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Gaze not on beauty overmuch, lest it blast thee; nor too long, lest it blind thee; nor too near, lest it burn thee.
These men had condemned an innocent man to death—yet their conscience remained untroubled.
The ruined city in Solomon's metaphor depicts precisely this condition.
Of all species of deception, self-deception proves most detrimental; it is like having a traitor within the fortress who betrays his country to the enemy.
The Apostle never visited Rome, possessed no established relationships with those believers, had never looked upon their faces—yet his heart went out toward them with undisguised yearning.
Exell notes the critical distinction: it is not the place itself, but the way to it.
During the weak and wicked reign of Ahaz, when Judah's heart lay bowed like a forest before a devastating blast of foreign invasion, the prophet burst forth with a vision sudden as sunrise.
The prophet identifies hands and knees as the body's most visible registers of fear and despair.
The flattery here is not gentle commendation but *kelalah* (curse)—a loud, vaunting display that intrudes itself on all occasions with busy, demonstrative energy.
Consider the work of mortification—to pluck out our eyes, to chop off our hands, to cut off our feet.
Yet Christians must judge timidity differently than the world does.
But the New Testament animates itself by love's voice: 'Though I have all boldness in Christ to enjoin thee ...
The greatest truths burned high in the heavens like the star that guided the Magi, yet they directed Christians to the humblest details of daily conduct.
They streamed into the wilderness seeking baptism as a *talisman*, a magical protection against coming judgment.
When David hears of a wealthy man stealing a poor man's sole ewe lamb, his righteous fury blazes instantly: 'The man that did this thing shall die because he had no pity.' He condemns with the heat of genuine moral...
Exell's Victorian commentary on Proverbs 25:15 illuminates what seemed paradoxical to ancient minds: that meekness, courteousness, and kindness possess greater persuasive force than harshness, bitterness, or clamour.
Yet when the king summoned the priests to execute this noble purpose, a striking contrast emerged: the eager sovereign confronted by sluggards.
Returning from his cousins' home, young Joseph carried a pin.
The accusation stings, yet Jonathan's response reveals the architecture of true friendship: he answers with *magnanimous silence* regarding David's implicit distrust.
First, the wicked man takes deliberate pains to devise evil, much as a miner searches for treasure in concealed depths.
The mountains sing their praise (Isaiah 54:12), the valleys echo with melody (Psalm 65:13), and the trees of the wood lift their voices (1 Chronicles 16:33).
When David offers him honor in Jerusalem, the ancient man declines—and in that refusal, Maclaren finds a portrait of flourishing old age that rebukes our youthful delusions of perpetual vigor.
Thus life appears utterly different to the young than to the aged—one face glory, the other sober melancholy.
He acted with decisive speed, beginning reforms in his first month, calling the priests to immediate work.