Great Texts of the Bible
The Lamb as a Shepherd
For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall be their shepherd, and shall guide them unto fountains of waters of life: and God shall wipe away every tear from their eyes.—Revelation 7:17.
1. The seventh chapter of the Apocalypse contains the vision of the “multitude which no man could number,” which is among the most familiar and most highly treasured passages in the book. The meaning of the vision stands little in need of explanation; its value is not to be enhanced by exposition. It speaks straight to the heart of every Christian. The picture of the Church triumphant, drawn “out of every nation, and of all tribes and peoples and tongues,” offering the praise of heaven to God and the Lamb; the question, “Who are these?” and its answer; the description of their privileges as the flock shepherded by the Lamb, the people of God’s own care—these things speak for themselves. It is one of the many beautiful glimpses of the heavenly life which St. John gives us in this book of celestial visions. For a moment the veil is drawn aside, and we see the white-robed ones who have passed through great tribulation to their rest and reward. The figures used are suggestive of perfect and uninterrupted joy. The toils and pains and weariness of our mortal life have no place in the “land of pure delight.” Hunger and thirst are unknown. There is no want or unsatisfied desire. No sleep is needed, for the day’s work never tires, and the night is bright and animated as the day. The sunlight never burns, and there is no hot fever in the blood. The eyes are never dim with sorrow, for all tears are wiped away, and the purest and deepest longing of the religious soul is realized, for He whom they have loved dwells among them, and they do always behold His face.
2. The passage from which the text is taken is to a great extent made up of citations from the Old Testament. Isaiah furnishes St. John with his imagery and his language. “They shall not hunger nor thirst; neither shall the heat nor sun smite them: for he that hath mercy on them shall lead them, even by the springs of water shall he guide them” (Isaiah 49:10), and “the Lord God will wipe away tears from off all faces” (Isaiah 25:8). But the quotation is wonderfully elevated and spiritualized in the New Testament vision; for instead of reading, as the Original does: “He that hath mercy on them shall lead them,” we have here, “the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall be their shepherd,” and instead of their being led merely to “the springs of water,” here we read that He leads them to “fountains of waters of life.”
The Lamb’s Place of Honour
1. Not in the confines of heaven, not on its distant borders, does the Lamb stand who shall pasture the redeemed. In the very centre and seat of power He has His place: He is the Lamb in the midst of the throne. There are few grander pictures in the Bible than St. John’s conception of the heavenly Kingdom. It is like one of those drawings by Doré of the Paradise of Dante, in which there is circle within circle of wheeling angels. That is the kind of vision which St. John had of glory, as if from its utmost and dim verge it were filled with ranks and choirs; and as the circles drew nearer and nearer to the centre, they were composed of nobler and more glorious beings. In the very centre of that mighty confluence was a throne—it was the throne of the immortal and eternal God. And in the very centre of the throne, standing in front of it, there was a Lamb. And not any angel from distant rank or choir; not even the flaming cherubim or glowing seraphim—not these, but the Lamb in the midst of the throne shall feed them. That means that the redeemed shall be fed not only gently, but by one who stands in the place of sovereign power. None can gainsay Him there; none can with-stand Him; none can contest His access to green pastures. The Lamb who feeds them is in the midst of the throne—the sceptre of universal power is His now.
All the universe and its forces are being administered for purposes of redemption. The Lamb rules and He rules as the Lamb. How calming to feel this, to look up from the turmoil of this visible, flaring, and lying world—from the shows and shams and the tinted scene of the theatre; from all in life that startles and appals, to Him who sits above it all. From Him all things proceed, and to Him they return in circular flow. The shadows are all passing; the reality is behind. Nothing lasts; our trials are all hasting away to oblivion; let the wind rave as it will, we look at the Christ who abides. How small all our conflicts and ambitions seem to be, how transient and easily borne our sorrows, when we look up as John looked from the rock and the wild waters to the serene King, against whose changeless purpose all the waves of time and circumstance break in vain.1 [Note: W. R. Nicoll, The Lamb of God, 50.]
