The Mercy Seat: Thoughts Suggested by the Lord's Prayer

The Mercy Seat was the covering of the ark of the covenant. At each end of this overshadowing oracle was a cherub of pure and massive gold, stretching out its wings, each toward the other, and forming a sort of throne. There was the visible emblem of the divine presence, and “God appeared in the cloud.” There the high priest took of the blood of the bullock of the sin-offering, “and sprinkled it with his finger upon the mercy seat eastward, seven times.” The book of the Law was there, protected by the ark of the covenant, and bearing the marks of atoning blood. It was God’s throne of grace, and where the thrilling words were often addressed, “O thou who art seated between the cherubim!” It was the place of prayer: “There will I meet thee,” says God to Moses, “and I will commune with thee from between the two cherubim which are upon the ark of the testimony.”

We wish the reader to go with us to that mercy seat. We doubt not he has often been there, and listened to the instructions, as well as been comforted by the hopes uttered from the holy oracle. We are not introducing him to new scenes, nor do we profess to interest him with novel truths. There is nothing new on the subject of prayer. How can there be? It is addressed to the same Being, by creatures of the same fallen character; it is expressive of the same affections, and under the influence of the same Spirit; it utters, for the most part, the same precious thoughts, and for the same ends.

There are men who have questioned the propriety of prayer; but they are those who, though they need the most, are most slow to ask. There are those who feel insuperable objections to it; but they are only the objections of a prayerless heart. There are those who feel strong temptations to neglect it; but it is because Satan, that great deceiver, is well aware that the man whose home is the mercy seat is no longer the victim of his delusions. And there are those who have no comfort in it, and therefore restrain prayer before God. Yet is there no duty the Scriptures more explicitly enforce; no source of consolation which they more abundantly magnify.

Prayer is the language of desire; it is “the offering up of our desires to God.” It is the devotional thoughts and affections of the soul expressed in words. No spiritual emotions enter more intimately into the experience of the Christian, or more truly form the character of his piety, than those which are felt and expressed in his habitual intercourse with God. If he has adoring views of his Maker, and humbling views of himself; if he hungers and thirsts after righteousness; if he has strong confidence and joy; if his desires go out toward the enlargement and beautifying of the church of God on the earth, and the salvation of men; nowhere do these internal emotions and desires find utterance so truly as in prayer. Where these devout affections exist with anything like ardor and intensity, they are uttered by a sort of necessity. Such persons cannot help praying. It is not possible that emotions thus deep and spiritual, thus high-born and heaven-imparted, should remain silent and smothered within the bosom. The heart is too deeply affected by them not to seek this relief.

Prayer is the language of nature, because it is the language of desire and want. Even the “young lions, when they wander for lack of meat, cry unto God!’’ The veriest infidel, the vile atheist, in seasons of great public calamity, or personal danger and suflfering, forget their infidelity and atheism, and pray. Emphatically then is it true of the Christian, that he is a man of prayer. Though he knows that his neglect of prayer will not prevent the Father of mercies from causing his sun to shine upon the evil and upon the good, nor his rain from descending on the just and the unjust; his own heart will not allow him to live in that neglect. The divine bounty may still deck the earth with verdure and clothe it with fertility, and he may be a partaker of this, God’s impartial goodness, while it is unsolicited; yet is there something within his own heart that constrains him to pray. He has wants which nothing but prayer can supply; spiritual necessities, wants of the soul, which without prayer feeds on husks. Just as the plant strikes its roots into the ground to draw thence its vigor and nutriment; just as the flow er opens its bosom to the sunlight and the dew; so the soul, by prayer, has communication with the God of all grace, and places itself under the kind influences of his love. It is like the stream cut off from its fountain, when it ceases to pray. It is like the plant that grows in the shade, pale and sickly; the sport of the winds, and blown about by the tempests of passion and the storms of earth, because it seeks not this heavenly protection and aliment.

Those who know most of the power of prayer, are themselves the witnesses of the strength and fervor of its desires. None have felt more deeply than they, that they cannot break the bondage of sin, nor, when once broken, can they enjoy the liberty of God’s children, without strong crying and many tears. “Having escaped the pollutions of the world, through the knowledge of God their Saviour,” they are sure to be again “entangled in them and overcome,” if they live without prayer. Those periods of their history in which their faith has been the most weak, their love cold, their zeal relaxed and wearied; when their relish for heavenly contemplation became dull and insipid, and they “savored not the things that be of God, but the things that be of men;” and when they cast their eye backward upon the world and its pleasures; were seasons in which their lukewarmness, if it did not shut them out of their closets, shut them out from all communion with God. The degree of interest which men take in this religious service, may be uniformly looked upon as a sort of moral barometer by which they may ascertain the elevations and depressions of their spiritual state. The mercy seat is the place where the Shekinah dwells, and where, beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, the suppliant is transformed into the same image, from glory to glory. It is the mountain-top, which catches the last rays of the sun when it no longer shines on the vale below.

The examples of prayer furnished in the Bible are exemplifications of true, sincere, and strong desire. The only rebukes to prayer ever uttered in the sacred volume are against those supplications in which the desires of the soul have no part, where the heart is wanting, and where the most solemn offerings are but “vain oblations.”

Every- gracious affection has both its aliment and expression in prayer. Its adoring love is there uttered, sometimes breaking out in the ecstacy of joy, and exclaiming, “Whom have I in heaven but thee, and there is none on the earth that I desire beside thee!” There too are the expressions of its penitence, weeping at the feet of mercy, sorrowing for the past, covering its face, and in prostration of soul before the offended majesty of heaven, uttering its purposes of new obedience. There are the actings of its confidence, the simplicity of its trust in God, as well as the frequent renewal of that endearing and joyful submission to the divine claims which was the turning point in the sinner’s progress from darkness to light. There too are the more abundant utterances of his gratitude. A thankful acknowledgment of God’s mercies forms no small part of prayer. No man has received so few mercies, that he has nothing to thank his Maker for when he approaches his throne in acts of worship. A sinner has reason for songs of praise as long as he is out of hell. Not returning thanks to God, is one great reason why our prayers are not more frequently answered. Christians sometimes pray as though they had nothing to do but mourn. Ministers sometimes appear before God as the mouth of his church, as if she was in a state of condemnation. This is unwarranted, and characterizes a spirit of bondage. “Be careful for nothing,” says the Apostle, “but in everything, by prayer, and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God.” We would not offend against the generation of God’s children, much less would we depreciate the sighs of a broken, contrite heart, when we say, that grief and mourning are not the only emotions which become the mercy seat. There is no fear of our ever being too penitent and humble. “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit, a broken and contrite heart he will not despise.” The prayer of the publican when he stood afar off and smote upon his breast, and said “God be merciful to me a sinner,” is a strong rebuke to the spirit of self-righteousness and Pharisaic self-complacency in prayer. There are seasons when the heart is so burdened with a sense of sin, that it can do little else than mourn. But, while these things are true, and important truths, we are not to forget, that ‘* the fruit of the spirit is love, peace and joy.” There may be self-righteous tears, as well as hopes of self-righteousness. It is not unfitting in a sinner to call upon God “with joyful lips.” The meek and subdued cheerfulness, the holy joy of piety, greatly honor the God of our salvation. If I mistake not, those are the most acceptable offerings, and those the most profitable seasons of prayer, and the most invigorating for duty and trial, when the soul most rejoices in God through our Lord Jesus Christ.

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