An infinite sin deserves an infinite punishment because it receives its aggravation from the dignity of the person against whom it is committed. So the sufferings of Christ, though finite in regard of His human nature, received an infinite value from the infiniteness of His person, equivalent to the debts of all that come to Him. Sin is finite in regard to this subject, infinite in regard to the great God against whom it is. The sufferings of Christ are infinite in regard of the subject and infinitely please the Governor of the world unto whom the offering is made.
Stephen Charnock

WHAT WENT YE OUT TO SEE?

What went ye out to see
O’er the rude sandy lea,
Where stately Jordan flows by many a palm,
Or where Gennesaret’s wave
Delights the flowers to lave
That o’er her western slope breathe airs of balm?

All through the summer night,
Those blossoms red and bright
Spread their soft breasts, unheeding, to the breeze.
Like hermits watching still
Around the sacred hill,
Where erst our Saviour watched upon His knees.

The Paschal moon above
Seems like a saint to rove,
Left shining in the world with Christ alone;
Below, the lake’s still face
Sleeps sweetly in the embrace
Of mountains terraced high with mossy stone.

Here may we sit, and dream
Over the heavenly theme,
Till to our soul the former days return;
Till on the grassy bed.
Where thousands once He fed,
The world’s incarnate Maker we discern.

Oh, cross no more the main,
Wandering so wild and vain.
To count the reeds that tremble in the wind,
On listless dalliance bound,
Like children gazing round,
Who on God’s works no seal of Godhead find:

Bask not in courtly bower,
Or sun-bright hall of power;
Pass Babel quick, and seek the holy land;
From robes of Tyrian dye
Turn with undazzled eye
To Bethlehem’s glade, or Carmel’s haunted strand.

Or choose thee out a cell
In Kedron’s storied dell,
Beside the springs of Love, that never die;
Among the olives kneel
The chill night-blast to feel,
And watch the Moon that saw thy Master’s agony.

Then rise at dawn of day
And wind thy thoughtful way
Where rested once the Temple’s stately shade,
With due feet tracing round
The city’s northern bound,
To th’ other holy garden, where the Lord was laid.

Who thus alternate see
His death and victory,
Rising and falling as on angel wings,
They, while they seem to roam,
Draw daily nearer home.
Their heart untravelled still adores the King of kings.

Or, if at home they stay,
Yet are they, day by day.
In spirit journeying through the glorious land,
Not for light Fancy’s meed,
Nor Honor’s purple meed.
Nor gifted Prophet’s lore, nor Science’ wondrous wand.

But more than Prophet, more
Than Angels can adore
With face unveiled, is He they go to seek:
Blessed be God, Whose grace
Shows Him in every place
To homeliest hearts of pilgrims pure and meek!