ily from God. In a complex
moral system, God has found it good to administer by general rather
than by special laws, and their operation does not work exact justice
to either wickedness or purity. God's administration being an eternal
one, he dares take scope to bring rewards to goodness and to evil. God
does not need to haste. He has eternity, and dares therefore be
pacific and not perturbed. Haste savors of lack in time. God must not
haste. That he could pour swift retribution on the head of offending
men, we dare not doubt. That he does not is patent. Another scene is
plainly the purpose of God. He has a scene behind a scene. If this
world were an end, there is rank and unforgivable injustice done. Men
have not been dealt fairly with, and may, with legitimacy, make
acrimonious reply; but we are clearly taught that this world is a stage
for the display of character, not for its reward, and the next scene
will be for the reward of character, and not for its display. God will
recompense, but we are not told God does recompense. Such is the lofty
argument of the drama, and may be named as major theme.

Prince Job, smitten from his throne of prosperity and influence into a
pit of ignominy, in his abasement cries, "Wherefore do the wicked live,
become old, yea, are mighty in power?" And in his conscious integrity
he might well shrill a cry to his own breaking heart. Job is sure
(some things calamity reveals) integrity is not awarded according to
its character and worth, while his three friends see in Job's downfall
a disclosure of his wickedness. They urge him to repent. They think
there can be no arguing against doom. God has smitten him for his
sins,--this they all agree, and say no other thing. Poor Job! His
friends consider his hypocrisy proven, and his wife has become
foreigner to him in his day of disaster; disease climaxes his
calamities, and he half says, half moans: "When I lie down, I say, When
shall I arise and the night be gone? and I am full of turnings to and
fro until the dawning of the day. My days are swifter than a weaver's
shuttle, and are spent without hope. I will speak in the anguish of my
spirit. I will confess the bitterness of my soul." Surely his
affliction breaks like some desperate sea, and he is as a sailor hurled
on jagged rocks, bleeding, half-drowned, shivering cold, and again the
storm-waves leap like mad tigers at his throat, and the sailor scarce
knows well how t