ILLIAM BAXTER was born in Leeds, Yorkshire, England, July 6, 1820, and emigrated, with his parents, to the United States, in the year 1828.

      His parents were members of the English Church; consequently his early religious training was in accordance with the Episcopal faith. His natural inclinations, however, did not lead him to sympathize with the church of his parents. He sought church connections where his warm, impulsive, and generous nature would find more scope and freedom. Hence, when about sixteen years of age, he became a member of the Methodist Protestant Church in Alleghany City.

      But this position was destined to be only temporary. He found the Methodists a zealous and active people, and, so far, he was satisfied with his religious connections. But, as he became more and more acquainted with the Bible, he was fully convinced that he had not obeyed the Gospel according to the teaching of the New Testament. This conviction soon led him to demand a Scriptural baptism, and he was accordingly immersed, in 1838, by the lamented SAMUEL CHURCH, who was then pastor of the church in Alleghany City.

      In the year 1841, he entered Bethany College as a student, and, after remaining four years, graduated in 1845, having, in the meantime, given considerable promise as a preacher of the Gospel. After leaving college he entered at once actively upon the work of the ministry. He preached one year for the brethren in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; then three years at Port Gibson, Mississippi; next, Wilkinson County, Mississippi, seven years; next at Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and Fayetteville, Arkansas, four years; and finally, at Cincinnati and New Lisbon, Ohio. At the former place he labored for the Sixth-street Church about two years, and at the latter he is at present located, where he is doing an excellent work in building up and strengthening the cause of Christ in that part of the State. He has also been quite successful as a teacher, having filled, in a satisfactory manner, [429] the Chair of Belles-Lettres in Newton College, Mississippi, and, more recently, the Presidency of Arkansas College, at Fayetteville, Arkansas.

      Besides publishing a volume of poems in 1852, he has been, for many years, a regular contributor to several public journals. Among these may be mentioned the "Ladies' Repository," "Southern Literary Messenger," and "Millennial Harbinger." In 1864, he published a volume entitled "Pea Ridge and Prairie Grove; or, Scenes and Incidents of the War in Arkansas."

      Brother BAXTER is rather small of stature, but compactly built; has strongly-marked features, with a nervous, excitable temperament. Although in years past he has been in feeble health, he looks now as if his health was quite vigorous. But his constitution is one which needs constant, careful watching.

      Both as a writer and speaker he is chaste and easy in style, while his thoughts are always pure and elevating. He has deep and tender sympathies, with large and active benevolence; consequently the poor and distressed never came to him in vain. As a pastor of a church, he is attentive to the real wants of his people, and labors earnestly for their spiritual advancement. In this department of labor he has been eminently successful. [430]

      "For God so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life."--JOHN iii: 16.

EVER were words more deeply fraught with meaning than those which the Savior uttered in the hearing of the learned Rabbi of Israel, words of deep import to you, to me, to the whole family of man. They make known the most benign attribute of the Divine Father; present before us its loftiest exhibition, and declare to dying men its blissful result. That attribute is the love of God; the exhibition of it, the death of his Son; the result, the eternal salvation of all those who, by holy obedience, manifest their trust in the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world.

      The angels who beheld the marvels of creative power when God called our world into being, saw not, until the fourth day, the regal sun, the queenly moon, and the starry host. Nor did hoary patriarch, mitred priest, or inspired prophet, ever behold such glories as met the gaze of the fishermen of Galilee when Jesus appeared to them on the holy mount, as he appears to the immortals now. For four thousand years God had been giving the world [431] proofs of his love; but how deep, how tender, how exhaustless that love, the world never knew, until the Savior's words to Nicodemus were fulfilled.

      In contemplating the love and compassion of God, there is danger of a trust and confidence that borders upon presumption; while too great attention to the severer attributes--such as justice and holiness--may lead to doubt, and even despair. Viewed in connection, the beauty and harmony of the whole is to be seen. As in the deluge, while there is anger and justice, so there is an ark, a dove, an olive-leaf, the smoke of sacrifice ascending, and, over all, the rainbow hues of love and peace; the fierce, surging waters, like the frown of God--the rainbow, like his smile of love.

