anguish of heart I wrote to you_, he says. This heart, even dissolved in dust, is what I long to see—the heart which was consumed for each individual sinner, suffering afresh the agony of child-birth over every abortive child, the heart which sees God: _For the clean of heart shall see God_: the heart which has become a sacrifice: _An afflicted spirit is a sacrifice to God_: that heart higher than the firmament, wider than the universe, brighter than sunshine, hotter than fire, stronger than adamant, giving forth fruitful streams: _For_, he says, _out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water_: hence arose the fresh spring which watered not the face of the earth, but the souls of men; hence sprung forth not rivers alone, but fountains of tears by day and by night: that heart which lived a new life, not this physical life of ours: _I live_, he says, _not I, but Christ liveth in me_. So that Paul’s heart was His heart—a tablet of the Holy Spirit, a book of charity, a heart in anguish over the sins of men: _I am afraid of you_, he says, _lest perhaps I have laboured in vain among you, and as the serpent seduced Eve, lest coming I should not find you as I wish_: a heart fearful about itself whilst full of courage: _I am afraid_, he says, _that after preaching to others I myself shall be cast out_; and, again: _I am sure that neither angels nor archangels shall_ _be able to separate us_: the heart which was made worthy to love Christ as no one else has loved Him, despising death and hell, and torn by the tears of his brethren. _What are you doing_, he says, _weeping and filling my heart with anguish_?—that strongest of hearts, which could not endure for a moment to be away from the Thessalonians. Would that I could see the dust of those fettered hands through which the imposition of the Spirit was given and the divine words were written: _See what a letter I have written to you with my own hand_; and, again: _A greeting from the hand of Paul_, of those hands at sight of which the viper fell into the fire. Would that I could look upon the dust of those gloriously-blinded eyes which saw the light again for the world’s salvation and were made worthy in the body to behold Christ, and saw earthly things without seeing them, those eyes which looked upon unseen things, which knew not sleep, which were watching in the midst of night, and which did not suffer what other eyes suffer. Would that I could see the dust of those feet which toiled over the world and wearied not, which were chained to a pillory when he was imprisoned, of those feet which traversed known and unknown regions and were often on the way. And why should I speak of each member separately? Would that I could see that tomb in which the armour of justice is stored up, the armour of light, those members which are now in life, which were dead whilst living, in all of which Christ lived, which were crucified to the world, those members of Christ which