Christ Our Keeper

CHRIST OUR KEEPER.

You that were here last night may remember that I was talking about what Christ was to us. I did not finish that subject, and want to take it up again. I want to speak of Christ now as our keeper. Many people in the inquiry rooms complained that they could not hold out; they commenced all right, but could not hold out. Of course they could not, if they tried to do so of themselves. But, thank God, they had a keeper. A man, when asked what persuasion he was, replied that he was of the same as St. Paul was, and he said: "I believe that he is able to keep that which is committed to him." That is a good denomination, and I recommend it to your attention. What is this keeping; what does it consist of? If one of you had $100,000 in your pocket, and knew that fifteen or twenty thieves had their eyes on you, and wanted to rob you, what would you do? You would find a safe bank, and put it in there and feel safe. Now, every one of you has a precious soul, which the devil is striving to rob you of, and you cannot be safe until you have given it into Christ's keeping. The lion of the tribe of Judah is the only one that can safely keep us.

What does the Word say? "I am the light of the world; if any man follow me he shall have the light of life." Why are so many of us in darkness? Because we will not follow the light—will not follow Christ. It does not matter who it is; a man of talent and intellect is no bettor than any one else, if he does not walk in the light. I remember, during the second year of the war, when things looked very bad for the country, they had a meeting, and every one spoke gloomily and hung their heads like so many bulrushes. One old man, though gray-bearded and with a face that literally shone—he was a man who looked like Moses—and he commenced to upbraid them that they did not look toward the Light; that they should remember that if it was dark around them it was light higher up, where their Elder Brother was, and it only rested with them to climb higher. There is no darkness where Jesus is. Let us ask ourselves, let each one ask, "Am I a light in my family, among my companions?" The Word said: "Ye are the light of the world." Are you, brethren? Just consider over it. Let Ur keep our loins girded and our lamps burning, or people will stumble over us. Oh, my friends, if the light in us be darkness, how great is that darkness. If we would light the world up, we must borrow the light; we must take no glory to

D. L. MOODY'S CHURCH.
Corner Chicago Avenue and La Salle Street, Chicago, III

This edifice, recently completed, had more helping hands in it* erection, than perhaps any other similar building in the world. After the great fire, which laid in ashes Moody's Illinois Street Mission, he at once called upon the Sunday-school scholars of Christendom to contribute each "a brick" only, in this good cause. The response was hearty and general. In came the money, and up went the new church structure, which stands to-day a noble monument of child . love and liberality. It is 120x100 feet, with nine rooms below, and a large auditorium and galleries above seating 2,500 persons. The entire cost was about $100,000. The Society now has a membership of 400 and a Sunday-school of 1,000 scholars.

ourselves, but merely reflect the light of Jesus Christ. The Bible does not pay, "Make your light shine before all men;" but, "Let your light shine." Let it shine. What a concession to them, such sinners as they were. God supplies us with it, for the asking. Oh, my friends, will you not ask for it? And when you once nave it, hundreds of thousands of others will see it, and want it as well. Keep your lower lights burning, as Mr. Sankey has sung to you.

Now I also like to think of Christ as a shepherd. The duty of a shepherd is to take care of his sheep. When a bear attacked David's flock, he seized his spear and slew the intruder; and your Shepherd will take as much care of you. Oh, what joy in the news to those who can say, "The Lord is my shepherd." Think of the shepherd carefully counting his sheep at the close of the day; one is missing; what does he do? Is he content with his ninety and nine, to leave the missing? No; he safely houses the others, and then goes in search of the one which is missing. Can you not see him hunting for the lost one; going over mountains and rocks and crossing brooks, and what joy there is when the wanderer is found. Oh what a shepherd is that. He wants to be a shepherd to all you here to-night. Will you not accept him? The man who saw a shepherd calling his sheep by name, wondered if he could tell one from another, they all looked Bo much alike. When he inquired on the matter, he was pointed to several little defects on the sheep; one had a black spot, another a torn ear, another a bad toe; one was cross-eyed, and so on. You see the shepherd knew his sheep by their defects; and I think it is so with our heavenly Father. He knows us all by our defects; and yet with all our faults He loves us. You may ask, If he loves me, why does he afflict me? Well, now, I once saw a drove of sheep looking very tired and weary, being hurried on by a shepherd and bis dogs; and when they wanted to stop and drink at a brook by the wayside they were not allowed to, but driven on. I felt that it was very unkind of that shepherd; but by-and-by they stopped before a pair of handsome gates, and the fiVcks were turned into beautiful green pastures, with a clear stream running through them. Then I Knew that I had been hasty; that the shepherd had not been unkind, but kind, in not allowing his sheep to drink from that muddy stream in the road, for he had been saving them and taking them on to something better. So with our heavenly Father, our Shepherd; He is compelled to afflict us sometimes, while leading us into green pastures. Oh, brethren, let us give thanks that we have such a good Shepherd to guide and protect us; and though these afflictions may come upon us and seem hard at the time, let us remember his great mercy and loving kindness, and bow and kiss the rod. Let us look to God for his blessing.