A Sermon
(No. 24)
Delivered on Sabbath Morning, May 20, 1855, by the
REV. C.H. SPURGEON
At Exeter Hall, Strand.
"I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy transgressions for mine own
sake, and will not remember thy sins."–Isaiah 43:25.
THERE ARE SOME passages of sacred writ which have been more abundantly
blessed to the conversion of souls than others. They may be called
salvation texts. We may not be able to discover how it is, or why it
is, but certainly it is the fact, that some chosen verses have been
more used of God to bring men to the cross of Christ than any others in
his Word. Certainly they are not more inspired, but I suppose they are
more noticeable from their position, from their peculiar phraseology
more adapted to catch the eye of the reader, and more suitable to a
prevailing spiritual condition. All the stars in the heavens shine very
brightly, but only a few attract the eye of the mariner, and direct his
course; the reason is this, that those few stars from their peculiar
grouping are more readily distinguished, and the eye easily fixes upon
them. So I suppose it is with those passages of God's Word which
especially attract attention, and direct the sinner to the cross of
Christ. It so happens that this text is one of the chief of them. I
have found it, in my experience, to be a most useful one; for out of
the hundreds of persons who have come to me to narrate their conversion
and experience, I have found a very large proportion who have traced
the divine change which has been wrought in their hearts to the hearing
of this precious declaration of sovereign mercy read, and the
application of it with power to their souls: "I, even I, am he that
blotteth out thy transgressions for mine own sake, and will not
remember thy sins." Hence I feel this morning somewhat pleased to have
such a text, because I anticipate that my Master will give me souls;
and I feel likewise somewhat afraid lest I should spoil the passage by
my own imperfect handling thereof. I will, therefore, cast myself
implicitly on the help of the Spirit, so that whatever I speak, may be
suggested by him, and whatever he saith that may I speak, to the
exclusion of my own thoughts as much as possible.
We shall notice first, this morning, the recipients of mercy–the
persons of whom the Lord is here speaking; secondly, the deed of
mercy,–"I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy transgressions;"
thirdly, the reason for mercy–"for mine own sake;" and fourthly, the
promise of mercy– "I will not remember thy sins."
I. We are about to see who are THE RECIPIENTS OF MERCY; and I would
have you all listen; peradventure there be some strayed in here who are
the very chief of sinners–some who have sinned against light and
knowledge, who have gone the full length of their powers for sin, so
that they come here self-condemned, and fearing that for them there is
neither mercy nor pardon. I am about to talk to you of the
lovingkindness of our glorious Jehovah, and may some of you be led to
read your own condition in those characters which I shall describe to
you.
If you will turn to your Bibles, you will find who are the persons here
spoken of. Look for example at the 22nd verse of the chapter from which
our text is taken, and you will see, first, that they were prayerless
people: "Thou hast not called upon me, O Jacob." And are there not some
prayerless ones sitting or standing here this morning? Might I not walk
along these benches, and point my finger to one and another, and say,
"Thou art not a praying one?" Or might I not reach out my hand to one
and another upon this platform, and say, "Thou hast not been with God
in secret, and held heart converse with him?" These prayerless ones may
have repeated many a form of prayer, but the breathing desire, the
living words, have not come from their lips. Thou hast lived, sinner,
up to this time without sincere prayer, and if an ejaculation has bee
forced from thy lips from a fear that took hold of thee; if a cry has
gone forth from thee when in the sufferings of a sick bed, because the
pains of death gat hold upon thee; if it has not been thy habit to
pray, the impressions of that trying period have soon been forgotten.
Is prayer your constant practice, my hearers? How many of you now
before me, ay, and behind me too, must confess that you have not
prayed, that it is not your habit to hold communion with God.
Prayerless souls are Christless souls; for you can have no real
fellowship with Christ, no communion with the Father, unless you
approach his mercy-seat, and be often there; and yet if you are
condemning yourselves, and lamenting that this has been your condition,
you need not despair, for this mercy is for you: "Thou hast not called
upon me, O Jacob;" yet, "I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy
transgressions for mine own sake."
Next, these persons were despisers of religion, for observe the
language of the same verse:–"Thou hast been weary of me, O Israel."
