He rushed from one scene of sensual indulgence to another, till his property was gone, his health ruined, and worn out with disease and want, before he was thirty years old, he came back to his father's house and died.

As we pursue the parable of the prodigal in the gospel, we shall be more and more struck with the analogy between his case, and that of every sinner under the parental government of God.

This father, we may believe, was doing all for his children that the most generous affection could do, to promote their highest interest and happiness. But to the impatient spirit of the younger son, the mild government even of a father's love, was too severe. He would not "bear the yoke in his youth." He saw others, who had broken away from the restraints of parental authority, revelling in the luxury of independence, and his passions urged him to follow their brilliant and tempting path. Home, with all the fond endearments of the domestic circle, its love, its peace, its joy, its hope,-home was to him a prison. He looked out on the world as

through a grated door. Abroad it was bright and charming, at home it was dull and drear. Others seemed to be happy in the pleasures of the world; he was not happy at home; he would try his fortune for himself, with those whose hearts were always light, and whose faces were always lighted up with smiles.

We may imagine the "father" sitting in his own room, thinking of the multiplied sources of comfort with which God had surrounded him, and sending to heaven his silent but fervent prayers, that his "two sons," his only children, the pride of his heart and the delight of his eyes, might be kept from the evil that is in the world. The restless spirit of the "younger" has often filled his mind with painful anxieties, and at times the waywardness of this thoughtless child had forced upon the father the fear, that one day he might bring his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. This younger son enters the room, and suddenly makes the demand, "Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me." In the original language of the gospel it reads more like this, "Give me my share

sion.

share of the property." It comes as a claim, as if he had a right to a portion of the property whenever he chose to take possesThere was no acknowledgement on the part of this assuming boy, that he was entitled to nothing while his father lived, and to little or nothing, as the younger son, when his father should be called to die; but with strange boldness, he tion, and will have it now. He will not wait to have it when his father can no longer enjoy it; he is not willing to be sustained by his father's bounty, to have every want sup

1

demands his por

plied, and every care relieved, but makes such a demand as assures that tender father that his son is determined to desert the parental roof, and become a wanderer in the world.

Scarcely could the father believe his own ears. Mingled emotions of surprise and grief must have filled his heart, at the bold determination which marked the demand of this wayward son. He never dreamed that his own son, his youngest, his Benjamin, would thus insult him in his own house, with so

unreasonable and ungrateful a proposal. This child of many prayers and tears, perhaps the idol of his heart, was resolved to break the ties that bound him to the home of his childhood and youth, and to plunge madly, perhaps irrecoverably into ruin. So well the father knew the temper of his son, that now the worst fears filled his heart as he saw that son before him, bent on his own destruction.

And must this darling boy, perhaps he said within himself, and must this boy whose very faults I have forgiven and almost loved, this child whom I have watched in infancy, whom I have pressed to my heart ten thousand times, and prayed with earnestness that God would bless, and sanctify, and save him, must this child be LOST? Must he become a prodigal? Will he desert me now that my head is whitening for the tomb? Is this the fruit of my excessive indulgence, my parental forbearance with the faults of a dear child? True, I have yielded to his caprices, indulged him in his failings, borne with his frequent errors, trusting fondly that love would win

him to repentance, and bind him closer and for ever to my heart. But my kindness, that long since should have led him to repent, has made him bolder in his sins; it has hardened him, when I hoped to melt him by its power, and here he has come at last to make a formal demand, and take a final leave of his father and his best friend. What would I not give rather than suffer him thus to go? Though I am rich, yet for his sake I would become poor. Would he but stay near me, and love me, all that he could ask or wish should be his even now, and by-and-by, I would raise him to honor and power; he should be rich and increased in goods, and have need of nothing, and be the heir of happiness that he has never yet heard of or conceived. It is not my goods that I value. If he would remain with me, I would load him with wealth. "How shall I give thee up!" "Would God, I could die for thee, O my son, my son !"

O no.

How much does such language as this express of the feelings with which God regards the ungrateful wanderings of the sinner. To