O child of God! touchingly expressive picture have we here of the strange vicissitudes in thy history. The shuttle in the web of thy spiritual life, darting hither and thither, weaving its chameleon hues; or, to adopt a more appropriate emblem, thy heart a battle-field, and "no discharge in that war" till the pilgrim-armour be exchanged for the pilgrim-rest:--sense and sin doing their utmost to quench the bivouac-fires of faith, and give the enemy the advantage: ay, and they _would_ succeed in quenching these, did not the Lord of pilgrims feed with the oil of His own grace the languishing flame. "Sometimes," it has been well said, "in the Voyages of the Soul, we feel that we can only go by anxious soundings,--the compass itself seeming useless--not knowing our bearings,--nearing here Christ--then perhaps the dim tolling bell amidst the thick darkness warning us to keep off."[9] But fear not; He will "bring you to the haven where ye would be." The voice of triumph will be heard high above the water-floods. The contest may be long, but it will not be doubtful. He who rules the raging of the sea will, in His own good time, say, "Peace, be still, and immediately there will be a great calm." Have you ever watched the career of the tiny branch or withered leaf which has been tossed into a little virgin rill on one of our high-table lands or mountain moors? For a while, in its serpentine course, it is borne sluggishly along, impeded by protruding moss, or stone, or lichen. Now it circles and saunters hither and thither on the lazy streamlet--now floating back towards the point of departure, as if uncertain which direction to choose. A passing breath of wind carries it to the centre, and the buoyant rivulet sings its way joyously onward, bearing its little burden through copse, and birch, and heather. But again it is obstructed. Some deep inky pool detains it in the narrow ravine. There it is sucked in, whirled and twisted about, chafed and tortured with the conflict of waters; or else it lies a helpless prisoner, immured by the rocks in their fretting caldrons. But by and by, with a new impulse it breaks away along the rapid torrent-stream, bounding over cascade and waterfall, home to its ocean destiny. [9] Cheever's "Windings." So it is with the soul! It is often apparently the sport and captive of opposing currents. It has its pools of darkness, its eddies of unbelief, its jagged rocks of despair, but it will eventually clear them all. "All motion," to use the words of one of the best and saintliest of the old writers on this very Psalm (Sibbs), and which carry out our illustration, "All motion tends to rest, and ends in it. God is the centre and resting-place of the soul; and here David takes up his rest, and so let us. We see that discussing of objections in the consistory of the Soul, settles the Soul at last--Faith at length silencing all risings to the contrary. Then whatsoever times come, we are sure of a hiding-place and a sanctuary."