And may I not say to some here–thou despisest religion, thou hatest
God; thou art weary of him, and lovest not his services. As for the
Sabbath-day, do not too many of you find it the most tiresome day in
the week, and do you not, in fact, look over your ledger on the Sabbath
afternoon? If you were compelled to attend a place of worship twice on
the Sabbath-day, would you not think it the greatest and most terrible
hardship that could be inflicted upon you? You have to find some
worldly amusement to make the hours of the Sabbath-day pass away with
any comfort at all. So far from wishing that "congregations might ne'er
break up." and the Sabbath last for eternity, is it not to some of you
the most tedious day of the week? You feel it to be a weariness, and
are glad when it is gone. You do not understand the sentiment expressed
by the poet:
"Sweet is the work, my God, my King,
To praise thy name, give thanks and sing.
You know nothing of the pain of banishment from the courts of Zion,
whither the sacred tribes repair; and when there you do not hold
communion with God, rejoicing that the hallowed place has become a
Bethel–the house of God–the very gate of heaven. You can never say–
"My willing soul would stay
In such a frame as this
And sit and sing herself away
To everlasting bliss."
Ah, no! not only is religion unlovely to you, but it is a weariness.
But if you are now convinced of this sin, and are repenting of it, and
desire to be delivered from its power, then God speaks to you this
morning, and says, "I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy
transgressions for mine own sake–return unto me, with unfeigned
repentance, and I will have mercy upon you."
Note, again, the character. They have been thankless persons: "Thou
hast not brought me the small cattle of thy burnt offerings." They have
been unthankful. They had their cattle and their flocks all multiplied
and increased many fold, but they did not bring even one of the small
cattle to him in return. Thou never gavest him a kid for a burnt
offering, but hast been like the swine, regardless of the oak which
strews food upon the ground for thee; thou hast been a carnal worldly
character, receiving a gift, but never thanking the Almighty who caused
it to be bestowed; while the little chicken, after it has drunk of the
stream, lifteth its head, as if to thank God who provided the water.
Thou hast been fed, day by day, by an Almighty power, and yet thou hast
never given in return even one of the small cattle of thy flock for a
burnt offering. This is true of some who attend our houses of prayer;
they very rarely give to any collection for the cause of God; they are
like the man in America, of whom some one has told us, who boasted that
religion had been to him a very cheap thing, costing him only a few
cents a year, of whom a good man said, "The Lord have mercy on your
little stingy soul." If a man has no more religion than that, if he has
not a religion that will make him generous, he has no religion at all.
I thought of that passage last Thursday night, while I was preaching:
"Thou hast bought me no sweet cane with money." God needeth nothing at
your hands, but he likes little presents, he loves now and then to
receive of your substance; for you know that little as it is in his
eyes, comparatively speaking it is great, because it comes from a
friend. But some of you have never bought him a sweet cane with your
money–never sang a hymn to his praise; you have attributed everything
to your good luck, and have boasted that you have obtained everything
you have got by the labour of your own hands, and that you can say, I
have need to thank nobody for what I have. That has been thy spirit;
thou hast given no thanks to God,–the God of heaven and earth; thou
hast not gloried him, but thyself, and yet the Most High is willing to
pardon thy sin in this thing, if thou art but unfeignedly penitent, and
dost sue for forgiveness, for he saith also to you, "I, even I, am he
that blotteth out thy transgressions."
Yet, again, these people were a useless people. "Neither hast thou
filled me with the fat of thy sacrifices; but thou hast made me to
serve with thy sins." It is well said, the chief end of man is to
glorify God. For that purpose God made the sun, moon, and stars, and
all his works, that they might honor him. And yet how many are there,
even, perhaps among my hearers this morning, who have never honored God
in their lives. Ask yourselves what have you done? If you were to write
your own history, it would be little better than that of Belzoni's
toad, which existed in the rock for three thousand years; you may have
lived like it, but you have done nothing. What souls have you ever won
to the Saviour? How has his name been magnified by you? Have you ever
served him? How have you ever worked for him? What have you done for
God? Have you not been cumberers of the ground; taking the nourishment
of the earth where some better tree might have grown, and bearing no
fruit to the great husbandman, or at least, only a few sorry crabs,
that were not worth his acceptance. For all you have done, the world
might as well have never known you. You have not been even so much use
as the glow-worm, which, at least, serves to light the steps of the
traveller. The world may possibly be glad to get rid of some of you,
and rejoice when you are gone. Perhaps you have assisted in destroying
the souls of those with whom you have been connected in life. You can
recollect the time when you led that young man first into the ale
house. You can remember the hour when you swore a most horrible oath;
your child was within hearing, and learned to be profane also. You may
look upon some souls who are going even now to damnation through your
example; and in hell you may see spirits starting up from their iron
beds, and hear them shrieking in their woe: "Who is it that led me
here, and caused my soul to be destroyed?–thou art the author of my
damnation." Is the indictment true? Will you not be compelled to plead
guilty to the charge? Do you not even now repent of your great
transgressions? Even if it be so, my Master authorizes me to say again,
"Thus saith the Lord, I, even I, am he that blotteth out my
transgressions, and will not remember thy sins."
