the “sin” of the world.  Is anything too hard for Him?  Just as a lover of pictures will sometimes discover a portrait, the work of an old master, marred and disfigured by the dirt and neglect of years, and will patiently cleanse and retouch it, till the lips seem to speak again, and the old light shines in the eyes, and all its hidden glory is revealed once more, so does Christ bring out the Divine image, hidden but never lost, in the sinful souls of men.  And all this He can do for all men; for Christ knows no hopeless ones.

One of the saddest sights in a great city is its hospital for incurables.  Who can think but with a pang of pity and of pain of these—­old men and little children joined in one sad fellowship—­for whom the physician’s skill has done its best and failed, for whom now nothing remains save to suffer and to die?  But in the world’s great hospital of ailing souls, where every day the Good Physician walks, there is no incurable ward.  He lays His hands on the sick, and they are healed; He touches the eyes of the blind, and they see; unto the leper as white as snow his flesh comes again as the flesh of a little child; even souls that are dead through their trespasses and sins He restores to life.  But never, never does He turn away from any, saying, “Thou art too far gone; there is nothing that I can do for thee.”  “I spake to Thy disciples,” cried the father of the child which had a dumb spirit, “I spake to Thy disciples that they should cast it out; and they were not able.”  “Bring him unto Me,” said Jesus.  Then He rebuked the unclean spirit, saying unto him, “Thou dumb and deaf spirit, I command thee, come out of him and enter no more into him.”  Verily, with authority He commandeth even the unclean spirits and they obey Him.

Therefore let us despair of no man; therefore let no man despair of himself.  If we will, we can; we can, because Christ will.  “I was before,” says St. Paul, “a blasphemer, and a persecutor, and injurious; howbeit I obtained mercy.”  “I am a wretched captive of sin,” cries Samuel Rutherford, “yet my Lord can hew heaven out of worse timber.”  There is no unpardonable sin—­none, at least, save the sin of refusing the pardon which avails for all sin. “’Mine iniquity is greater than can be forgiven.’[37] No, Cain, thou errest; God’s mercy is far greater, couldst thou ask mercy.  Men cannot be more sinful than God is merciful if, with penitent hearts, they will call upon Him.”

We have all read of the passing of William MacLure in Ian Maclaren’s touching idyll.  “A’m gettin’ drowsy,” said the doctor to Drumsheugh, “read a bit tae me.”  Then Drumsheugh put on his spectacles, and searched for some comfortable Scripture.  Presently he began to read:  “In My Father’s house are many mansions;” but MacLure stopped him.  “It’s a bonnie word,” he said, “but it’s no’ for the like o’ me.  It’s ower guid; a’ daurna tak’ it.”  Then he bid Drumsheugh shut the book and let it open of itself, and he would find the place where he had