The Ground of Human Hope

 "A promise being left us of entering into His rest." Hebrews 4:1

       What is my promise of entering into rest? It is not my possessions, but my wants. When you ask men the ground of their immortal hope they often point you to the powers of the human soul - proud reason, lofty imagination, clear judgment, far memory. That is a vain boast. To the inhabitant of another star these might seem but the movement of a midge's wing. My brother, you have mistaken the secret of your true dignity. It is not the sense of what you have, but the sense of what you have not, that makes you a man, that divides you from the beast of the field. What do you mean by a ''boy of promise"? Not a boy who has reached great knowledge, but a boy who wants more knowledge than he can yet get; we call such "a promising lad." Your heavenly Father has a like estimate - whether for boys or girls, for men or women. He measures your promise by your wants. Not he that is content with the treasures within his door is the Father's promising son. It is he that batters on the door and cries " Let me out, let me out; it is too narrow here, too dull, too lonely." The boy is above his environment. He is beyond his playthings, but not yet ready for his prizes. He is in the desert between Egypt and Canaan. Egypt is past; Canaan is not yet come; yet his cry is not to get back, but to get forward. The land of the Pyramids would not please him now. He has no rest in all the yesterdays; he wants something from to-morrow.

       My Father, I understand now why it is to the ''poor in spirit" that Christ promises the kingdom. The proof of my royalty is my unsatisfied soul. The promise of my rest is my unrest. My claim to Thee is my longing for Thee. I could not long for Thee if Thou wert not in me; my want is the shadow of Thy sunshine. I am the only creature on earth that is not content with its environment. The bird carols all the day, and asks not larger wing. The fish swims upon the wave, and desires no friendlier bosom. The cattle browse in the meadow, and find the meadow ample room. But neither the air nor the water nor the land has been a rest to me. I have refused to sing where the lark sings - outside the gates of heaven. I have beat against the bars; I have demanded to get in. The gate that bars me from Thee has spoiled my song. My want of Thee is my prophecy of Thee. Why do I refuse to sing on the outside of the heavenly gate? Because within the gate is my Father's house, with its warm fires of welcome, with its many mansions of gold. My thirst for Thee is the cry for "home, sweet home;" and the cry is itself the promise that I shall enter into Thy rest. Matheson

Return Unto Thy Rest.