2. The first words which St. John ever heard of Jesus were words that described Him as a Lamb. When he was a disciple of the Baptist, drinking in inspiration from that stern teacher, he had heard these words fall from the Baptist’s lips, “Behold, the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.” The Apostle was a young man then, aflame with eager hope, and the words of the Baptist sank deep into his heart—so deep that through all his after years he loved to think of Jesus as the Lamb. What experiences St. John had had, and what a vast deal he had suffered when he came to write this Book of Revelation! Life and the world were different to him now from what they had been in the desert with the Baptist. Yet in Revelation some seven-and-twenty times John repeats the sweet expression “Lamb of God”—the first words he had ever heard of Christ. Christ in heaven to-day is the very Christ who walked by the banks of Jordan. Here it is the Lamb “in the midst of the throne.” Here, in the glory, it is the Lamb slain, as in Isaiah it had been a lamb led to the slaughter. And we feel at once that not all the height of heaven, or all the inconceivable grandeurs of God’s throne, have changed the nature or the love of Him who was pointed to beside the Jordan. Somehow, we are prone to think that our Saviour in the glory must be different from what He was long ago. We know that He is no longer rejected and despised, and we know that the body of His humiliation has been glorified, until insensibly we transfer these changes from His outward nature to His heart, as though death and resurrection had altered that. So do we conceive Christ as far away from us, separated from the beating of the human heart; glorious, yet not so full of tender brotherhood as in the days of Capernaum and Bethany. That error is combated by the vision of the Lamb in heaven. Purity, gentleness, and sacrifice are there. The wrath of the Lamb grows terrible just as we remember that that wrath is love rejected and despised. And in the last Judgment, when the Lamb shall be our judge, it will not be the majesty of God that will overwhelm us; it will be that we are face to face, at last, with the love and with the sacrifice of Christ.
The wrath of the Lamb must be a wrath that can be justified. It is not, like so much of the anger of this world, unreasonable, hasty, and vindictive. It is the wrath of the Lamb, most gentle, most pitiful, most merciful, most long-suffering. Some have said that the wrath of the Lamb must be terrible because it is love turned to anger. There is no fire, it has been said, like the sheen of a dead affection; no enemy like one that has once been a friend. “To be wroth with one we love doth work like madness in the brain.” But while this is true of men, we cannot affirm it in the same way about Christ, because this very excess of resentment and passion is often an infirmity and a sin. We may say that in Christ, as the flame of love is purer and stronger, so the flame of anger may be; but we cannot say that anything in His anger is passionate or vindictive. The truth pressed on us is that we shall have no defender when the Lamb ceases to plead for us. No one is so abundant in the resources of mercy and patience, and when His resources are exhausted, on whose shall we fall back?1 [Note: W. R. Nicoll, The Lamb of God, 115.]
Every fibre in Dean Church’s frame quivered with righteous passion against the cynical indifference to cruelty and wrong which dominated London “Society” at the time of the Bulgarian agitation. He saw a moral judgment at work, sifting the people. Freedom, righteousness, the honour of England, the belief in the Divine government of the world, all were at stake in the momentous issue. He found himself beset on all sides by a political and social temper which was worldly, godless, immoral, and he flamed with prophetic wrath. The wrath of one so sensitive, so delicate, so appreciative, so balanced, so wise, was like nothing else that I have ever known. Its heat was so utterly devoid of mere personal interest; it was the heat of moral judgment, of sheer holiness—the heat of the Apocalypse.1 [Note: H. Scott Holland, Personal Studies, 234.]
The Lamb as Shepherd
1. Christ is the Lamb, and He is the Shepherd—that suggests not only that the sacrificial work of Jesus Christ is the basis of all His work for us on earth and in heaven, but the very incongruity of making One who bears the same nature as the flock to be the Shepherd of the flock is part of the beauty of the metaphor. It is His humanity—His continual manhood—all through eternity and its glories, that makes Him the Shepherd of perfected souls. They follow Him because He is one of themselves, and He could not be the Shepherd unless He were the Lamb. All Christ’s shepherding on earth and in heaven depends, as do all our hopes for heaven and earth, upon the fact of His sacrificial death. It is only because He is the “Lamb that was slain” that He is either the “Lamb in the midst of the throne,” or the Shepherd of the flock. And we must make acquaintance with Him in the character of “the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world,” before we can either follow in His footsteps as our Guide or be compassed by His protection as our Shepherd.
