2 SAMUEL XIX: 2.

AND THE VICTORY THAT DAY WAS TURNED INTO MOURNING UNTO ALL THE PEOPLE.

BRETHREN, but one theme can command your attention this morning. Only the contemplation of one event, solemn and momentous, looked at in the light of that inscrutable providence which is ever wise and merciful, studied in its social and civil, its moral and religious aspects, is in harmony with the painful emotions that swell our hearts, the troubled thoughts that are pressing upon our minds.

Three days since, we gathered here for a service of humiliation, of human appointment, at the call of the civil authorities; God so ordered it, that it became of necessity a service of gratitude and thanksgiving. The black cloud of treason and rebellion, which for four years had lowered over the land, seemed distinctly broken and scattered, floating away in the distance. The dawn of approaching peace, of reunion, of prosperity, of a glorious and honorable future for the nation, gave clear indications that it must ere long burst upon 21*

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us in splendid effulgence; so that, though conscious of our unworthiness, we could not think of our sins so much as of the divine goodness and mercy.

We expected to gather here this beautiful Easter Sunday with our thoughts far away from present scenes, undisturbed by civil cares or anxieties; travelling back to that holy morning hour when the gates of the sepulchre, sealed and guarded by all the power of the Cæsars, were riven, and "the Crucified" came forth, and the world awoke to find itself bathed with new light, clothed with an immortal hope, refreshed with a heavenly benediction, that would be felt anew in our hearts on this grand and solemn anniversary. But again God has otherwise ordered. We cannot forget that blessed and stupendous fact in his providence, the resurrection of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, but the echo, coming down to us through the ages, of that glorious declaration, "He is not here, he is risen," which we expected would break upon our ears, filling our hearts with peace and gladness, is lost, as it were, overborne by the stunning announcement which burst upon us yesterday morning: "He is dead, Abraham Lincoln, the President of the United States, is dead, felled by the hand of a dastardly assassin, in the midst of a scene of quiet and peaceful relaxation from the oppressive cares of state." We cannot put from our thoughts that sudden and startling announcement, that sad and solemn event. It is not necessary that we should; nay, it is every way meet that we should not. The true place to which we should bring this great bereavement, this atrocious crime, this national calamity,

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this loss to the world, this event, the magnitude of whose influences, as they touch the relations and affect the policy of our own or other nations, cannot be computed, the true place to which to bring it and all the thoughts and emotions it awakens, is the altar of God; that we may bow there with a submission as profound as our sorrow, with a trust as deep and strong as our necessities.

Brethren, I feel almost incompetent to direct your thoughts this morning, as I have scarcely been able for the last twenty-four hours to collect and guide my own. Language seems impotent to give utterance to all that I think and feel. But, doubtless, your experience has been similar to my own. Yesterday, after the first outburst of my sorrow, and, I am not ashamed to add, of righteous indignation against the fiendish author of this terrific tragedy, the instincts of faith and the habit of my heart prevailed, and I heard, as it were, the Holy Spirit breathing in my ear the solemn and sublime injunction, "Be still, and know that I am God;" and there was borne in upon my mind, also, that declaration of the patriarch Jacob, uttered for the comfort of his children as they were about to be deprived of the counsels of his wisdom and the joy of his presence, "Behold I die, but God shall be with you." Our first duty, my friends, in this sad hour, now, as in all great emergencies, public and private, the only help, comfort, and strength of our souls is to turn unto God, and lean upon Him. We must strive to be calm. This calamity which seems unspeakably great, this bereavement which makes a nation weep and covers a mighty land with mourning,

this demon deed, instigated by the brutal passions, and perpetrated in the utter moral bewilderment, which, as many incidents in this war, and the war itself, so painfully and so conclusively testify, the barbarous institution of slavery begets in the human heart, was within the control of the Almighty Providence; and, in some way, which we cannot fathom, it will be made to contribute to our good, and the furtherance of the benignant purposes of that Providence. We believe this; we must strive to feel it, and be calm. Many have been accustomed, of late, to regard, and to speak of Abraham Lincoln, as a providential man. Political opponents, as well as friends, have been disposed to acquiesce in the epithet; the idea was fast getting to be the general feeling, the conviction of the nation. It was natural that this feeling should have arisen, have grown so strong, and been so cherished as to become a conviction. His history and character, his slender opportunities, and marked abilities, the wonderful way in which, under providence, he has presided over the nation, and by a singularly wise, calm, unimpassioned, but firm and persevering policy, carried the country, with honor before the world, through four years of a civil war which has no parallel in the record of the nations, seem to justify and demand that he should be regarded as the man for the crisis, "a providential man."

"I called thee from the sheep-cote to be ruler over Israel," said the Lord to David, and the words have an application and significance here. The shepherd of Hebron, called to the throne of Israel, and the humble citizen of Illinois, raised from the lowly sphere of private