Again, there are some who may be termed sanctuary sinnersþsinners in
Zion–and these are the worst of sinners. I can usually tell whether
inquirers have been the children of pious parents or no, if after a
confession of great guilt they feel unable to proceed at the
remembrance of what they once were. Groaning, and sobbing, and tears
running down their cheeks, are the silent language of their woe. When I
see this, I always know that the language that succeeds will be: "I
have been the child of pious parents; and I feel that I am one of the
worst of sinners, because I was brought up to religion; and yet I
disregarded it, and turned aside from it." O yes, the worst of sinners
are sinners in Zion, because they sin against light and knowledge; they
force their way to hell, as John Bunyan says, over the Cross of Christ;
and the worst way to hell is to go by the cross to it. Many of you now
before me were consecrated to God by a beloved mother, and your father
taught you to read and love the Scriptures of truth. You were brought
up like Timothy; you well understand the theory of the way of
salvation, and yet you come here, young men, some of you enemies to God
and without Christ, and despisers of his word; some of you are even
scoffers, or if not actually scoffers, you say religion is nought to
you, and by your actions, if not by your words, declare it is nothing
to you that Jesus should die. Ah! when I speak to you, I would not
forget myself. Should it ever be my lot to wake up in hell, I should be
amongst the most horribly damned there, for I had a most pious
training, and should be forced to take my place with the sanctuary
sinners. And you that are such, whom I am addressing now, are you not
afraid? Ask yourselves now, "Who among us shall dwell with devouring
fire?" Do you tremble and shake for fear, and with a penitent heart
desire forgiveness? If so, then I say again, in my Master's name–who
spake nothing but love and mercy to penitent sinners, who said,
"Neither do I condemn thee"–Jehovah now declares "I, even I am he that
blotteth out thy transgressions for mine own sake, and will not
remember thy sins."
Yet, once more, we have here men who had wearied God: "Thou hast made
me to serve with thy sins, thou hast wearied me with thine iniquities."
You see the man who has been a professor of religion, and can look back
twenty years ago, when he was a member of a Christian church; he was
apparently walking in the fear of the Lord, and all men thought he had
received the grace of God in truth; but he has turned aside into the
paths of sin; sometimes his lips have been defiled with oaths, and his
soul the bondslave of sin; but even now he is often found in God's
house; sometimes he is affected to tears, and says within himself,
"Surely I will return unto the Lord, for then was it better with me
than now." Self-condemned, he stands and weeps in the bitterness of his
heart; and mark you, it may be this morning he has stepped into this
vast assembly, and that his knees are knocking one against the other,
yet it may be that his goodness shall prove like the morning cloud and
the early dew, that passeth away; or it may be that the turning point
is now come; "Now or never," as Baxter used to say; now God or Satan,
now accepted or condemned. Poor backslider, return unto the Lord, and
he will have mercy upon thee; he will blot out all thy sins, and so
blot them out that he will not remember them against thee any more for
ever.
These, then, are the characters who receive mercy. Some of you may say,
"You seem to think us a bad lot"–and so I do. Others exclaim, "How can
you talk to us in this way? We are a honest, moral, and upright
people." If so, then I have no gospel to preach to you. You may go
elsewhere if you will, for you may get moral sermons in scores of
chapels if you want them; but I am come in my Master's name to preach
to sinners, and so I will not say a word to you Pharisees except
this–By so much as you think yourself righteous and holy, by so much
shall ye be cast out of God's presence at last. Your sentence will be
eternal banishment from the presence of him who hath said to every
repenting sinner, "I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy
transgressions, and will not remember thy sins."