      Thus, we may contemplate the power of God as displayed in creating and sustaining this vast universe; behold it, in the fierce tornado, and the wild commotion of the ocean storm; see it reflected in the glare of the forked lightning, as it darts across the darkened heavens; hear it proclaimed by the muttering thunder, as if he were speaking in tones of wrath to a guilty world; and we shall find there is nothing in all this calculated to awaken any other feeling save that of terror and trembling awe.

      When we remember that God fills all things--that he is everywhere present--that thought is calculated to arouse our fears, and rivet upon our minds the conviction that we can not go where he is not; we feel that God is above, beneath, around us; with us in the crowded city and the solitary desert; in the pursuit of pleasure, and the hurry of business; in the bustle of noonday, and the silence of midnight; in the hall of revelry, and the temple devoted to his service; with us at home and abroad, in and around our daily paths; and, with the minstrel king, we are led [432] to exclaim: "Whither shall I go from thy Spirit, or whither shall I flee from thy presence. If I ascend into the heavens, thou art there; if I make my bed in hell, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there thy hand shall lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me." And the boldest will tremble when he remembers that he is in the presence of the Ever-present One.

      If we remember that God knows all things, from the thoughts of the loftiest intelligence that burns near his throne, to the instinct of the most insignificant creature that he has made; that he looks on us not as man looks, but that his piercing eye sees through all our disguises and concealments, penetrates the flimsy vail of hypocrisy, discerns the very thoughts and intents of the heart, we quail before the searching glance of the All-seeing One, to whom the secrets of all hearts are known, and who will disclose them before the assembled universe, for our approval or condemnation, in the judgment of the great day.

      We call to mind the declaration of holy writ, that justice and judgment are the habitation of Jehovah's throne, and his righteous laws, which we have so often broken, rise up and condemn us; a fearful day of retribution in the future threatens, and our guilty souls find no refuge, no hiding-place from the storm in the justice of God.

      We turn to his holiness, the stainless purity of his character; we look at the defilement which sin has brought upon us; we feel that, like the leper, we should place our hands upon our mouths and cry, "Unclean! unclean!" His purity, contrasted with our sin, his holiness, with the corruption which we feel in our own nature, leaves us no foundation for hope in the holiness of God. Had God manifested no other attributes of his nature than these, [433] the condition of man would have been hapless in the extreme; hope would have long since died in the human heart, and our race would have toiled on in despair, from the cradle to the grave: but it is recorded on the sacred page that "God is love;" that "God so loved the world;" and these glad words drive away all our fears; they bid us draw near with filial confidence, and, from full hearts, cry, Father! father!

      As the loveliest and sublimest objects in nature, under certain circumstances, rather alarm than delight us, so some of the attributes of God, contemplated singly, fill the soul with dread; but, when viewed in relation to each other, they glow in the hues of loveliness alone. Thus, if we wander at nightfall in the depths of the forest, there is naught around us to give delight; the night wind sweeps through the overspreading branches like a wail of woe, and strange shapes are dimly seen through the gloom; a horror of great darkness fills the mind with vague and undefined terror, and we long to escape from the fearful place. But, lo! the moon rises in queenly splendor, and pours her mild radiance over the scene; the dew-drops glitter upon the leaves like diamonds set in emeralds; the wind's sad sigh now becomes a lofty hymn; and the scene, late so desolate and drear, as if by enchantment, is changed to one of surpassing loveliness. How awful, in the midnight gloom, is the thunder of Niagara! how awe-inspiring the fierce rush of its fearful leap into the gulf below! The soul is hushed in its solemn presence, while fancy shapes its rising mists into unearthly forms. But day comes on apace, and all its terrors depart; like pure crystal seems the torrent now; the sunbeams irradiate the falling spray, and the late dreadful cataract wears a rainbow, like a crown of glory, on its brow. And thus it is, when the heart is [434] depressed by the thought that God is all-seeing, ever-present, holy, just, and true; then the thought comes, that he is full of compassion and tender love, and, like the moonbeams to the darkened forest, or the sweet sunlight to the cataract, so is the light of love to those attributes that once inspired terror alone. The power of the Almighty, under the guidance of love, will be exerted for the protection of the object of that love; his presence, which made us tremble, will become, of all things, the most desirable; his universal knowledge will make him acquainted with all our wants and all our woes; holiness will glow brighter in the light of love; the severity of justice will be softened; for in the great exhibition of love which God has made in the death of his Son, justice and mercy truly have met, righteousness and peace have embraced each other.