This beautiful multitude in Heaven will be led by “the Lamb.” Very meek must they be whom the Lamb shall lead: very pure, not to shame Him who is without blemish and without spot: very innocent, to be made one flock with Him.2 [Note: Christina G. Rossetti, The Face of the Deep, 238.]
Before the creation of the world we were destined to be His flock, and He was appointed to be our Shepherd. Even if mankind had not strayed away from the paths of righteousness, the relation of shepherd and flock would have existed. But having so strayed He took our earthly form upon Him to arrest our wanderings and to lead us back to the fold. Jesus is our Shepherd, not only during our earthly pilgrimage, but also through eternity. “He ever liveth” to be our loving Master and Friend. “I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.” In the many mansions of the Father’s house the flock of the redeemed shall hunger no more, neither shall they thirst any more, neither shall the sun smite them, nor any heat; for their Good Shepherd, Jesus, who hath mercy on them, shall feed them and lead them to fountains of living waters, and God Himself shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.1 [Note: A. F. Mamreov, A Day with the Good Shepherd, 84.]
Beyond the human region, out among those Eternities and Immensities where Carlyle loved to roam, there is that which loves and seeks. This is the very essence of Christian faith. The Good Shepherd seeketh the lost sheep until He finds it. He is found of those that sought Him not. Until the search is ended the silly sheep may flee before His footsteps in terror, even in hatred, for the bewildered hour. Yet it is He who gives all reality and beauty even to those things which we would fain choose instead of Him—He alone. The deep wisdom of the Cross knows that it is pain which gives its grand reality to love, so making it fit for Eternity, and that sacrifice is the ultimate secret of fulfilment. Truly those who lose their life for His sake shall find it. Not to have Him is to renounce the possibility of having anything: to have Him is to have all things added unto us.2 [Note: J. Kelman, Among Famous Books, 322.]
How fair and green yon blessed field
Beyond dark Jordan’s flood reveal’d!
Eternal waters from the Rock
Fall ever for that happy flock;
The Shepherd Lamb with endless care
Among them moves and guides them there.
Yet we who tread the desert still
Share even now that Shepherd’s skill;
The sands indeed around are spread,
The sun beats heavy overhead,
But where He leads us, there is traced
A long Oasis through the waste.
Our Elim still beside us moves,
With brimming wells and shadowing groves;
The mystic Rock is aye at hand
To cool and water all the land;
The Lord’s green footsteps now create
Heaven’s foretaste in our pilgrim state.
Then let us live as those who know
Eternal joys begun below;
Staff, shield, and sword, we need them yet,
For foes and traitors still beset;
But aye let harps and songs abound;
“We’re marching through Emmanuel’s ground.”1 [Note: H. C. G. Moule, In the House of the Pilgrimage, 13.]
2. The ministry of the Good Shepherd does not close when He has brought back a lost sheep to the fold, and the wilderness is not the only scene of its activities. In the unknown land into which our friends pass, and from which no messages come back to us, redeemed souls still need His guiding hand. They are not left to explore for themselves the mysteries of the strange world into which they have gone, and to discover its riches. He tends His own there just as graciously as in this hard, bleak sphere of peril and distress. They have faded from our view, old and young alike, and we can do nothing more to help them. But they are still under the eye and the hand of the Good Shepherd. He who guided the outgoings of His first disciples amidst the hills of Galilee and by the lake shore, through the plains of Samaria and in the highlands of Judæa, will guide the quests of the celestial life. The hand that multiplied the bread on earth will minister the mystic manna. The holy feet that went before the disciples will lead into the pathways of the living fountains. The old pastoral fellowship is re-established. He will give of the best things of His Kingdom on high just as freely as He made the disciples share every blessing of His own lot upon earth. The life to come will be infinitely varied, and the Lord Himself will show the way into the mysteries of its manifold blessedness. “He shall guide them unto fountains of waters of life.”
The rendering “unto fountains of waters of life” is more literal than that of the A.V.; still more literally we might render, “unto life’s water-springs”; the emphasis is strongly on the word “life.” In chap. Revelation 22:1, the water of life is as a river “proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.” In comparison with the passage in Isaiah (“even by the springs of water shall he guide them”) the thought has taken a more distinctly spiritual meaning: the middle term will be found in the teaching of Jesus; cf. John 4:14, “The water that I shall give him shall become in him a well of water springing up unto eternal life”; also John 7:38.1 [Note: C. Anderson Scott.]
