extirpated when his sins were forgiven.

And so, in like manner, 'thus conscience doth make cowards of us
all.' There is nothing that so drapes a soul with darkness as either
the consciousness of unforgiven sin or the want of consciousness of
forgiven sin. There may be plenty of superficial cheerfulness. I
know that; and I know what the bitter wise man called it, 'the
crackling of thorns under the pot,' which, the more they crackle,
the faster they turn into powdery ash and lose all their warmth. For
stable, deep, lifelong, reliable courage and cheerfulness, there
must be thorough work made with the black spot in the heart, and the
black lines in the history. And unless our comforters can come to us
and say, 'Thy sins be forgiven thee,' they are only chattering
nonsense, and singing songs to a heavy heart which will make an
effervescence 'like vinegar on nitre,' when they say to us, 'Be of
good cheer.' How can I be glad if there lie coiled in my heart that
consciousness of alienation and disorder in my relations to God,
which all men carry with them, though they overlay it and try to
forget it? There is no basis for a peaceful gladness worthy of a man
except that which digs deep down into the very secrets of the heart,
and lays the first course of the building in the consciousness of
pardoned sin. 'Son, be of good cheer!' Lift up thy head. Face
smaller evils without discomposure, and with quietly throbbing
pulses, for the fountain of possible terrors and calamities is
stanched and stayed with, 'Thy sins are forgiven thee.'

Side by side with this first instance, illustrating the same general
thought, though from a somewhat different point of view, I may put
another of the instances in which the same phrase was soothingly on our
Lord's lips. 'Daughter,' said He to the poor woman with the issue of