Again, what good will in his father's heart to Esau? But the old man's hands are tied. Fresh from the chase, and ignorant of what has happened in his absence, Esau approaches Isaac, saying, Let my father arise and eat of his son's venison, that thy soul may bless me! Who art thou? says the blind old man--astonished that any should ask what he has already given away. Recognising the beloved voice which replied, I am thy son, thy first-born Esau, and dreading some dire calamity, Isaac trembled exceedingly, crying, "Who? where is he that hath taken venison and brought it me; and I have eaten of all before thou camest, and have blessed him? yea, and he shall be blessed." By the basest, cruelest fraud, Jacob has possessed himself of the blessing; and if their mother, his own partner in guilt, was watching the issue of this perfidious plot, how had it pierced her heart to hear Esau, when the truth flashed on his mind and he saw the treasure stolen, cry, "with a great and exceeding bitter cry, Bless me, even me also, O my father!" The strong man, the bold hardy hunter, lifted up his voice and wept; seeking repentance, as the apostle says--to get Isaac to undo the deed--with tears but found it not. What availed his father's good will to him, his favourite son? What was done must stand. The blessing was gone; and Isaac, though he had the will, had no way to recall it. But what need to ransack old history for examples? How often have our hearts overflowed with good will, yet we could only weep with them that wept--pity sorrows we could not soothe, wants we were powerless to relieve? Tears we might give, but they could not clothe the naked, or feed the hungry, or save the dying, or recall the dead, or close the wounds which death had made. In dying chambers how are we made painfully, bitterly to feel that man's power is not commensurate with his will? What good will, what tender affection toward some dear, beloved object! yet, as we hung over the dying couch, all we could do was to moisten the speechless lips, to wipe the clammy sweat from death's cold brow and watch the sinking pulses of life's ebbing tide. What would we not have done to meet the wishes of the eye that, when speech was gone, turned on us imploring, never-to-be-forgotten looks! Alas, our good will availed them nothing!