to balk your calamities, mighty to tread down your foes, "traveling in the greatness of his strength." Though his horse be brown with the dust of the march, and the fetlocks be wet with the carnage, and the bit be red with the blood of your spiritual foes, he comes up to-night, not exhausted from the battle, but fresh as when he went into it -coming up from Bozrah, "traveling in the greatness of his strength."

You know that when Augustus, and Constantine, and Trajan, and Titus came back from the wars, what a time there was. You know they came on horseback or in chariots, and there were trophies before and there were captives behind, and there were people shouting on all sides, and there were garlands flung from the window, and over the highway a triumphal arch was sprung. The solid masonry to-day at Beneventum, Rimini, and Rome still tell their admiration for those heroes. And shall we to-night let our Conqueror go by without lifting any acclaim? Have we not flowers red enough to depict the carnage, white enough to celebrate the victory, fragrant enough to breathe the joy? Those men of whom I just spoke dragged their victims at the chariot-wheels; but Christ, our Lord, takes those who once were captives and invites them into his chariot to ride, while he puts around them the arm of his strength, saying, "I have loved thee with an everlasting love, and the waters shall not drown it, and the fires shall not burn it, and eternity shall not exhaust it."

If this be true, I can not see how any man can carry his sorrows a great while. If this Conqueror from Bozrah is going to beat back all your griefs, why not trust him? Oh! do you not feel, under this Gospel to-night, your

griefs falling back, and your tears drying up, as you hear the tramp of a thousand illustrious promises led on by the Conqueror from Bozrah, "traveling, traveling, in the greatness of his strength?"

On that Friday which the Episcopal Church rightly celebrates, calling it "Good-Friday," your soul and mine were contended for. On that day Jesus proved himself mightier than earth and hell; and when the lances struck him, he gathered them up into a sheaf, as a reaper gathers the grain, and he stacked them. Mounting the horse of the Apocalypse, he rode down through the ages, "traveling in the greatness of his strength." On that day your sin and mine perished, if we will only believe it.

There may be some one in the house who may say, "I don't like the color of this Conqueror's garments. You tell me that his garments were not only spattered with the blood of conflict, but also that they were soaked, that they were saturated, that they were dyed in it." I admit it. You say you do not like that. Then I quote to you two passages of Scripture: Hebrews ix., 22, "Without the shedding of blood there is no remission." Leviticus xvii., 11, "In the blood is the atonement." But it was not your blood. It was his own. Not only enough to redden his garments and to redden the horse, but enough to wash away the sins of the world. Oh, the blood on his brow, the blood on his hands, the blood on his feet, the blood on his side! It seems as if an artery must have been

cut.

"There is a fountain filled with blood

Drawn from Emmanuel's veins,
And sinners plunged beneath that flood
Lose all their guilty stains."

Some of our modern theologians who want to give God lessons about the best way to save the world, tell us they do not want any blood in their redemption. They want to take this horse by the bit, and hurl him back on his haunches, and tell this rider from Bozrah to go around some other way. Look out, lest ye fall under the flying hoofs of this horse; lest ye go down under the sword of this Conqueror from Bozrah! What meant the blood of the pigeons in the old dispensation? the blood of the bullock? the blood of the heifer? the blood of the lamb? It meant to prophesy the cleansing blood, the pardoning blood, the healing blood of this Conqueror who comes up from Bozrah to-night, "traveling in the greatness of his strength." No interest in that blood, and you die. It was shed for you, if you will accept it; it will plead trumpettongued against you, if you refuse it. I catch a handful of the red torrent that rushes out from the heart of the Lord, and I throw it over this audience, hoping that one drop of its cleansing power may come upon your soul. O Jesus! in that crimson tide wash my poor soul! We need it! We die! We die! We accept thy sacrifice! Conqueror of Bozrah, have mercy upon us! We throw our garments in the way! We fall into line! Ride on, Jesus, ride on! "Traveling, traveling in the greatness of thy strength." But after a while the returning Conqueror will reach the gate, and all the armies of the saved will be with him. I hope you will be there, and I will be there. As we go through the gate and around about the throne for the review, "a great multitude that no man can number "—all heaven can tell without asking, right away, which one is Jesus, not only because of the brightness of his face, but because, while all the other inhabitants in glory are robed

in white-saints in white, cherubim in white, seraphim in white-his robes shall be scarlet, even the dyed garments of Bozrah. I catch a glimpse of that triumphant joy, but the gate opens and shuts so quickly, I can hear only half a sentence, and it is this, "Unto him who hath washed us in his blood!"

THIS

THE SYRACUSE CALAMITY.

"What is your life?"-James iv., 14.

HIS day seems oppressive to me with solemnities. About to come up through the "Narrows" of New York harbor is a vessel of the Bremen line, bringing all that remains on earth of the pleasure-party that went out on the 14th of last month, on Lake Geneva, Switzerland. Of the three young men who perished there, only one body has been reclaimed, and parental arms from our city are stretched out to receive it. Welcome back to thy native shores, O loved one! though thou comest asleep. Welcome, though it be amidst a rain of tears and the snapping of heart-strings! Remorseless lake, give back thy dead! We would have them pillowed in our cemeteries.

While meditating upon these things, there comes a more startling and overpowering cry from the central city of our own State. Many whom we knew were in that catastrophe. And now the call from New York harbor, louder than the dash of the wave, and the call from Syracuse, louder than the crackling of the timbers, unite with the call of my text in demanding, "What is your life?"

The anatomist, with knife and skillful analysis, has sought to find out the secret hiding-place of the principle of life; but there is a barred gate-way that he can not enter. No satisfactory definition has ever been given of what life is. In complete swoon, when all muscular action of the heart has stopped and the brain lies dormant, life