“I look up at that blue sky which bends so brightly over me. It is without a stain.
From the horizon to the zenith it is perfect in its beauty; there is no flaw in the whole stretch of its azure circle.
I cannot but admire it, and still more the mind that planned, as well as the hand that painted it. But is this all that it awakens in me?
If so, then I am like one admiring the fair-written characters of a language which I have no skill to interpret. Nay, but it is not all.
There is much more than this to be discovered there. That radiant arch is not only the indication of an infinite mind, but it is also the utterance of an infinite heart.
It is effulgent with love, it glistens with parental smiles. I dare not separate between the beneficence of God’s works and the benevolence of His heart.
In the former I cannot but read the latter. These heavens most plainly tell me what is the heart of Him who made me.
They show me how it beats towards me, and how it yearns over me with an intensity of affection and interest which it is impossible for me to overestimate or overprize.
And it is this that makes me glad; it is this that is the warmth of my spirit, the very pulse of my being. That blue arch that compasses me about seems like the infolding pressure of the everlasting arms.
Every gleam of it sends a thrill to my heart more joyous and satisfying than does the conscious possession of the tenderest love of earth.
Or, again, I walk forth by that mountainside, where the wildflowers blossom, without a hand to sow them, and scarce an eye to see them. I take up that tuft of heath that buds as gaily as if a thousand eyes were on it.
How beautiful, how perfect! But of what does it tell me? Of the wisdom of God. And is that all? No, surely. It speaks of something more than the mind, the understanding of him who clothed and coloured it so richly?
Does it not speak of His heart? We do not merely say, as we look upon its purple clusters, ‘If this be so passing beautiful, what must He be who is the fountain-head of all beauty?’
We say, also, ‘What must be the heart of Him who has taken such pains upon that world which He made for us, so that even its very wastes are fair and fragrant!’
In all that He has been doing He seems to have been thinking of us, of our comfort, of our happiness.
In every leaf, in every blossom, in every odour, in every colour, He seems to have been consulting always for us, thinking how He could make us happiest, how He could continue to pour out most of His heart upon those scenes in the midst of which He meant us to dwell.
When thus looking at His works as laying open His heart we get at their real meaning. We understand the story which they were meant to tell— a story about the heart of God.
It was this story of Divine goodness, as told upon earth by God, that made man so blessed. The happiness of the creature came directly from what he knew of this loving Creator.
It was not Eden, but the God whom Eden spoke of, that was his joy. It was not the fair sky of an unfallen earth that made his eye glisten as he looked up into its depths; it was the God whose goodness he saw shining there so richly.
Each object made him happy, by showing him GOD, and drawing him into fellowship with Him. Acquaintanceship with God was all lie needed for his blessedness. This acquaintanceship each scene around was fitted to increase.
Nor did he find his joy in thinking of himself, or contemplating his own excellencies. He did not say, ‘I am a holy being, I never sinned, I always obey God; surely I am entitled to be happy.’
No: his joy lay in God alone, and it was in thinking about God that this joy flowed into him. The more he knew of the Infinite One, the All, he was the happier.
To forget himself and remember God was his true delight. Every new insight into the heart of God was to him an increase of gladness, a new well-spring gushing forth in Paradise.
God’s favour was the sunshine of his being, and every thing that spoke more fully of that favour glistened with that sunshine, and poured new streams of life into his soul.
In Eden, as in heaven, God was ‘all and in all’ —God Himself, the living God, the personal Jehovah, in whom man lived and moved and had his being.
It is no mere name that man is called on to recognise in creation, no shadow clothed with what are termed attributes or perfections; it is the very life of the universe, the Being of Beings, the eternal I AM.
He it is with whom man met in Paradise, and of whom all things spoke so blessedly.
Reader, and especially young reader— for this scene of Eden-brightness seems to speak home to the young and opening heart— let me deal with you for a moment.
Is this Infinite Being your God?
Is His favor your life, His smile your treasure, His friendship your all?
Is it in HIMSELF that you have found your joy?
Are you using His works for the purpose of making you happier in Him?
Or are you perverting them to the awful end of making you happy without Him?
Do they bring Him into you, or do they shut Him out?
Are they prized for the discoveries which they afford you of Him, or because they help to fill up the void within, and make you no longer dependent upon Him for happiness?
He built those mountains, up whose slopes your young elastic step delights to climb.
He poured the clear water into those streams on whose banks you love to wander.
He made that glad day, with its bright sun, and that solemn night, with its ever-sparkling gems.
What, then, must He be who did all this for you?
What a portion must His favour be!
What endless gladness must be in His smile!
What a heaven upon earth must be enjoyed in fellowship with Him!
This was enough for your first father, when unfallen— it may well be enough for you!
He whose name is Jehovah is the one Being whose friendship would be infinite gain to you, and the loss of whose acquaintanceship would, of itself, be a hell as terrible as the region of the unquenchable fire.”
–Horatius Bonar, The Story of Grace: An Exhibition of God’s Love (Geanies House, Scotland: Christian Focus, 1848/2025), 24-28.
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