II. The second point is, THE DEED OF MERCY. We have found out the
persons to whom God will give mercy; now what is mercy's deed? It is a
deed of forgiveness, and in speaking of it, I shall speak first of its
being a divine forgiveness–"I, even I, am he." Divine pardon is the
only forgiveness possible; for no one can remit sin but God only, and
it matters not whether a Roman Catholic Priest, or any other priest
shall say in the name of God, "I absolve thee from thy transgressions,"
it is abominable blasphemy. If a man has offended me I can forgive him,
but if he has offended God I cannot forgive him. The only discharge
possible is pardon by God; but then it is the only pardon necessary.
Suppose I have so sinned that the king or the queen will not pardon me,
that my brethren will not forgive me, and that I cannot pardon myself;
if God absolves me, that is all the acquittal that will be necessary
for my salvation. Perhaps I stand condemned by the law of my country: I
am a murderer and must suffer on the scaffold; the queen refuses to
pardon, and perhaps she does right in such a refusal; but I do not want
her forgiveness in order to enter heaven; if God acquits me, that will
be enough. Were I such a reprobate that all men hissed at me and wished
me gone from existence, if I knew that they would never forgive my
crime–though I ought to desire my fellow- creatures' forgiveness–it
would not be necessary that I should have it to enter heaven. It God
says, I forgive thee, that is enough. It is only God that can forgive
satisfactorily; because no human pardon can ease the troubled
conscience. The self-righteous Pharisee may be content to give himself
into the hands of a priest to be rocked to sleep in the cradle of
delusion, but the poor convinced sinner wants something more than the
arrogant dictum of a priest–ten thousand of them, with all their
enchantments, he feels to be all in vain, unless Jehovah himself shall
say, "I have blotted out thy sins for mine own sake."
Again, it is surprising forgiveness; for the text speaks as if God
himself were surprised that such sins should be remitted: "I, even, I;"
it is so surprising that it is repeated in this way, lest any of us
should doubt it. And it is amazing to the poor sinner when first
awakened to his sin and danger. It seems to be too good too be true,
and he "wonders to feel his own hardness depart," the mercy offered is
so overwhelming. It is said that Alexander, whenever he attacked a
city, put a light before the gate of it; and if the inhabitants
surrendered before the light was burnt out, he spared them; but if the
light went out first, he put them all to death. But our Master is more
merciful than this; for if he had manifested grace only while a small
light would burn, where should we have been? There be some here seventy
or eighty years of age, and God has mercy on you still; but there is a
light you know which when once quenched, extinguishes all hope of
pardon–the light of life. See then, grey-headed man, thy candle is
burnt almost to the socket–it has but the snuff left. Seventy years
thou hast been here living in sin, and yet mercy waits on thee; but
thou shalt soon depart, and mark me, there is no hope for thee then.
But surprising grace, mercy's message is still proclaiming–
"For while the lamp holds out to burn,
The vilest sinner may return."
Unutterable mercy! There is no sinner out of hell so black but that God
can wash him white. There is not out of the pit one so guilty that God
is not able and willing to forgive him; for he declares the wondrous
fact–"I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy transgressions."
Notice once more, that it is a present forgiveness. It does not say I
am he that will blot out thy transgressions, but that blotteth them out
now. There are some who believe, or at least seem to imagine, that it
is not possible to know whether our sins are forgiven in this life. We
may have hope, it is thought, that at last there will be a balance to
strike on our side. But this will not satisfy the poor soul who is
really seeking pardon, and is anxious to find it; and God has therefore
blessedly told us, that he blotteth out our sin now; that he will do it
at any moment the sinner believes. As soon as he trusts in his
crucified God, all his sins are forgiven, whether past, present, or to
come. Even supposing that he is yet to commit them, they are all
pardoned. If I live eighty years after I receive pardon, doubtless I
shall fall into many errors, but the one pardon will avail for them as
well as for the past. Jesus Christ bore our punishment, and God will
never require at my hands the fulfilment of that law which Christ has
honored in my stead; for then would there be injustice in heaven: and
that be far from God. It is no more possible for a pardoned man to be
lost than for Christ to be lost, because Christ is the sinner's surety.
Jehovah will never require my debt to be paid twice. Let none impute
injustice to the God of the whole earth: let none suppose that he will
twice exact the penalty of one sin. If you have been the chief of
sinners, you may have the chief of sinner's forgiveness, and God can
bestow it now.
