THE QUARTERLY

JOURNAL OF PROPHECY.

JANUARY 1872.

ART. I.-MAN IN EDEN AND OUT OF EDEN; WITH A HINT AS TO THE CHERUBIM.

GENESIS iii. 22-24.

THESE few words, "So He drove out the man, and He placed at the east of Eden cherubim" (Gen. iii. 24), bring before us a scene which shows us, side by side, the severity and the goodness of God, the issues of sin and the promises of grace, the doom of man's condemnation and the hopes of his deliver

ance.

The judgment inflicted on Adam is described in the words, "Therefore the Lord God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken; so he drove out the man ;" and it is explicit, comprehensive, and disastrous.

The man alluded to is none other than he whom, at the beginning, Jehovah made in "His own image," and into whose hands the earth was given. It is Adam, the representative of the Creator, and the trustee for creation. It is our first parent, from whom we derive our life, and with whom it lay to establish or subvert the interests of his race.

This man was placed in the garden of Eden as his residence, and all blessed things were heaped around him. For "Eden was at least a scene of true enjoyment, and nothing to hurt or offend was there. Over the wide earth there were beauty, and order, and fruitfulness; but "Eden" was a spot where the finger of God was conspicuous, and where His riches were profusely lavished. Indeed, we may gather from the 8th

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verse of the second chapter of Genesis, which records "that Jehovah planted a garden eastward in Eden," that not only was there a region of superlative magnificence called "Eden," or Delight, but that within this rare enclosure there was a spot more exquisite still; a recess, described as "Paradise in Eden," at the very threshold of heaven, and where would stand the ladder on which angels descended; where too was the shrine of God, over which His radiant symbol floated.

"Eden" was not less a scene of vigorous activity than of true enjoyment; and man, though never weary, never was at rest. His duty was to "keep and dress," to protect and cultivate the fair policy which stretched around him. And in this occupation he had employment without fatigue, labour without exhaustion, and exertion without effort. No sweat ever stood upon his brow, and his arm complains of no toil. Yet he plants and prunes his groves and orchards, as one who is responsible for his inheritance, and who desires to see it flourish in loveliness and order.

But "Eden" was a scene of heavenly fellowship as much as a scene of enjoyment and activity, for there man held holy communion with all holy ones. "The morning stars" claimed as their associate the creature over whose birth they had rejoiced, and man conversed sweetly with angel. But with higher than angel, for "the Lord walked in the garden," and conversed with man. From the first hour when "Eden" was spread out, Jehovah was doubtless there, and the Shekinah token of His presence was resplendent as a star. The glorious "flame," the emblem of divinity,-would rest above Paradise; whilst the emblem of man and angel in joyful union,-the winged "cherubim,"-would also be there. And in this "holy of holies," would Adam meet his God face to face, with calm delight. Everywhere throughout the dominion given to him, he loves to track his Father's steps, and praise Him with a song; but from all his surveys he returns, at the close of each day, to the shining pavilion where Jehovah sits enthroned, to worship as the angels did.

Such was man's first estate, and it wanted no element of felicity. The firmament was serene, and the soil unblighted. "Eden was made for the man, and the man was made for "Eden." Nevertheless, all that was abdicated, all that was revoked; and the loss of so goodly an inheritance was of itself a judgment. To lose Paradise was sad; to lose Eden, to lose earth, to lose angels, to lose God, was very sad. But Adam fell, and the sceptre is dropped, the covenant is broken, and the heir is set aside.

Perhaps it would be a gentle intimation which was issued at first, and man was left to carry out the decree of God in his own way; for we are told in the 23d verse, "That the Lord sent him forth from the garden of Eden to till the ground from whence he was taken." But in the 24th verse we read, "So He drove out the man," and, as by a stern and implacable divorce, severed him from all his heritage. Now that it has come to this, most reluctant is "the man" to quit his fair abode; and we can almost fancy him lingering, doubting, weeping, pleading, refusing, and even grasping every branch or twig he passed, if by any means he might continue amid the bowers of "Eden." It could not be, however. The forbidden

fruit had been plucked, and judgment must be executed. An arm he cannot vanquish drags him from his retreat, and forces him through the gate of "Paradise," and of "Eden" too. "So He thrust out Adam."

It was dark enough to be deprived of happiness and dominion, to be banished from the suburb of heaven and turned out of the sanctuary of God. To lose all he lost was sore judgment; and might not wrath be here stayed? Yet was there judgment behind judgment; for he who is "driven from Eden" is by the same sentence "driven out" into the desolation and disquietude and disorder of the wilderness. The curse smote the earth when Adam fell, and into a curse-smitten earth is fallen Adam thrust.

"Driven" from Paradise, man is driven amidst a scene of ruin, for the enamel is gone from creation, and all its stones are shaken from their place. In his days of honour, Adam used to pass out of "Paradise" into "Eden," and from "Eden" into the domain beyond, with its rivers and woods and hills; and all was steadfast, and harmonious, and bright. No hurricane swept the sky, no earthquake cleft the ground, no groan was heard from all existence. But now the winds are abroad, and the night is dark, and suffering abounds, for a curse has come up upon all things, in room of the primal blessing.

There is labour as well as ruin in the scene man has exchanged for "Eden," and it is weariness now as well as work. In his noble days, Adam was always busy, yet never strained. He wrought, but fainted not; he was active, but with no infirmity or ache; he only needed to check or to train the teeming prodigality of nature; he had only to call the beasts, and they came or fled; he had only to look up, and the clouds dropped fatness, and every leaf was cooled with the early dew. But now all things have escaped from his control, and the elements are at war with him. The sentence has gone out, “In the

sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread," and with the labour of his hands shall he consume his strength, till he mingle his dust with the dust from which it sprung.

The wilderness was a scene of change to evicted Adam, as well as of ruin and labour; for now is there nothing stable or uniform or trustworthy. Hitherto, though capable of progress, man was not subject to abatement or mutation; and though he might be happier to-morrow, yet would his prosperity continue substantially the same. But it is progress, or increase, or growth no longer, it is altogether change; it is not advancement, it is evermore vicissitude; it is not promotion, but always descent with him. The sky varies its phenomena ungenially from hour to hour, the hills are mouldering into the vale, the fields in bloom when the sun rose, are in decay by evening; and so man has no continuance here, nor does he know what even an hour may disclose.

But we must add grief to ruin and labour and change, as the calamitous experience of Adam when exiled from "Eden," and bear in mind that it was all fear if he looked forward, all remorse if he cast his eye backward. How could he think upon the possession he had cast away, and survey the judgment he had called forth, without a pang? His heart was full of care, and he trembled for what might be lying in ambush for his feet at the next step. He knew what an anathema had fallen on every beast and bird and blade for his offence. And would it not oppress him unto agony to realise the countless myriads who were to suffer, and weep, and perish, as the fruit of his disobedience? Nothing then, but grief, deep and bitter, could fill, and cloud, and harrow the breast of man "driven out from Eden" upon the dark waste, which his own culpable facility had stripped of all its lustre.

Then along with ruin, and labour, and change, and grief, there came death to aggravate the woe which had followed man out of Paradise. No death, but blissful undyingness was the law of man's first condition, and soul and body were alike imperishable. But with sin, dying came in, and came in as an avenger, more than as an attendant. Man was now lamentably conscious that he possessed not invincible strength, nor health which could contend with infirmity. On the contrary, he knew that the poison of sin was in his veins, and that the course of life was a race with death.

The last form in which judgment overtook "the man when driven out of Eden," and worse perhaps than ruin, or labour, or change, or grief, or death, was what can only be termed excommunication. But now the holiest of all," the "She