y trees. There is one more! "Whose is this
image?" It is that of David bringing the ark from Kirjath-jearim, and
playing his harp and dancing before it. What a goodly array of
pictures! All--all about the glories and successes of David. David
paces idly through the halls, he sees the tapestries and paintings, but
he regards them not, "My sin is ever before me." He sees only one
picture, which is not upon the wall, which the flattering painter has
omitted, his guilt with Bathsheba.

He goes to war in his armour, and takes the city of Rabbah. He carries
off the crown of the king and puts it on his own head. The spoil of
the city is great. In the turmoil of battle, in the flush of victory,
"My sin is ever before me."

He flees before his enemies, before his rebellious son, and is in
hiding in the wilderness with a few faithful friends, and then there
rises up before him the remembrance of his great transgression, and
weighs down his heart. "My sin is ever before me."

In joy, in sorrow, in prosperity and in distress it is always the same.
"Whose is this image?" It is that of a great king, a mighty warrior, a
sweet poet,--"No, no!" says David, "It is the image of a grievous
sinner. My sin is ever before me. Let no man call me a good king, I
gave over the innocent Uriah to the sword, and took from him his
beloved wife. Let no man call me a just man, I divided the land of
Mephibosheth with his false, lying slave Ziba, because it went against
my pride to go back from what I had said. Let no man call me merciful,
when I tortured the Ammonites cruelly, putting them under saws, and
under harrows and axes of iron, and made them pass through the
brickkiln. Let no man speak of me as a conqueror, when I was miserably
conquered by my wicked passions."

My brethren! I wish that you would see yourselves in the way in which
David did. I wish that instead of turning away your eyes from those
pictures in your life which do you no honour, you would look at them
with shame. I wish that instead of boasting yourselves as the image of
all perfections, you would see yourselves as sinners.

II. There was a painter called Bonamico, who was engaged by Cardinal
Aretino to paint a series of pictures in his chapel. He began with a
beautiful fresco of Jesus Christ. A day or two afterwards, when he
came to his work in the morning, he found his picture smeared all over
with dabs of colour, red, and black, and blue, and yellow,