I cannot help noticing the completeness of this forgiveness. Suppose
you call on your creditor, and say to him, "I have nothing to pay
with." "Well," says he, "I can issue a distress against you, and place
you in prison and keep you there." You still reply that you have
nothing and he must do what he can. Suppose he should then say, "I will
forgive all." You now stand amazed and say, "Can it be possible that
you will give me that great debt of a thousand pounds?" He replies,
"Yes, I will." "But how am I to know it?" There is a bond: he takes it
and crosses it all out and hands it back to you, and says, "There is a
full discharge, I have blotted it all out." So does the Lord deal with
penitents. He has a book in which all your debts are written; but with
the blood of Christ he crosses out the handwriting of ordinances which
is there written against you. The bond is destroyed, and he will not
demand payment for it again. The devil will sometimes insinuate to the
contrary, as he did to Martin Luther. "Bring me the catalogue of my
sins," said Luther; and he brought a scroll black and long. "Is that
all?" said Luther. "No," said the devil; and he brought yet another.
"And now," said the heroic saint of God, "write at the foot of the
scroll: "The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth from all sin."
That is a full discharge."
III. Now, very briefly, the third thing–THE REASON FOR MERCY. Says one
poor sinner, "Why should God forgive me? I am sure there is no reason
why he should, for I have never done anything to deserve his mercy."
Hear what God says, "I am not about to forgive you for your own sake,
but for my own sake." "But, Lord, I shall not be thankful enough." "I
am not about to pardon you because of your gratitude, but for my name's
sake." "But, Lord, if I am taken into thy church I can do very little
for thy cause in future years, for I have spent my best days in the
devil's service, surely the impure dregs of my life cannot be sweet to
thee, O God." "I will not engage to forgive you for your sake, but for
my own. I do not want you," says God, "I can do as well without you as
with you, the cattle upon a thousand hills are mine; and if I pleased I
could create a whole race of men for my service, who should be as
renowned as the greatest monarchs, or the most eloquent preachers, but
I can do as well without them, as with them; and I forgive you
therefore for my own sake." Is there not hope for a guilty sinner here?
It cannot be pleaded by any one that his sins are too great to be
pardoned, for the amount of guilt is hereby put entirely out of
consideration, seeing that God forgives not on account of the sinner,
but for his own sake. Did you never hear of a physician visiting a man
upon a sick bed, when the poor man said, "I have nothing to give you
for your attention to me." "But," says the doctor, "I did not ask for
anything; I attend you from pure benevolence; and moreover to prove my
skill. It will make no difference to me how long you live, I love to
try my skill, and let the world know that I have power to heal
diseases. I want to get myself a name." And so God says, I desire to
have a name for mercy; so that the worse you are, the more God is
honored in your salvation. Go then to Christ, poor sinner–naked,
filthy, poor, wretched, vile, lost, dead, come as thou art, for there
is nothing required in thee, except the need of him:
"This he gives you,
'Tis his Spirit's rising beam."
"for mine own sake," says God, "I will forgive."
IV. Now to conclude–THE PROMISE OF MERCY. "And will not remember thy
sins." There are some things which even God cannot do. Though it is
true he is Omnipotent, yet there are some things he cannot do. God
cannot lie–he cannot forsake his people–he cannot disown his
covenant; and this is one of the things it might be thought he could
not do–that is, forget. Is it impossible for God to forget? We finite
creatures suffer many things to slip, but can the Almighty ever do so?
That God who counteth the stars and calleth them all by their
names–who knoweth how many animalculae there are in the mighty
ocean–who notices every grain of dust that floats in the summer air,
and is acquainted with every leaf of the forest, can he cease to
remember? Perhaps we may answer "No." Not as to the absolute fact of
the committal of the deed; but there are senses in which the expression
is entirely accurate. In what sense are we to understand God's
forgetfulness of our sins?
First of all, he will not exact punishment for them when we come before
his judgment bar at last. The Christian will have many accusers. The
devil will come and say "That man is a great sinner." "I don't remember
it," says God. "That man rebelled against thee, and cursed thee," says
the accuser. "I do not remember it," says God, "for I have said I will
not remember his sins." Conscience says, "Ah! but Lord, it is true, I
did sin against thee, and that most grievously." "I do not remember
it," says God–"I said, I will not remember his sins." Let all the
demons of the pit clamour in God's ear, and let them vehemently shout
out a list of our sins, we may stand boldly forth at that great day,
and sing, "Who shall lay anything to the charge of God's elect?" for
God does not even remember their sin. The Judge does not remember it,
and who then shall punish? Unrighteous as we were; wicked as we have
been; yet he has forgotten it all. Who then can bring to remembrance
what God has forgotten? He says, "I will cast thy sins into the depths
of the sea," not into the shallows where they might be fished up again,
but into the depths of the sea, where Satan himself cannot find them.
