rmore.' This
precept was given to the Thessalonians, in Paul's first letter, when
things were comparatively bright with him, and he was young and buoyant;
and in one of his later letters, when he was a prisoner, and things were
anything but rosy coloured, he struck the same note again, and in spite
of his 'bonds in Christ' bade the Philippians 'Rejoice in the Lord
always, and again I say, Rejoice.' Indeed, that whole prison-letter
might be called the Epistle of Joy, so suffused with sunshine of
Christian gladness is it. Now, no doubt, joy is largely a matter of
temperament. Some of us are constitutionally more buoyant and cheerful
than others. And it is also very largely a matter of circumstances.

I admit all that, and yet I come back to Paul's command: 'Rejoice
evermore.' For if we are Christian people, and have cultivated what I
have called 'the practice of the presence of God' in our lives, then
that will change the look of things, and events that otherwise would be
'at enmity with joy' will cease to have a hostile influence over it.
There are two sources from which a man's gladness may come, the one his
circumstances of a pleasant and gladdening character; the other his
communion with God. It is like some river that is composed of two
affluents, one of which rises away up in the mountains, and is fed by
the eternal snows; the other springs on the plain somewhere, and is but
the drainage of the surface-water, and when hot weather comes, and
drought is over all the land, the one affluent is dry, and only a chaos
of ghastly white stones litters the bed where the flashing water used to
be. What then? Is the stream gone because one of its affluents is dried
up, and has perished or been lost in the sands? The gushing fountains
away up among the peaks near the stars are bubbling up all the same,
and the heat that dried the surface stream has only loosened the
treasures of the snows, and poured them more abundantly into the other's
bed. So 'Rejoice in the Lord always'; and if earth grows dark, lift your
eyes to the sky, that is light. To one walking in the woods at nightfall
'all the paths are dim,' but the strip of heaven above the trees is the
brighter for the green gloom around. The organist's one hand may be
keeping up one sustained note, while the other is wandering over the
keys; and one part of a man's nature may be steadfastly rejoicing in the
Lord, whilst the other is feeling the weight of sorrows that come from
e