e same idea was awakened still more distinctly at
the time of his call, when Jehovah said to him, "Before I formed thee
in the belly I knew thee, and, before thou camest forth out of the
womb, I sanctified thee, and I ordained thee a prophet unto the
nations." This implies that, in the original formation of his body and
mind, God conferred on him those gifts which made him capable of a
great career. Here we touch on one of the deepest mysteries of
existence. There is nothing more mysterious than the behaviour of
nature, when in her secret laboratories she presides over the shaping
of the rudiments of life and distributes those gifts, which, according
as they are bestowed with an affluent or a niggardly hand, go so far
to determine the station and degree which each shall occupy in the
subsequent competitions of the world. It is especially mysterious how
into a soul here and there, as it passes forth, she breathes an extra
whiff of the breath of life, and so confers on it the power of being
and doing what others attempt to be and do in vain.

Undoubtedly St. Paul was one of these favourites of fortune. Nature
designed him in her largest and noblest mould, and hid in his
composition a spark of celestial fire. This showed itself in a
certain tension of purpose and flame of energy which marked his whole
career. He was never one of those pulpy, shapeless beings who are
always waiting on circumstances to determine their form; he was rather
the stamp itself, which impressed its image and superscription on
circumstances.

1. He was a supremely ethical nature. This perhaps was his fundamental
peculiarity. Life could under no circumstances have seemed to him a
trifle. The sense of responsibility was strong in him from the
beginning. He was trained in a strict school; for the law of life
prescribed to the race of which he was a member was a severe one; but
he responded to it, and there never was a time when the deepest
passion of his nature was not to receive the approval of God. Touching
the righteousness which was in the law, he was blameless. After his
conversion he laid bare unreservedly the sins of his past; but there
were none of those dalliances with the flesh to confess into which
soft and self-indulgent natures easily fall. He could never have
allowed himself that which would have robbed him of his self-respect.
His sense of honour was keen. When, in his subsequent life, he was
accused of base things--lying, hypocrisy, a