SERMON.

PSALM xxxix. 9.

I was dumb, I opened not my mouth, because thou didst it.

THE circumstances of the Psalmist when he penned our text, were circumstances of deep affliction. Sorrow seems to have thrown its dark pall over his habitation: Remove, says he, thy stroke from me: I am consumed by the blow of thine hand. When thou with rebukes dost correct man for iniquity, thou makest his beauty to consume away like a moth.

What the stroke was, that thus consumed him, we are not informed. It is enough for us to know, that it was one of unspeakable sorrow. Hear my prayer Oh Lord, he adds, and give ear unto my cry—hold not thy peace at my tears. This would lead us to suppose that the calamity under which he was crushed, was the rebellion of his unnatural son, Absalom—or, his more afflictive death. We are told that on both these occasions he wept. When flying from Jerusalem it is recorded, “And David went up by the ascent of Mount Olivet, and wept as he went up and had his head covered—and he went barefoot, and all the people that was with him, covered every man his head—and they went up, weeping as they went up.” And when the news of Absalom’s death reached him “The King was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept—and as he went, thus he said, O, my son Absalom! my son—my son Absalom!—

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would God I had died for thee O Absalom my son—my
son.”

Now if our text was uttered under such circumstances of
inconceivable and indescribable terror—when his ungodly
son lay stretched out before his eyes a stiffened corpse—and
not a ray of hope that his soul was in Heaven illuminated
the darkness of the dispensation—then we have here a spec-
tacle of submission to God which may well be selected as
an example worthy the imitation of all His children.

In discoursing upon it, we are naturally led to contem-
plate,

I. The nature of submission.

II. The grounds for submission.

I. *The Nature of Submission.*

1. It is not that stoical insensibility which we often see in man, under the stroke of the Divine hand, which makes them stifle all the yearnings of natural affection—and refuse to weep because it is unmanly. Christianity, instead of eradi-cating the tender sensibilities of the soul, cultivates and che-rishes them. He who wept at the grave of Lazarus never forbid us to weep over the graves of those we love. He "who was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief," and "who in the days of his flesh poured out his supplica-tion with strong crying and tears"—is surely willing that his wounded people—crushed beneath the ills of life, should do so too. And he hardly deserves the name—because he possesses not the nature of a man, who hardens his heart against sorrow, and Pharaoh-like refuses to yield to the blow of the Almighty, sent to "make it soft."

Nor, *second*, is it that sullen submission to the Almighty
which grows out of a sense of the unavoidableness of the
evil.

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There are many, who thus despise the chastenings of the
Lord, by submitting quietly to an event, simply because
they cannot help themselves. What cannot be prevented
they say—must be endured—and there is no need of crying
for what is unavoidable; and thus you will find them re-
turning even from the grave of their dearest earthly hopes,
and mingling with the thoughtless world, with the badges
of mourning upon their head, but utter unconcern upon their
face. Oh there is much of such submission among the un-
godly, and many seem really to pride themselves upon the
facility with which they can endure their afflictions, when
their resignation is nothing more than the oblivion of their
cause. They make a virtue of necessity. They make the
purposes of God an apology for forgetting as soon as possible
the fearful dispensations which were designed to save them.
And long before the grass is green upon the graves of
their demolished hopes, they manifest a levity alike unnatu-
ral and revolting. And this some men call submission. I
call it hardness of heart and selfish insensibility.

But true submission is the submission to God which the
soul feels, not from necessity but from choice.

