and
enemies in your mind by wicked works, now hath He reconciled in the
body of His flesh through death, to present you holy and unblameable
and unreproveable in God's sight."

_It entails suffering_. God's law is that all sin must be
punished--that is, where there is transgression, suffering must follow.
When a man squanders his fortune by extravagance, he may bitterly
repent, but he continues to suffer for his folly. When a man has got
drunk, he may be full of sorrow for what he has done, but he has a
headache next day all the same. When a woman has lost her character,
she may weep tears of bitter repentance, and God may pardon her as He
pardoned Magdalen, but she can never recover her character, and must
suffer the consequences of her act. In this world or in the next, all
sin must be expiated by suffering. Christ by His death removed the
guilt of sin, but not the suffering for sin. S. Peter bids us remember
that suffering remains a consequence, for he exhorts us, "Forasmuch as
Christ hath suffered for us in the flesh, arm yourselves likewise with
the same mind: for he that hath suffered in the flesh hath ceased from
sin." That is, the sin is wholly expiated only when the suffering it
brings after it has been undergone.

_It leaves a stain or scar_. No man is the same after sinning as he
was before. The sin may be forgiven and suffered for, but the scar
remains on his soul. The soul as it leaves the hand of God is white
and innocent, in its passage through life it meets with many
self-inflicted wounds, these wounds of the soul are sin. Thus it
suffers till the wound is healed, and the medicine of the soul is the
blood of Christ. The blood heals, but the scar remains. The soul, as
seen by God and angels, is marked all over with the traces of the sins
which have torn it. The baptized child is given a robe of innocence
white as snow. Every sin is a stain upon it, and if you could see now,
as angels see, your baptismal garment, you would find it spotted and
smeared all over. Suppose I were to take this surplice and splash it
over with ink, I might with much labour take out the ink stains, but
never so entirely cleanse it that no trace remains. Or I might walk in
it through the bushes, and get it torn with the thorns and brambles.
Then all the rents might be carefully darned up, but--the surplice
would never look as sound and beautiful as when new.

This is precisely like the state of the soul after si