      God has ever loved our race. From the time that his mandate called our first parent from the dust, his kind care and tender love have been extended over us. The sentence of exile from Eden had scarcely been pronounced, when God made known his love to man by giving the gracious promise, that one born of woman, like a mighty conqueror, should bruise the head of the arch enemy, and win for man a brighter Eden than Adam lost. God manifested his love by permitting man to approach him through the medium of sacrifice; by his speaking, through angels, to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; by the rights and ceremonies of the Mosaic institution; by sending prophet after prophet, and teacher after teacher, to instruct our race and draw it back to himself. But all these exhibitions of love failed to recall lost man from his wanderings. He treated his messengers with scorn, and, by his perversity, forfeited all claim to his merciful forbearance; yet God forsook him not, but gave him the strongest possible proof [435] of his love, to win him from sin and sorrow, to holiness, to happiness, and Heaven. Love consists not in word, but in deed. Men prove their love by their actions, as did the Roman Decias, who, in order to secure victory on the side of his country, in accordance with the prediction uttered by the oracle, drew his robe around him, and rushing into the thickest ranks of the opposing host, yielded himself a willing victim, that Rome might be free; or as Winkelried, who gladly threw himself on the Austrian spears, to open the way for liberty to Switzerland; or as Leonidas, who, with the noble three hundred, met the rushing myriads of the Persian despot, and bravely died, that Greece might not wear the yoke. Thus God, stooping to the usages of men, to prove his love to our race, gave his only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

      But let us examine the meaning of the saving, "Gave his Son." Does it mean that God sent his Son as an ambassador, attended by shining legions of angels, to treat with our revolted race, and bring them back to their allegiance? No; he came in lowly guise; no stately palace received him; no princely couch sustained his infant head; no national rejoicing hailed his birth; an obscure village is the place where the Son of the Highest makes his appearance; and he is cradled where the horned oxen fed.

      But was the obscurity of his birth and the coldness of his reception, the privations and dangers of his infantile years, all that was meant by God giving his Son? Ah, no; for, though when he first appeared among men, he stooped from heaven to earth, this vast descent came far short of exhausting its meaning, and we must seek it in his future history.

      Behold him, in the desert, undergoing fierce trial. [436] The adversary of our race assails him on every point, while demons and angels look with deep anxiety for the issue of this superhuman conflict. He triumphs, but it is only to encounter new trials, to undergo new sufferings; for, though he were maker of all things, yet did he suffer need; and, on one occasion, we hear the homeless wanderer exclaim: "The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man hath not where to lay his head." Contrast his friendless destitution with the glory he had laid aside, on our behalf, and then ask, Is not even this a wonderful display of our Father's love?

      But let us follow his eventful life, through priestly hate and pharisaic invective--a life stigmatized as evil, though spent in doing good--to that scene of sorrow which transpired in Gethsemane Garden on the night of his dark betrayal. He had just eaten the last supper with the twelve; he had seen Judas depart; and well did he know the foul purpose which filled his traitorous bosom. The echoes of the hymn which closed the feast had died away, and, with his disciples, he sought the retirement of the Garden, whose calm solitude had often invited to solemn contemplation and earnest prayer.

      "Tarry ye here, while I go and pray yonder," he says, and soon he is alone. The work he came to perform is nearly accomplished, but, as the closing scene draws near, his nature seems to shrink from the dread encounter; deep sorrow, like a mountain weight, presses on his heart, and his soul becomes exceeding sorrowful, even unto death. He prostrates himself on the cold, damp earth, and, in the most touching tones, he makes his petition to the Father. He pours out his soul to God in strong cries and tears, but no other deliverer can be found, and he treads the [437] wine-press alone. He rises and seeks his disciples; but they had forgotten their sorrows in sleep. He leaves them, and again prays in anguish of spirit. He even asks the third time, and, while prostrate in the dreadful agony of that fearful hour--such was the burden of our guilt, so intense the pain and mental agony which he endured, that his sweat was as great drops of blood falling down to the ground--and the meek sufferer, in that hour of mortal anguish, cries Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done."

