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John Ruskin makes bold to say that "every real triumph of natural science is anticipated" in this, the 104th, psalm. By which he means that the Hebrew poet has found out the "bright shoots of everlastingness" that flash for ever behind the veil of nature, while physical students of our day are too much absorbed in examining and admiring the veil itself. "The cedars of Lebanon" show more than the pretty playfulness of blind force; they are parts of a living whole. "Little birds" — such the word signifies — prove more than the skilfulness of mechanical adjustment; they prove that God likes a pretty little thing, and cares for it well. These tiny, roving minstrels of the air find a happy home in the venerable trees of God's planting. The little and the great are fitted for each other: the great give the home, the little give the song. Wings and flowers, feathers and leaves, are adjusted to meet mutual wants and cultivate mutual trade. So God wills.

I. NO GREATNESS IS SELF-COMPLETE. The spirit of the angels has been given largely to the forces of nature — "are they not all ministering spirits?" Is not the sea a servant, the wind a servant, and the sun a servant to the needs of man? Does he not count the lightning and the breeze and the moon among his maidservants? Had God created a larger sun than that which lights us now; had He made its face more clear, its heart more fiery, but had not given it a ministering spirit, that would be a worthless sun. If the sun we now have had been more independent, rising and setting according to its fancy, making winter in a fit of bad humour, and making summer after coming to itself again; if it burned its fires without caring anything for the comfort of the worlds under its government, there would be no longer any Cosmic life. But the sun knoweth its going down; and its light and heat have been blessed with the spirit of the angels — the spirit of generous service. The best minds of the world do not gather knowledge to keep it for themselves, but to share it with all. The best thinker that ever trod the earth was the young teacher of Nazareth, who was not ashamed to publish the highest truths of heaven in a common and popular language. His parables are meek and gentle enough to come in as the door of the poorest cottage. Had Christ been less a servant He would have been less a God. His generosity of intellect has made Him the Teacher of the ages. the best disciples of God are the best teachers of men.

II. A TRUE CHRISTIAN LIFE DELIGHTS IN THE SERVICE OF OTHERS. To the religious idler the chapter of excuses is a very interesting chapter; and there are many in the Church to-day who know every verse of it by heart. What could the cedars of Lebanon say if they wanted to refuse shelter to the little birds?

1. They might say that they were too venerable to serve such poor little things. Is there not a murmur like this on the lips of the Church? saying under its breath that it is too venerable "to go out into the highways and hedges" to search for the wounded poor? the way is too rugged and too far to go after the lost sheep. That is not the speech of God. Eternity was not too far away for Him to think of saving man. No Church can live on its past history. When it gives itself too much to the reading of "the genealogies of the family," its decay is beginning.

2. They might say that there were other trees in plenty who could serve the little birds. One of the chartered texts of Carlyle was that the world had made the value of a soul to be notching. And his severe way of putting the truth calls for the solemn thought of the Church. "Souls" are lost in the "congregation"; and we forget that the salvation of one soul is worth a life of toil and weariness and sacrifice. "You have laboured for twenty years and have made only one convert yet," said a man unmercifully to a quiet, hard-working minister. "Have I made one convert?" was the noble answer; "here are twenty years for the next one." One pearl won by thee for the Redeemer's crown will shine through all heaven!

3. They might say that the little birds often went away to sing. Many a village church teaches its children well, and then the glitter of city life takes them away from it before they have paid anything in return. Many a father and mother have placed the noblest sacrifices on the altar to give their boys to the world. There is a sound of loss in every home and in every church — the birds gone away from the nests. The teachers of our Sunday schools have to change their scholars often; the old leaving and the new coming. Is there not a moaning among the cedars of Lebanon for the music that is lost, the sweet carollings that have been hushed there for ever, the morning hymn and evening song silent, and the little homes empty and cold? When shall they return? This only teaches every honest workman in Zion to leave the harvest unreaped until he has reached home. The creation has been too skilfully fitted together for any good to get lost in it. If the song has forsaken the cedar where the young soul was nursed, the music of the world is richer somewhere. The hymn learned on the hallowed hearth keeps a longing in the mind for heaven. There the songsters, separated and scattered here, will meet again; and to hear them sing among the branches of the tree of life in Paradise will more than repay for the grief and distress of the parents, and the teacher, and the minister who lost them here.

(H. E. Lewis.)

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KJV: The trees of the LORD are full of sap; the cedars of Lebanon, which he hath planted;

WEB: Yahweh's trees are well watered, the cedars of Lebanon, which he has planted;