The Lamb will tend His people as a shepherd tends his flock (the word translated “feed” in the A.V. has this force), and will lead them to the springs of the water of life. The Twenty-third Psalm rises at once to our minds. The Lord who was David’s shepherd (Psalm 23:2), who was the Good Shepherd who sought and brought home the lost for whom He died (Luke 15:4; John 10:11), does not forget the shepherd’s work in heaven. He who made His people to drink of the brook in the way (Psalm 110:7), who gave to those who came to Him the water which alone would quench their thirst, leads them now to the springs of the living water, and makes them drink of the river of His pleasures (Psalm 36:8). Significantly enough the springs of this living water are in the throne itself. Ezekiel saw the stream issuing forth from the Temple (Ezekiel 48:1), but in the city where there is no temple we are carried to the very throne of God, to find the well-spring of every gladness. In this emblem of the water we have another allusion to the Feast of Tabernacles. Among the ceremonies observed at the feast was that of drawing water; the priest drew a vessel of water from the brook of Siloam, and poured it out in the temple-court by the altar of burnt offering, and the people sang the words, “With joy shall ye draw water out of the wells of salvation” (Isaiah 12:3). Here the Lamb, who is also the High Priest, leads His people to the springs of the water of life.2 [Note: W. B. Carpenter, The Revelation, 104.]
3. Of old the Good Shepherd made His flock to lie down in green pastures; He led them beside the still waters. These were the far-off streams, but now they have reached the well-head of all; they have come to living waters of life; and more than waters, to fountains. What a pathetic and ennobling summary of life is the old Eastern saying, “In the morning, mountains: in the evening, fountains!” And here it is in its highest fulfilment. Think of these spirits as now far up in the heights of glory! They lie down and drink deep of the very innermost fountain, where life—God’s life—pours itself, fresh and full, into their very being. This is more than even sonship, it is the life Divine that breathes and beats beneath the sonship. This is more than service, this makes the heart burn in sacrifice, and the lips break forth in song. This is more than subjection, this elevates not only before but to the throne of God. It is life, fountain life, the well of life springing up in them from the Divine fountain into everlasting life. Now, indeed, they comprehend with all saints the length and the breadth, the depth and the height; now they know the love of Christ that passeth knowledge, and are filled with all the fulness of God.
Dr. Schaff’s old friend Godet wrote to him in 1892 a loving letter of farewell, in which he said: “God has already blessed us both, and the 103rd Psalm should be our psalm. Farewell, my dear old faithful friend. Again let me repeat to you one of the last words of Tholuck. One of his old students was visiting him and recalled that he had once said that when one was old and feeble, one must put oneself into the arms of the Good Shepherd to be brought home by Him. Tholuck looked at him without seeming to understand, and then he spoke these words, ‘Ein alter müder Mann, ein guter treuer Hirte’ (An old tired man, a good faithful Shepherd). That which was true for our dear teacher is now true for us. Let us rest our tired heads and hearts, often bruised, upon the Good Shepherd. The nearer one comes to the end, the more one is inclined to look back to the beginning and that with a deep feeling of humble thanks. I have eighty years behind me; this is goodness enough, and each new day I regard as a donum superadditum. Happy are we who are able to look peacefully behind and ahead, thanks to the blood which flowed for us and the Holy Spirit who will keep us to the end and in the communion of our glorified Brother and Saviour.”1 [Note: D. S. Schaff, The Life of Philip Schaff, 448.]
