His step may linger, but Jesus comes at length. While he seems to tarry, he knows each sigh, pang, and tear that escapes from the sufferer and his friends; and when he arrives he does more than we asked or thought. He raises not the sick, but the dead. He makes the darkness of the tomb the background to set forth the resurrection glory. He turns tears into

jewels, as the sun does with dewdrops. In after days the three would not have wished it otherwise. They would review it all, as we shall our life from the hilltops of heavenly glory, with the ery of “Amen, Hallelujah.” Amen, the reverent assent of the will. Hallelujah, the glad ascription of praise, v. 25. If we die before his second advent, we shall still live; if we live to see it, we shall be changed in a moment into his likeness.

Note that majestic consciousness of I AM, v. 25. None ever spoke like this. It is the crown of the eight I Oms of this Gospel. He is unchangeably the same. All who have lived are living still in him. When you stand by the grave where your cherished hopes le buried, still dare to affirm that he is the Christ, the expression of the love of God.