wish a longer stay,

So I must hasten forwards,
No halting or delay.