le--that the father
who by long discipline, by many painful experiences, has at last become
meek and wise, could transmit these qualities to his son who has life
all before him. As we read the notices of those who pass away from among
us, it is the loss of so much moral force we mourn; it may be, for all
we know, as indispensable elsewhere, but nevertheless it is our loss, a
loss for which no work done by the man, nor any works left behind him,
compensate; for the man is always, or generally, greater than his works,
and what he has done only shows us the power and possibilities that are
in him. Each generation needs to raise its own good men, not
independent, certainly, of the past, but not altogether inheriting what
past generations have done; just as each new year must raise its own
crops, and only gets the benefit of past toil in the shape of improved
land, good seed, better implements and methods of agriculture. Still,
there is a transmission from father to son of moral qualities. What the
father has painfully acquired may be found in the son by inheritance.
And this is _analogous_ to the transfusion of moral qualities from
Christ to His people. For it is true of all the graces of the Christian,
that they are first acquired by Christ, and only from Him derived to the
Christian. It is of His fulness we all receive, and grace for grace. He
is the Light at whom we must all kindle, the Source from whom all flows.

How, then, does Christ communicate to us His peace or any of His own
qualities--qualities in some instances acquired by personal experience
and personal effort? He gives us peace, first, by reconciling us to God
by removing the burden of our past guilt and giving us access to God's
favour. His work sheds quite a new light upon God; reveals the fatherly
love of God following us into our wandering and misery, and claiming us
in our worst estate as His, acknowledging us and bidding us hope.
Through Him we are brought back to the Father. He comes with this
message from God, that He loves us. Am I, then, troubled about the past,
about what I have done? As life goes on, do I only see more and more
clearly how thoroughly I have been a wrong-doer? Does the present, as I
live through it, only shed a brighter and brighter light on the evil of
the past? Do I fear the future as that which can only more and more
painfully evolve the consequences of my past wrong-doing? Am I gradually
awaking to the full and awful import of