not acknowledge.  When Christianity speaks of purity, of truth, of justice, of charity, of faith and love to God, it speaks a language which, however belied by our practice, is at once allowed by our consciences:  the things so recommended are, beyond all doubt, good and lovely.  But when it says, in St. Paul’s words, “Set your affections on things above, not on things on the earth:  for ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God,” the language sounds so strange that it is scarcely intelligible; and if we do get to understand it, yet it seems to give a wrench, as it were, to our whole being, to command a thing extravagant and impossible.

I am persuaded that this would be so, more or less, everywhere; but in how extreme a degree must it hold good amongst us!  Even in poverty, in sickness, and old age, where this life would seem to be nothing but a burden, and the command to “set the affections on things above” might appear superfluous, still the known so prevails over the unknown, the familiar over the incomprehensible, that hope and affection find continually their objects in this world, there is still a clinging to life, and an unwillingness to die.  But in a state the very opposite to this, in plenty, in health, in youth; with much of enjoyment actually in our hands, and more in prospect; with just so much mystery over our coming life as to keep alive interest, yet with enough known and understood in its prospects to awaken sympathy; what deafest ear of the deaf adder could ever be so closed against the voice of the charmer, as our minds, so engrossed with the enjoyments and the hopes of earth, are closed against the voice which speaks of the things of heaven?

Again, I have said, when speaking of other subjects, that I looked upon the older persons among you as a sort of link between me and the younger, who communicated, in some instances, by their language and example, something of an impression of the meaning of Christian teaching.  But when we speak of a thing so high as spiritual-mindedness, it seems as if none of us can be a link between Christ’s words and our brethren’s minds:  as if we all stand alike at an infinite distance from the high and unapproachable truth.  The mountain of God becomes veiled, as it were, with the clouds which rested upon Sinai; we cannot approach near it, but stand far off, for a moment, perhaps, in awe; but soon in neglect and indifference.

Let any one capable of thinking, but in the full vigour of health of body and mind, placed far above want, and with the prospect, according to all probability, of many years of happy life before him, let such an one go forth, at this season of the year above all, let him see the vast preparation for life in all nature, amongst all living creatures, in every tree, and in every plant of grass; let him feel the warmth of the sun, becoming every day stronger and stronger; let him be possessed, in every sense, with an impression of the vigour and beauty and glory around him; and let him feel no less a vigour in himself, too, of body and mind, and infinitely varied power of enjoyment in so many faculties of repose and of energy,—­and then let him calmly consider what St. Paul could mean, when he says generally to Christians, “Set your affections on things above, not on things on the earth; for ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God.”