ring this
morning. The question for you and for me, my brethren, is simply
this: Are our lives full of the grace of love? Do not shrink from the
question. Do not deceive yourselves with any substitutes; there are many
offering zeal, the gift of prayer or of speech, yea, the gift of faith
itself. None of these will atone for the lack of love. Let each ask
himself, Am I a loving man?"

With quiet persistence he pursued them into all their relations in
life--husbands and wives, fathers and sons, neighbor and neighbor. He
would not let them escape. Relentlessly he forced them to review their
habits of speech and action, their attitude toward each other as church
members, and their attitude toward "those without." Behind all refuges
and through all subterfuges he made his message follow them, searching
their deepest hearts. And then, with his face illumined as with divine
fire, he made his final appeal, while he reminded them of the Infinite
love that had stooped to save, and that had wrought itself out in the
agonies of the cross. And while he spoke his last words, all over the
church the women were weeping, and strong men were sitting trembling and
pale.

After a short prayer, the professor sat down. Then the minister rose,
and for some little time stood facing his people in silence, the gleam
in his eyes showing that his fervent Highland nature was on fire.

"My people," he began, and his magnificent voice pealed forth like a
solemn bell, "this is the message of the Lord. Let none dare refuse to
hear. It is a message to your minister, it is a message to you. You are
anxious for 'the marks.' Search you for this mark." He paused while
the people sat looking at him in fixed and breathless silence. Then,
suddenly, he broke forth into a loud cry: "Where are your children at
this solemn time of privilege? Fathers, where are your sons? Why were
they not with you at the Table? Are you men of love? Are you men of
love, or by lack of love are you shutting the door of the Kingdom
against your sons with their fightings and their quarrelings?" Then,
raising his hands high, he lifted his voice in a kind of wailing chant:
"Woe unto you! Woe unto you! Your house is left unto you desolate, and
the voice of love is crying over you. Ye would not! Ye would not! O,
Lamb of God, have mercy upon us! O, Christ, with the pierced hands,
save us!" Again he paused, looking upward, while the people waited with
uplifted white faces.

"Behold," he