consolation, or some light air, as it were, of consciousness of His
presence, breathes through our souls, we think that it is only a
phantasm of our own making, and that the coming Christ is nothing more
than the play of our thoughts and imaginations.

Oh, brethren, let no absorption in cares and duties, let no
unchildlike murmurings, let no selfish abandonment to sorrow, blind
you to the Lord who always comes near troubled hearts, if they will
only look and see! Let no reluctance to entertain religious ideas, no
fear of contact with the Unseen, no shrinking from the thought of
Christ as a _Kill-joy_ keep you from seeing Him as He draws near to
you in your troubles. And let no sly, mocking Mephistopheles of doubt,
nor any poisonous air, blowing off the foul and stagnant marshes of
present materialism, make you fancy that the living Reality, treading
on the flood there, is a dream or a fancy or the projection of your
own imagination on to the void of space. He is real, whatever may be
phenomenal and surface. The storm is not so real as the Christ, the
waves not so substantial as He who stands upon them. They will pass
and quieten, He will abide for ever. Lift up your hearts and be glad,
because the Lord comes to you across the waters, and hearken to His
voice: 'It is I! Be not afraid.'

The encouragement not to fear follows the proclamation, 'It is I!'
What a thrill of glad confidence must have poured itself into their
hearts, when once they rose to the height of that wondrous fact!

'Well roars the storm to those who hear
A deeper voice across the storm.'

There is no fear in the consciousness of His presence. It is His old