And with regard to it, I remark that it is a submission ir-
respective of all circumstances. There may be indeed ma-
ny and very alleviating qualifications. The man who weeps
in agony over the grave of departed worth, may with heart-
felt delight and exultation rejoice in the assurance, that the
spirit which once animated that beloved form now sepul-
chured there, is pouring her song along the chords of that
golden harp, which the spirits of the just made perfect strike
to the praise of their Redeemer. As he stops to inscribe
upon the marble her epitaph, he may hear a voice from
Heaven, saying unto him as to John in Patmos, write
"Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from hence-
forth; yea saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their

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labors, and their works do follow them." And the memory of her piety may leave no doubt of her salvation to increase the gloom of his sorrow. But still these constitute not the ground of his submission. They come in to increase the joy of this heavenly resignation, and are poured like mercy-drops into the cup of his sorrow, to sweeten it. But his submission to the desolating stroke owes its being to higher sources. The soul has by faith soared above all inferior reasons, to find one reason better than all others combined, the will of God. Without this, it would be an exceedingly difficult thing, amidst the contemplation of its sorrows, to preserve it from fainting beneath the Divine rebuke. Nay, I have often thought, my Brethren, that there was even in the circumstances which seem to mitigate the woe of the bereaved heart, something that at the same time was well calculated to enhance its suffering. Who cannot see that the very virtues which furnish the evidence that our friends are in Heaven, are those which rendered them so indispensable to our happiness on earth. "Who, saith the wise man, can find a virtuous woman?—for her price is far above rubies." Ah—when God takes from us such a gem, though it may be to shine in the diadem of His dear Son—can you not perceive that for that very reason she would have sparkled most brightly on the bosom of Domestic love. When such an one is torn by violence from the conjugal heart—when her little ones are suddenly and forever deprived of her celestial light, and the church and the world are robbed of her fair example, and her devoted efforts, is there not something even in the thought that she has gone to God, that gives emphasis to the agony of bleeding love—and that is calculated, almost, to awaken in the agitated bosoms of survivors, dark questionings about the righteousness of the dispensation which has crushed their hopes.

And yet, far be it from us to wish that there were less cause for grief that there might be more for resignation.

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But Christian submission draws its aliment from sources far above and beyond any and all the circumstances which cluster around the providence that has bereaved it.

The skies may be all hung in the drapery of night, from the zenith to the horizon—not a ray of sun-light or of star-light may pour its alleviating lustre into the gloom which settles upon the withered heart; the very foundations of earth on which we have long stood may give way beneath our feet, while the elements above our heads are wrapt in wild commotion; "deep may call unto deep, at the noise of the water spouts, and all the waves and billows go over the soul"—and yet you shall see that man on the strong pins of his faith soaring above the tempest-rocked world, and resting in calm repose in the pure and serene light which surrounds the "great white throne." Aye—you shall hear him singing at last, as he surveys the wreck of his heart's most cherished anticipations, "Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labor of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold and there shall be no herd in the stall; yet I will rejoice in the Lord—I will joy in the God of my salvation. The Lord God is my strength, and He will make my feet like hind's feet, and he will make me to walk upon mine high places."

Oh Brethren, there is a moral sublimity in such submission, that almost makes one rejoice in the very opportunity of exercising it to the glory of God.

It is enough, that amidst the gathering and dark clouds, a voice comes to the ear from the very throne of God, with all the authority of an inspired oracle, saying, "Be still—and know that I am God." And the man who hears it like the ancient Prophet when he heard the "still small voice," wraps his face in his mantle with adoring reverence and awe, exclaiming, with the King of Israel, "I am dumb—I open not my mouth, because thou didst it."

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It was thus that Aaron held his peace, when his two im-
pious sons were struck dead at his feet, in the very midst of
their impiety, and with their guilt upon their heads. It was
thus that Eli, under kindred circumstances, exclaimed—"It
is the Lord; let him do what seemeth him good." And
Job, too, in the midst of the complete annihilation of all his
earthly prosperity—the loss of property and of children—
"arose and rent his mantle, and shaved his head and fell
down upon the ground, and worshipped, and said, Naked
came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return
thither; the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, and
blessed be the name of the Lord."

This submission grows out of one or two elementary
ideas; and these ideas enter into the very definition of true
piety. They are simply these. God is on the Throne of
the Universe, and governs all things "according to the
counsel of his own will." "His throne, says the Psalmist,
is in the Heavens and his kingdom ruleth over all." All
events, vast and minute, and all things are at his disposal
and under his direction. The planet and the atom—the
archangel and the insect—are alike the subjects of his provi-
dential, as they were of his creative power. Each event
constitutes a link in the chain of his well ordered plan, and
came not without his knowledge or his choice. Thus the
Christian connects every event with God; and traces each
successive one, to the first which is fastened to his throne.

