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had, so many spies she had of that forbidden observance. It was no less than excommunication for any body to confess him yet good Mary, not fearing the informations that might be given by those Jewish gossips, adores him; and, in her silent gesture, says as much as her sister had spoken before: "Thou art the Christ, the Son of God." Those, that would give Christ his right, must not stand upon scrupulous fears. Are we naturally timorous? why do we not fear the denial, the exclusion of the Almighty? "Without shall

be the fearful."

Her humble prostration is seconded by a lamentable complaint; "Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died." The sisters are both in one mind, both in one speech; and both of them, in one speech, bewray both strength and infirmity: strength of faith, in ascribing so much power to Christ, that his presence could preserve from death; infirmity, in supposing the necessity of a presence for this purpose. Why, Mary, could not thine omnipotent Saviour, as well in absence, have commanded Lazarus to live? Is his hand so short, that he can do nothing but by contaction? If his power were finite, how could he have forbidden the seizure of death? if infinite, how could it be limited to place, or hindered by distance? It is a weakness of faith to measure success by means, and means by presence, and to tie effects to both, when we deal with an Almighty agent. Finite causes work within their own sphere; all places are equally near, and all effects equally easy to the infinite. O Saviour, while thou now sittest gloriously in heaven, thou dost no less impart thyself unto us, than if thou stoodst visibly by us, than if we stood locally by thee! no place can make difference of thy virtue

and aid.

This was Mary's moan; no motion, no request sounded from her to her Saviour. Her silent suit is returned with a mute answer; no notice is taken of her error. O that marvellous mercy that connives at our faulty infirmities! All the reply that I hear of, is a compassionate groan with himself. O blessed Jesu, thou, that wert free from all sin, wouldst not be free even from strong affections. Wisdom and holiness should want much work, if even vehement passions might not be quitted from offence. Mary wept; her tears drew on tears from her friends; all their tears

united, drew groans from thee. Even in thine heaven, thou dost no less pity our sorrows: thy glory is free from groans, but abounds with compassion and mercy: if we be not sparing of our tears, thou canst not be insensible of our sorrows. How shall we imitate thee, if, like our lookingglass, we do not answer tears, and weep on them that weep on us?

Lord, thou knewest (in absence) that Lazarus was dead, and dost thou not know where he was buried? surely thou wert further off when thou sawest and reportedst his death, than thou wert from the grave thou inquiredst of: thou, that knewest all things, yet askest what thou knowest, "Where have ye laid him?" not out of need, but out of will: that as in thy sorrow, so in thy question thou mightst depress thyself in the opinion of the beholders for the time, that the glory of thine instant miracle might be the greater, the less it was expected. It had been all one to thy omnipotence to have made a new Lazarus out of nothing; or, in that remoteness, to have commanded Lazarus, wheresoever he was, to come forth but thou wert neither willing to work more miracle than was requisite, nor yet unwilling to fix the minds of the people upon the expectation of some marvellous thing that thou meantst to work; and therefore askest, "Where have you laid him?"

They are not more glad of the question, than ready for the answer; "Come and see." It was the manner of the Jews, as likewise of those Egyptians among whom they had sojourned, to lay up the dead bodies of their friends with great respect; more cost was wont to be bestowed on some of their graves than on their houses; as neither ashamed, then, nor unwilling to shew the decency of their sepulture, they say, "Come and see.' More was hoped for from Christ than a mere view; they meant and expected, that his eye should draw him on to some further action. O Saviour, while we desire our spiritual resuscitation, how should we labour to bring thee to our grave! how should we lay open our deadness before thee, and bewray to thee our impotence and senselessness! Come, Lord, and see what a miserable carcass I am; and, by the power of thy mercy, raise me from the state of my corruption.

Never was our Saviour more submissly dejected than now, immediately before he would approve and exalt the majesty

of his Godhead. To his groans and inward grief he adds his tears. Anon they shall confess him a God; these expressions of passions shall onwards evince him to be a man. The Jews construe this well; "See how he loved him." Never did any thing but love fetch tears from Christ. But they do foully misconstrue Christ in the other; "Could not he, that opened the eyes of him that was born blind, have caused, that even this man should not have died?" Yes, know ye, O vain and importune questionists, that he could have done it with ease. To open the eyes of a man born blind, was more than to keep a sick man from dying; this were but to uphold and maintain nature from decaying; that were to create a new sense, and to restore a deficiency in nature. To make an eye, was no whit less difficult than to make a man: he that could do the greater might well have done the less. Ye shall soon see this was not for want of power. Had ye said, Why would he not? why did he not? the question had been fairer, and the answer no less easy-For his own greater glory. Little do ye know the drift, whether of God's acts or delays; and ye know as much as you are worthy. Let it be sufficient for you to understand, that he, who can do all things, will do that which shall be most for his own honour.