God as Comforter
1. The last touch in this picture sets forth the Eternal God as the Comforter of His saved people. “And God shall wipe away every tear from their eyes.” Through all earthly vicissitudes He had been their light and salvation, illuminating their gloom, turning their mourning into joy, and appointing them beauty for ashes. It is an old relationship that He resumes and consummates. Not only is He the object of worship upon the throne; He comes nearer still to the redeemed multitude, healing all the smarts of earth, and dispersing the last memory of pain. The great tribulation leaves no scar or tear-stain upon the ransomed universe. The description reaches completeness in this exquisite and comprehensive promise. We can imagine a man placed under sunlit skies, breathing the exhilarating air of a new-created world, looking forth upon domains of unshadowed beauty, secure against privation and distress, welcomed into rare and gladdening fellowships, and yet sighing at some plaintive memory of the past, or chilled by the uprising of a bygone trouble. But these final words of the text leave no room for such forebodings. In winning and gentle friendship, God comes to each spirit of the redeemed from among men, and sweetens every hidden spring of bitterness and distress. We may be tempted to think that there are tragic and haunting memories which will steal into the high and holy place. Some griefs are so vast and mysterious that they threaten to make us pensive amidst the angels. It is difficult to see how some distresses can be obliterated, for no finite ministry can conjure them into oblivion. But the things impossible to the uttermost human sympathy and gentleness are possible to God. When God puts His hand upon the fountain of mortal tears, the fountain is sealed up for ever.
The eldest of the three [Ladies of Sorrow] is named Mater Lachrymarum, Our Lady of Tears. She it is that night and day raves and moans, calling for vanished faces. She stood in Rama, where a voice was heard of lamentation—Rachel weeping for her children, and refusing to be comforted. She it was that stood in Bethlehem on the night when Herod’s sword swept its nurseries of Innocents, and the little feet were stiffened for ever which, heard at times as they trotted along floors overhead, woke pulses of love in household hearts that were not unmarked in heaven. Her eyes are sweet and subtle, wild and sleepy, by turns; oftentimes rising to the clouds, oftentimes challenging the heavens. She wears a diadem round her head. And I knew by childish memories that she could go abroad upon the winds, when she heard the sobbing of litanies, or the thundering of organs, and when she beheld the mustering of summer clouds. This Sister, the elder, it is that carries keys more than Papal at her girdle, which open every cottage and every palace. She, to my knowledge, sat all last summer by the bedside of the blind beggar, him that so often and so gladly I talked with, whose pious daughter, eight years old, with the sunny countenance, resisted the temptations of play and village mirth, to travel all day long on dusty roads with her afflicted father. For this did God send her a great reward. In the spring-time of the year, and whilst yet her own spring was budding, He recalled her to Himself. But her blind father mourns for ever over her; still he dreams at midnight that the little guiding hand is locked within his own; and still he wakens to a darkness that is now within a second and a deeper darkness. This Mater Lachrymarum also has been sitting all this winter of 1844–45 within the bedchamber of the Czar, bringing before his eyes a daughter (not less pious) that vanished to God not less suddenly, and left behind her a darkness not less profound. By the power of the keys it is that Our Lady of Tears glides, a ghostly intruder, into the chambers of sleepless men, sleepless women, sleepless children, from Ganges to the Nile, from Nile to Mississippi. And her, because she is the first-born of her house, and has the widest empire, let us honour with the title of “Madonna.”1 [Note: De Quincey, Suspiria De Profundis (Works, xiii. 365).]
2. What need that God should wipe away the tears when the Lamb has led to the living waters? Would not joy follow as a matter of course? If our hunger and thirst have been taken away, if our eyes have already rested on the sparkling fountains, surely God need not interpose to dry our tears; will not Nature do that? No. One’s first joy is not brought back by restoring one’s first surroundings. Grief itself robs us of something; it breaks the elastic spring. The child cries after it has ceased to be hurt. The hurt has put it in the valley, and the painlessness cannot at once lift it to the mountain. Someone must put right the spring, must restore the capacity for joy. The fountains in vain will sparkle if the heart has lost its shining. And so, this one ray, the tenderest of the heavenly vision—one bar, the sweetest of the heavenly music—marks the close of the text. It reminds us of perhaps the noblest passage in Handel—the Dead March in “Saul.” When the music surges free and escapes all gloom in the great burst of joy after the funeral wail, then at its highest there comes in a tremulous minor strain which makes the glorious vision of the swelling triumph more heroic and exultant as we see it through tears. Another touch could not be added to the vision; but it can be made more thrilling and pathetic by a hint of the “great tribulation” that is gone, by flashing it for a moment and unexpectedly through the dimming tears once so sad and familiar; and that touch is given in the words which close this vision, which, beginning with tribulation, ends with tears, but leaves the whole space between calm and undimmed. The mighty Hand that bore away their sins, and led them in royal majesty, touches them with more than a mother’s yearning. “And God shall wipe away every tear from their eyes.” Tribulation gone from their steps; sin washed out of their hearts; now all the fountains of their tears are dried up. Truly the right hand of the Lord hath done valiantly in its mighty deeds of salvation; but this, its last touch of ineffable pity, moves us to the uttermost with the tenderness as well as the omnipotence and infinitude of love Divine.