And now nothing more is necessary to lay the foundation
of the most unconditional submission, than the exercise of
that faith which accords to God Infinite Love and Infinite
Wisdom. This done, and "the name of the Lord becomes
a strong tower, into which the righteous runneth and is safe."
For what more can any one ask to tranquilize his spirit,
than the unwavering confidence that every event is the com-
bined result of a love that never falters, and of a wisdom

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that never errs. Can a man desire to be under a better
government? Well says the Prophet—Thou wilt keep him,
in perfect peace whose mind is stayed upon thee, because
he trusteth in thee.

The events of life may be shrouded in mystery by Him
"whose way is in the sea, and his path in the great waters,
and whose footsteps are not known"—but a voice is heard
speaking to his heart—"What thou knowest not now, thou
shalt know hereafter." And he waits in patience the wind-
ing up of this world's drama, under the full conviction that
God will then, if not before, vindicate his government in
the sight of the universe.

It was this faith in God which enabled the holy Payson,
in the midst of the most excruciating bodily agony, when
asked by some of his friends, "if he could see any particu-
lar reason for this dispensation," to reply—"No; but I am
as well satisfied as if I could see ten thousand. God's will is
the very perfection of all reason." And it was this, too,
which enabled another saint, under the most intolerable suf-
fering, when told by a friend, "Brother, you are in a great
deal of agony," to say, "Yes, I am; but I am in no more
than I would put myself, if I were as wise and as good as
God is."

This, my hearers, and nothing less than this, is submission.
And it can easily be distinguished from those counterfeits
which I have mentioned, and which virtually, are nothing
but rebellion.

But let it not be supposed that I deny the propriety of de-
riving consolation from the hopes which spread like a halo
of glory over the graves of departed saints. Oh no; let
the living cheer their loneliness by communing with the spir-
it-world, as much as they please, and thus realize what the
Poet calls "the joy of grief." Aye—let Faith enter the

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New Jerusalem, and there, amid the celestial choir, select the object of your affection, and gaze and listen until you catch the notes of that immortal song, and unite in the melody of Heaven. The exercise will do much towards your preparation for the hour of your own departure.

Nor let it be imagined that I would hide from the wounded spirit those exceeding great and precious promises, which a merciful God has associated with the visitations of his chastening rod, and in which "He speaketh unto us as unto children," assuring us that "by these we shall be made partakers of his holiness here, while they shall hereafter work for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. Oh no, let the sorrowful " with joy draw water from these wells of salvation."

But my subject naturally led me to point the troubled spirit of my hearers to a resting place, where is found the very well-head of these living waters, the bosom of a covenant God, and to a submission unconditional, to him—without which we have no right even to plead the promises. It is when the spirit bows in filial resignation to the hand of a Father, that he meets it with these refreshing draughts.

It furnishes cause for devout thanksgiving and praise to God, as well as consolation to the mourners on this occasion, that their beloved Friend, whose body we are assembled to convey to the tomb, was a devoted Christian. Mrs. LATHROP was the daughter of the Honorable PHINEHAS ALLEN, of Pittsfield, Massachusetts, and a lineal descendant of that holy band of Pilgrims who first peopled New-England. Her earliest recollections were associated, not only with the prayers of godly parents, but those of a grandfather, whose praise for eminent piety, "is in the churches."

When about eighteen years old, she was hopefully converted to God, and soon after made a profession of her faith.

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in her native village. Many an eye there will overflow with tears as they read the obituary which records her departure; for there, by a life of devoted piety, she left the deep impression of her sincerity: And there, by her amiable and winning deportment, she commanded the esteem of all.

In April, 1836, she was united to her now sorrowing husband, and in about a year afterwards, came to reside in this village.