It is not improbable that Jesus, who before groaned in himself for compassion of their tears, now groaned for their incredulity. Nothing could so much afflict the Saviour of men as the sins of men. Could their external wrongs to his body have been separated from offence against his divine person, their scornful indignities had not so much affected him. No injury goes so deep as our spiritual provocations of our God. Wretched men! why should we grieve the good Spirit of God in us? why should we make him groan for us, that died to redeem us?

With these groans, O Saviour, thou camest to the grave of Lazarus. The door of that house of death was strong and impenetrable: thy first word was, "Take away the stone." O weak beginning of a mighty miracle! If thou meantst to raise the dead, how much more easy had it been for thee to remove the grave-stone! One grain of faith in thy very disciples was enough to remove mountains, and dost thou say, "Take away the stone?" I doubt not, but there was a greater weight that lay upon the body of Lazarus than the stone of his tomb-the weight of death and corruption; a

thousand rocks and hills were not so heavy a load as this alone; why then didst thou stick at this shovel-full? Yea, how easy had it been for thee to have brought up the body of Lazarus through the stone, by causing that marble to give way by a sudden rarefaction! But thou thoughtst best to make use of their hands rather, whether for their own more full conviction; for had the stone been taken away by thy followers, and Lazarus thereupon walked forth, this might have appeared to thy malignant enemies to have been a set match betwixt thee, the disciples, and Lazarus; or whether for the exercise of our faith, that thou mightst teach us to trust thee under contrary appearances. Thy command to remove the stone seemed to argue an impotence; straight that seeming weakness breaks forth into an act of omnipotent power. The homeliest shews of thine human infirmity are ever seconded with some mighty proofs of thy Godhead : and thy miracle is so much more wondered at, by how much it was less expected.

It was ever thy just will that we should do what we may. To remove the stone, or to untie the napkin, was in their power, this they must do; to raise the dead was out of their power, this therefore thou wilt do alone. Our hands must do their utmost ere thou wilt put to thine.

O Saviour, we are all dead and buried in the grave of our sinful nature: the stone of obstination must be taken away from our hearts, ere we can hear thy reviving voice. We can no more remove this stone, than dead Lazarus could remove his; we can add more weight to our graves. O let thy faithful agents, by the power of thy law, and the grace of thy gospel, take off the stone, that thy voice may enter into the grave of miserable corruption.

Was it a modest kind of mannerliness in Martha, that she would not have Christ annoyed with the ill scent of that stale carcass? or was it out of distrust of reparation, since her brother had passed all the degrees of corruption, that she says, "Lord, by this time he stinketh, for he hath been dead four days?" He that understood hearts found somewhat amiss in that intimation; his answer had not endeavoured to rectify that which was utterly faultless. I fear, the good woman meant to object this as a likely obstacle to any further purposes or proceedings of Christ. Weak faith is still apt to lay blocks of difficulties in the way of the great works of God.

Four days were enough to make any corpse noisome. Death itself is not unsavoury; immediately upon dissolution the body retains the wonted sweetness: it is the continuance under death that is thus offensive. Neither is it otherways in our spiritual condition: the longer we lie under our sin, the more rotten and corrupt we are. He, who upon the fresh commission of his sin recovers himself by a speedy repentance, yields no ill scent to the nostrils of the Almighty. The candle that is presently blown in again offends not; it is the snuff, which continues choked with its own moisture, that sends up unwholesome and odious fumes. O Saviour, thou wouldst yield to death, thou wouldst not yield to corruption : ere the fourth day thou wert risen again. I cannot but receive many deadly foils; but O, do thou raise me up again, ere I shall pass the degrees of rottenness in my sins and trespasses!

They that laid their hands to the stone, doubtless held now still awhile, and looked one while on Christ, another while upon Martha, to hear what issue of resolution would follow upon so important an objection; when they find a light touch of taxation to Martha, "Said I not to thee, that if thou wouldst believe, thou shouldst see the glory of God?" That holy woman had before professed her belief, as Christ had professed his great intentions; both were now forgotten; and now our Saviour is fain to revive both her memory and faith; "Said I not to thee?" The best of all saints are subject to fits of unbelief and oblivion, the only remedy whereof must be the inculcation of God's merciful promises of their relief and supportation. O God, if thou hast said it, I dare believe; I dare cast my soul upon the belief of every word of thine. "Faithful art thou which hast promised, who

wilt also do it."

In spite of all the unjust discouragements of nature, we must obey Christ's command. Whatever Martha suggests, they remove the stone, and may now see and smell him dead, whom they shall soon see revived. The scent of the corpse is not so unpleasing to them, as the perfume of their obedience is sweet to Christ. And now, when all impediments are removed, and all hearts ready for the work, our Saviour addresses to the miracle.

His eyes begin; they are lift up to heaven. It was the malicious mis-suggestion of his enemies, that he looked down

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