Is this our mind? I again ask. Are we still prisoners of hope, refusing to let anything change the expectant attitude of the soul? The Holy Ghost is given to us, not to change that, but to strengthen it. His very presence does but nourish present dissatisfaction of heart, and the longings of hope and desire. He causes the saint to "abound in hope," and gives breadth and compass to the cry, "Come, Lord Jesus." Spirit of truth, the other Comforter, as He is, He does not show Himself for the Bridegroom, nor propose to make His refreshings "the marriage supper of the Lamb." The energy of hope, the desirings of the soul after our still unmanifested Lord, only speak the Spirit’s presence in us the more clearly and blessedly. It is His very design and workmanship. He draws us forth to hope to the end for the grace that is to be brought to us at the revelation of Jesus Christ. And is He, beloved, our object? The heart well knows the power of that which is its object. Do we make Jesus such? Do we find, in ourselves, anything of that sickness of hope of which we read in Scripture? And are we able to say, "When He giveth quietness, who then can make trouble?" May the Spirit shed abroad more and more, in the heart of each of us, these and the like affections. And to Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood, be glory and dominion for ever! Amen. Bride of the Lamb! awake, awake! Why sleep for sorrow now? The hope of glory, Christ, is thine, A child of glory thou. Thy spirit through the lonely night, From earthly joy apart, Hath sigh’d for One that’s far away, The Bridegroom of thy heart. But see, the night is waning fast, The breaking morn is near, And Jesus comes with voice of love, Thy drooping heart to cheer. He comes; for, oh, His yearning heart No more can bear delay, To scenes of full, unmingled joy To call His Bride away. This earth, the scene of all His woe, A homeless wild to thee, Full soon upon His heav’nly throne, Its rightful King shall see. Thou too shalt reign, He will not wear His crown of joy alone, And earth His royal Bride shall see Beside Him on the throne. Then weep no more, ’tis all thine own, His crown, His joy divine, And sweeter far than all beside, He, He Himself is thine. London: _A. S. Rouse_, 15 & 16, Paternoster Square, E.C.