that you are not reconciled to your son? You love him--love him
intensely. Probably you are more conscious of your love for him than
for any other of your children. Your heart yearns over him every day;
you pray for him night and day; you dream of him by night; your
bowels yearn over your son, and you say, with David, "Absalom,
Absalom, my son, my son." Why are you not reconciled? Why not pat him
on the head, or stroke his face, and say, "My dear lad, I am well
pleased with you. I love you complacently; I give you my
approbation?" Why are you always reproving him? Why are you obliged
to hold him at arm's length? Why can you not live on amicable terms
with him? Why can you not have him come in and out, and live with you
on the same terms as the affectionate, obedient daughter? "Oh!" you
say, "the case is different; I cannot. It is not, 'I would not;' but,
'_I cannot_.' Before that can possibly be, the boy's feelings
must be changed towards me. He is at war with me; he has mistaken
notions of me; he thinks I am hard, and cruel, and exacting, and
severe. I have done all a father could do, but he sees things
differently, to what they are, and has harbored these hard feelings
against me until he hates me, and will go on in defiance of my will."
You say, "It is a necessity that, as a wise and righteous father, I
must insist on a change in him. I cannot receive him as a son, till
he comes to my feet. He must confess his sin, and ask me to forgive
him. Then, oh! how gladly will my fatherly affection gush out! How I
should run to meet him, and put my arms around his neck! but there is
a 'cannot' in the case." Just so. It is not that He does not love
you, sinner; it is not that the great, benevolent heart of God has
not, as it were, wept tears of blood over you; it is not that He
would not put His loving arms around you this moment, if you would
only come to His feet, and confess you were wrong, and seek His
pardon; but, otherwise, He may not--He _cannot_. The laws of His