is under the dominion of these
lying desires--it is slowly rotting away piecemeal, 'waxing corrupt
according to the lusts of deceit.'

II. Note how, this being so, we have here the hopeless command to put
off the old man.

That command 'put it off' is the plain dictate of conscience and of
common sense. But it seems as hopeless as it is imperative. I suppose
everybody feels sometimes, more or less distinctly, that they ought to
make an effort and get rid of these beggarly usurpers that tyrannise
over will, and conscience, and life. Attempts enough are made to shake
off the yoke. We have all tried some time or other. Our days are full of
foiled resolutions, attempts that have broken down, unsuccessful
rebellions, ending like the struggles of some snared wild creature, in
wrapping the meshes tighter round us. How many times, since you were a
boy or a girl, have you said--'Now I am _determined_ that I will never
do that again. I have flung away opportunities. I have played the fool
and erred exceedingly--but I now turn over a new leaf!' Yes, and you
have turned it--and, if I might go on with the metaphor, the first gust
of passion or temptation has blown the leaf back again, and the old page
has been spread before you once more just as it used to be. The history
of individual souls and the tragedy of the world's history recurring in
every age, in which the noblest beginnings lead to disastrous ends, and
each new star of promise that rises on the horizon leads men into
quagmires and sets in blood, sufficiently show how futile the attempt in
our own strength to overcome and expel the evils that are rooted in our
nature.

Moralists may preach, 'Unless above himself he can erect himself, how
mean a thing is man'; but all the preaching in the world is of no avail.
The task is an impossibility. The stream cannot rise above its source,
nor be purified in its flow if bitter waters come from the fountain.
'Who can bring a clean thing out of an unclean?' There is no power in
human nature to cast off this clinging self. As in the awful vision of
the poet, the serpent is grown into the man. The will is feeble for
good, the conscience sits like a discrowned king issuing empty mandates,
while all his realm is up in rebellion and treats his proclamations as
so much waste paper. How can a man re-make himself? how cast off his own
nature? The means at his disposal themselves need to be cleansed, for
themselves are tainted. It is the old