There are no such things as sins recorded against God's people. Christ
has so taken them away, that sin becomes a nonentity to Christians–it
is all gone, and through Jesu's blood they are clean.
The second meaning of this is, I will not remember thy sins to suspect
thee. There is a father, and he has a wayward son who went away that he
might live a life of looseness and profligacy; but after a while he
comes home again in a state of penitence. The father says, "I will
forgive thee." But he says next day to his younger son, "There is
business to be done at a distant town to-morrow, and here is the money
for you to do it with." He does not trust the returned prodigal with
it. "I have trusted him before with money," says the father to himself,
"and he robbed me, and it makes me afraid to trust him again." But our
heavenly Father says, "I will not remember thy sins." He not only
forgives the past, but trusts his people with precious talents. He
never suspects them. He has never one suspicious thought. He loves them
just as much as if they had never gone astray. He will employ them to
preach his gospel; he will put them into the Sunday-school, and make
them servants of his Son: for he says, "I will not remember thy sins."
Again: he will not remember in his distribution of the recompense of
the reward. The earthly parent will kindly pass over the faults of the
prodigal; but you know when that father comes to die, and is about to
make his will, the lawyer sitting by his side, he says, "I shall give
so much to William, who always behaved well, and my other son shall
have so-and-so, and my daughter, she shall have so much; but there is
that prodigal, I have spent a large sum upon him when he was young, but
he wasted what he received, and though I have taken him again into
favour, and for the present he is going on well; still I think I must
make a little difference between him and the others. I think it would
not be fair–though I have forgiven him–to treat him precisely as the
rest;" and so the lawyer puts him down for a few hundred pounds, while
the others, perhaps, get their thousands. But God will not remember
your sins like that; he gives all an inheritance. He will give heaven
to the chief of sinners as well as to the chief of saints. When he
divides the portion to his children, it may be he will put Mary
Magdalene as high as he does Peter, and the thief as high as he does
John; yea, the malefactor who died on the cross is as much in the sight
of God as the most moral person that ever lived. Here is a blessed
forgetfulness. What sayest thou, poor sinner? Is thy heart drawn by a
mysterious inspiration to the foot of the cross? Then I thank my
Master; for I trust the one object of my life is to win souls for
Christ, and if I may be blessed in that, my life shall be happy. Still
do you say, "My sins are too great to be forgiven." Nay, but O man, as
high as the heaven is above the earth, so great is his mercy above thy
sins, and so far does his grace exceed thy thoughts. Oh, but sayest
thou, "He will not accept me." What then is the meaning of this
text–"He is able to save unto the uttermost;" or this–"Whosoever
cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out;" and again–"Whosoever will,
let him come and take of the water of life freely." Do you still say,
"This does not include me." Oh be not so faithless, but rather believe.
Oh! had I the power, God knows I would weep myself away in order to win
your souls.
"But feeble our compassion proves,
And can but weep where most it loves.
I can do nothing but preach God's gospel; but since the moment Christ
forgave me, I cannot help speaking of his love. I turned away from his
gospel, and would have none of his reproofs. I cared not for his voice
or his Word. That blessed Bible lay unread; these knees refused to bend
in prayer, and my eyes looked on vanity. Has he not pardoned? Has he
not forgiven? Yes. Then sooner may this tongue cleave to the roof of my
mouth, than cease to proclaim free-grace in all its mighty displays of
electing, redeeming, pardoning, and saving mercy. Oh! how loud ought I
to sing, seeing I am out of hell, and delivered from condemnation. And
if I am out of hell, why should not you be? Why should I be saved and
not another? It was for sinners, remember, that Jesus came. Mary
Magdalene, Saul of Tarsus–the very chief of sinners, were accepted,
and why do you foolishly conclude that you are cast out? Oh, poor
penitent if you perish, you will be the FIRST penitent who ever did so.
God give you his blessing, my dear friends, for Christ's sake. Amen.