      We now begin to perceive the meaning of the words "God so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten Son," as we gaze on the sorrowful scene which transpired near the hour of midnight in that Garden's shade. Oh! it was a fearful and a gloomy hour. Angels, doubtless, were near, weeping, too, if angels ever wept, and gazing with intense interest upon the sight, and wondering when this scene of sorrow, this scene of love, would end. Demons, too, looked on with scowling hate, or rejoiced in the apparent defeat of the Great Champion of our race; while man, alone of all created intelligences, for whom, too, all this was transpiring, was unobservant and unmoved. It might be thought that the scene might, with propriety, close here; that a sufficient proof of the love of God had been given; that it was enough that his Son had descended to earth in humility; that he had dwelt amid scenes of sorrow and privation; that, under the load of our guilt, while we had no tears for our own crimes, they had caused the bloody drops of agony to fall from the body of God's beloved Son. But, no; God has another exhibition of love, than which he himself could give no greater. Without the shedding of blood, there could be no remission. Man must die, or the Son of the [438] Highest must bleed. God gives the just for the unjust, and the spotless Lamb of God is slain for us.

      We now come to the grand climax of the love of our heavenly Father, in which all the rich fullness of his affection is displayed; and, if man be not convinced of his love by this crowning act, he must forever remain in utter and hopeless skepticism. This is heaven's last argument; for, when God gives his Son to die, there is no greater gift in the treasury of the skies, to demonstrate his great, his exceeding love to man.

      It is a solemn, and often a fearful thing, to die. There is something in death's approach which makes the best and bravest tremble; the severing of all earthly ties; the cold, clammy sweat, the failing breath, the struggle of the spirit for life, and the unspeakable anguish which often attends the closing scene, makes us shrink instinctively from the dying strife. Some, however, who have fallen on the battle-plain, in their country's cause, have been known to die exultingly in the moment of victory, exclaiming: "'Tis sweet, oh! 'tis sweet for my country to die!" The Christian martyr has been seen to yield up his life amid devouring flames, in proof of his attachment to his Lord and Master. Nay, many, very many, have triumphed on the bed of pain and languishing, and, upborne by a living faith, have looked upon death with an unfaltering gaze. But, when death comes attended with open shame and ignominy; when the infuriated mob pours out its reproaches on the object of its hate, and clamors furiously for his blood; when no tear is shed for the sufferer; when his eye looks around for a single look of pity, and sees it not; when his ear listens for one kind word to soothe his last agony, and hears it not; then, indeed, is death terrible. And yet to such a death did God give his [439] Son. He gave him freely for us all, that he might taste death for every man. He met it in its most repulsive form--partook of the death appointed for the vilest malefactors, in token that the benefits of his death might be enjoyed by the vilest of our race. Betrayed by a false friend; seized by rude foes in the Garden, hallowed by his prayers; deserted by his disciples, he is confronted with those who long have thirsted for his blood.

      It is night; yet, with indecent haste, they begin the trial. False witnesses fail to fasten any crime upon him. The Roman governor declares "I find no fault in him." Yet, when all the vile arts of flattery, intimidation, and perjury fail--for confessing the truth, that he is the Son of God--he is condemned to die. It is day--high day--and now the scene of shame the scene of sorrow, begins. The multitude, excited by their leaders, demand his execution; and, in answer to their blood-thirsty clamors, the victim is led forth. His body, lacerated with cruel stripes, seems one gushing wound; yet that bleeding body and thorn-pierced brow awakens no pity in the breasts of his relentless persecutors. Ten thousand eyes glare fiercely upon him--ten thousand voices rend the heavens with the shout of, "Crucify him! crucify him!" as, with fiendish exultation, they behold him delivered to their will. And now the living tide presses to the city gate; the priest, the scribe, the publican, the Pharisee, soldiers and civilians, rich and poor, are all in that throng, all animated by the same thirst for blood, all joining in bitter execrations, all striving to fill, with unmingled bitterness, the cup of agony he is called upon to drink; and yet no malediction falls from the lips of that meek sufferer; no bright-armed legions are called from the skies, to spread destruction through that ungodly throng; but, as a sheep led to the slaughter, with painful [440] step and slow, he urges his way up the rugged steep of Calvary. The goal of his earthly course is reached; his unresisting form is nailed to the cursed tree; the cross is upraised, and the spotless victim hangs on high; and for a season the powers of darkness seem to triumph. The turbaned priest mocks him in his bitter agony; the Pharisee smiles in scorn, the rabble revile and insult the dying victim.

