- ture of the writing, to its rank as an effort of composition, and to
its peculiarities as expressive of the personal character and feelings of its inspired writer. The previous inquiry has been answered in such a way as to illustrate the points involved in the present one; and a recapitulation of the simple results of that inquiry, will best present the facts necessary for a satisfactory reply to some points of this.
First, the Apocalypse is a prophecy, in the common understanding of the term; but is not limited, as in the ordinary sense of that word, to a mere declaration of futurity; it embraces in its plan the events of the past, and with a glance like that of the Eternal, sweeps over that which has been and that which is to be, as though both were now; and in its solemn course through ages, past, present, and future, it bears the record of faithful history, as well as of glorious prophecy.
Second, the Apocalypse is poetry, in the highest and justest sense of the word. All prophecy is poetry. The sublimity of such thoughts can not he expressed in the plain unbroken detail of a prose narrative; and even when the events of past history are combined in one harmonious series with wide views of the future, they too rise from the dull unpictured record of a mere narrator, and share in the elevation of the mighty whole. The spirit of the writer, replete, not with mere particulars, but with vivid images, seeks language that paints, "thoughts that breathe, and words that burn;" and thus the writing that flows forth is poetry,—the imaginative expression of deep, high feeling—swelling where the occasion moves the writer, into the energy of passion, whether dark or holy.
The character of the Apocalypse, as affected by the passionate feelings of the writer, is also a point which has been illustrated by foregoing historical statements of his situation and condition at the time of the Revelation. He was the victim of an unjust and cruel sentence, deprived of all the sweet earthly solaces of his advanced age, and left on a desert rock,—useless to the cause of Christ and beyond even the knowledge of its progress. The mournful sound of sweeping winds and dashing waves, alone broke the dreary silence of his loneliness, and awaking sensations only of a melancholy order, sent back his thoughts into the sadder remembrances of the past, and called up also many of the sterner emotions against those who had been the occasions of the past and present calamities which grieved him. The very outset