And here I found her, when I became the Pastor of this flock, nearly three years since; and I am free to say, after a more than usual intimacy, what many others know, that as a wife and a mother, she had few superiors. I have felt that in no domestic circle which I have ever known, have I seen more sunshine. Possessed of an unusually amiable and cheerful spirit, she filled the circle in which she moved with smiles and gladness. And I have thought that concerning no wife or mother, could the words of the wise man be more justly uttered—"She openeth her mouth with wisdom: and in her tongue is the law of kindness. She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her children arise up and call her blessed; her husband also and he praiseth her." Mrs. LATHROP, as a wife and a mother, was a model.

But it was not only in the retirement of private life that she shone. Her heart was full of compassion to the poor, and in many a habitation of want are the foot-prints of her mercy visible. We have reason indeed to fear that it was by one of her visits to the poor, during a cold day this winter, the foundations of the disease were laid, which has terminated her invaluable life. Many a widow will weep over her untimely departure, and "show the garments which she made for them while she was yet with them."

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Her heart ever responded to the calls of charity—and
whether its claims contemplated the temporal or the eternal
necessities of man—her hand was ever open to meet them.
I most cheerfully bear my testimony to her self-denying
zeal for God.

Thus lived this precious woman, beloved and honored
most by those who knew her best, until she was confined by
her last illness to her room. She had been sick but one
week, when her disease assumed the fearful form of insani-
ty, which at last put a period to her existence. This is
among the inscrutable and mysterious providences of God,
who often leaves his own dear children to sink beneath mal-
adies which, we would suppose, he would reserve only for
his enemies. But he needed not from her the testimony
which an hour of dying triumph would afford to the truth
of her piety or his own fidelity. Her life had been lumi-
nous with evidence.

Before, however, reason was dethroned, and ere the
frightful tempest veiled her sun in clouds, her soul was filled
with unusual manifestations of the presence and the glory
of the Lord; and she spoke of Divine and eternal things,
with an earnestness and eloquence absolutely unearthly. It
seemed as if her Redeemer had, in anticipation of the event,
opened Heaven to her view, and let its light fall upon her
enraptured vision, illuminating her wan countenance as it
did the Martyr Stephen's. Indeed it appeared almost as if
she had reached the very threshhold of the New Jerusalem,
and was permitted to look within its pearly gates, and en-
joy some foretaste of its companionship and its felicities. It
was truly a beatific vision, and she spoke of her interest in
Christ, and of the prospective salvation of her whole family
with an assurance which could only have been inspired by
the Holy Ghost.

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After she had closed her parting address to her beloved
husband—with the almost supernatural authority of an in-
spired messenger—her poor enfeebled frame yielded to the
shock, and scarcely a lucid interval marked the progress of
her disease, until at last the earthly house of her tabernacle
was dissolved, and her emancipated spirit took its flight for
Heaven.

“Thou art gone to the grave—but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrow and darkness encompass the tomb;
The Saviour hath pass'd through its portals before thee,
And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom.

“Thou art gone to the grave—we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side;
But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,
And sinners may hope, since the Saviour hath died.

“Thou art gone to the grave—and its mansions forsaking,
Perchance thy weak spirit in doubt lingered long;
But the sunshine of Heaven beam'd bright on thy waking,
And the sound thou didst hear was the Seraphim's song.

“Thou art gone to the grave—but we will not to deplore thee,
Since God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide;
He gave thee, He took thee—and He will restore thee,
And death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.”

IMPROVEMENT.

Our subject reveals the only true remedy for the unavoid-
able ills of the present life. By the unalterable decree of
God, man who is born of a woman is of few days and full
of trouble. He is indeed, as Job says, "born to trouble."
So that the history of the patriarch Jacob, is substantially
the history of all men. "Few and evil have the days of
the years of my life been." The question which we should
ask therefore, is not so much, how shall I escape suffering,
as how shall I meet it with composure and endure it with
patience when it comes? Blessed be God, his word im-
parts true wisdom and suggests a satisfactory answer.
Trace every event, however afflictive, to Him. Recognize