      No; but from those pale lips, quivering with anguish, issue the kind, compassionate words: "Father, forgive them;" and thus, in agony, he hung, bleeding, suffering, dying; he bowed his head, cried, "It is finished," and died for us; and it is in this scene that we must look for the full import of the words "God so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten Son."

      But why all this Divine compassion, all this love, and all this woe? The answer is--"That whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." Not that all our race will be saved because Jesus died; not that the unbelieving and disobedient will be forced to the heaven they have striven to avoid; not that the proud scoffer and despiser of God's Son will be saved by that blood he now spurns and tramples upon; but that whosoever believeth, may come to Christ and live. But does a mere acceptance of the truth set forth in the text save? No; the sinner must trust in the Crucified One; must love him who laid down his life for his sake; must prove his love and trust, by obeying his commandments; for the faith that leads not to love and all holy obedience, is not [441] the faith of the Gospel. But what is meant by the phrase "Not perish?" Does it mean, "Shall not die?" Surely not, for believers and unbelievers alike taste of death, and are laid in the narrow mansion appointed for all the living. The perishing, from which the believer is to be rescued, is more than the death of the body. It is the despair, the remorse, the unutterable woe, the bitter pang of the second death, which all shall know who despise the gift of God's great love, and, by their unbelief and consequent disobedience, exclude themselves forever from the paradise above. The believer in the Son of God, however, has more to expect than a mere escape from the woes consequent upon disobedience; for it is not only declared "that he shall not perish," but the gracious promise is added, "that he shall have everlasting life"--a life not of endless duration only, but a life of eternal blessedness in the presence of Him who makes heaven glorious and the angels glad. The society of the prophets, the apostles, the martyrs, and all the pure in heart; a place near the crystal stream that flows from beneath the throne; the fruit and the shade of the tree of life; exemption from sickness, sorrow, and tears; the harp of praise, the crown of glory, the palm of victory, everlasting joys, eternal songs, all the heart can wish--nay, more than the loftiest thought can conceive of blessedness, are all included in the promise of everlasting life--the inheritance of the believer in Jesus.

      A word to those who have not availed themselves of the merciful provisions of the Gospel of peace, and we have done. You have seen the wonderful display of love which God has made, and all this was done for you. You have seen the Lamb of God bleeding, groaning, agonizing, dying, not to save friends, but to secure happiness for his foes. Will God permit you to slight all this love, and all [442] this sorrow, and yet hold you guiltless? Will you steel your hearts against all that God has done and Christ has suffered? Amid all those manifestations of tender compassion, will you force your way down to ruin, and madly seek that perdition from which the Redeemer died to save you? Will you still trample underfoot his loving-kindness and tender mercy, and expose yourself to all the unspeakable horrors of death eternal? Stop, I entreat you! Be persuaded by your soul's peril, by the Savior's blood and tears. If you shrink from the responsibilities of a follower of Christ, think, for a moment, of the fearful responsibilities of his enemies. If you shrink at the difficulty of obedience, think of the danger of disobedience. If the weight of the cross appall you, think, O think, of the brightness of the unfading, the immortal crown! God loves you; can you doubt it, when you look upon the cross, and its bleeding victim? Christ loves you; can you doubt it, when, for you--

      Can you doubt it, when, through his Gospel, he is ever crying: "Come unto me?" Can you stay away, when he says: "He that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out?" Turn, then, from all your sins away, "for the wages of sin is death." Turn to the Savior, believe in him, love him, obey him; "for the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord." [443]

[TLP 429-443]