Meanwhile to us, as we look up to that vision, is given the sweet pain of noble tears, and we feel rising within us the longing desire of the Great Dreamer, who in his vision followed the pilgrims from the City of Destruction to the City of the New Jerusalem, till he saw them “go in at the gate. And after that they shut up the gates; which, when I had seen, I wished myself among them.”
A great sorrow after a time becomes idealized. It presses at first with overpowering weight, but gradually it rises till it becomes a thing of contemplation on which we can dwell with calmness, and which leaves a mellowing influence behind. One has seen the dew, bequeathed by the darkness, weigh down the flowers’ heads, but sunlight relieves the pressure, dries up the tears, and leaves only their memory in refreshment and fragrance.1 [Note: John Ker, Thoughts for Heart and Life, 125.]
What will be the complete rest to which we are aspiring when all the history of the world is wound up and God is all in all! What retrospects of home repose, and wanderings here and there, of earthly histories wrought out and consummated! How can we conceive of a complete joy if those we love are not there with us? I dare hardly turn my eyes this way. It is like the beginning of an agony to think of Eternal separation; it seems as if it would fill Eternity with tears. What is that view of Truth that will wipe all tears away? What that consent to the Divine Rectitude which cannot permit a diminished joy even when the wicked are silent in darkness? I need help for such thoughts as these—God bring all we love safe within that circle of glory. God grant we may have no loves on earth that will not be everlasting.2 [Note: Letters of James Smetham, 140.]
The summer of 1826 was, I believe, the hottest and driest in the nineteenth century. Almost no rain fell from May till August. I recollect the long-continued sultry haze over the mountains of Lorne, Loch Etive daily a sea of glass, the smoke of kelp-burning ascending from its rocky shores, and the sunsets reflecting the hills of Mull and Morven in purple and crimson and gold. I can picture a sultry Sunday in that year in the quaint, rudely furnished, crowded parish church, then beside the manse, and the welcome given to the sublime imagery of the Apocalypse in the words which formed the text: “These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.”1 [Note: A. Campbell Fraser, Biographia Philosophica, 17.]
And now, all tears wiped off from every eye,
They wander where the freshest pastures lie,
Through all the nightless day of that unfading sky!2 [Note: Horatius Bonar.]
The Lamb as a Shepherd
Body (G.), The Good Shepherd, 96.
Bradley (C.), Sermons, i. 22.
Carpenter (W. B.), The Revelation (Ellicott’s New Testament Commentary), 104.
Cooper (T. J.), Love’s Unveiling, 137.
Foote (J.), Communion Week Sermons, 245.
Fry (J. H.), Tears, 65.
Gibson (E. C. S.), The Revelation of St. John the Divine, 108.
Greenhough (J. G.), The Cross in Modern Life, 209.
Hall (N.), Gethsemane, 323.
Keble (J.), Sermons for the Christian Year: Miscellaneous, 340.
Lewis (F. W.), The Work of Christ, 23.
Mackennal (A.), The Life of Christian Consecration, 266.
Maclaren (A.), Expositions: Psalms I.–XLIX., 365.
Maclaren (A.), Last Sheaves, 115.
Matheson (G.), Searchings in the Silence, 16.
Morrison (G. H.), The Unlighted Lustre, 259.
Nicoll (W. R.), The Lamb of God, 37.
Scott (C. A.), The Book of the Revelation, 190.
Selby (T. G.), in The Divine Artist, 73.
Spurgeon (C. H.), Metropolitan Tabernacle Pulpit, xi. (1865), No. 643; xxx. (1884), No. 1800.
Christian World Pulpit, xii. 191 (T. de W. Talmage); xiii. 148 (J. C. Gallaway); xvi. 191 (W. Graham); xxiv. 75 (H. W. Beecher); lvi. 356 (J. M. Jones).
Church of England Pulpit, lxi. 642 (W. H. M. H. Aitken).
Plain Sermons, by Contributors to “Tracts for the Times,” viii. 228.