The Prodigal's Return
A Sermon
(No. 176)
Delivered on Sabbath Morning, February 7, 1858, by the
REV. C.H. SPURGEON
at the Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens.
"But when he was yet a great way off; his father saw him, and had
compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him."–Luke
15:20.
ALL PERSONS ENGAGED IN EDUCATION will tell you that they find it far
more difficult to make the mind unlearn its errors than to make it
receive truth. If we could suppose a man totally ignorant of anything,
we should have a fairer chance of instructing him quickly and
effectually than we should have had if his mind had been previously
stored with falsehood. I have no doubt you, each of you, find it harder
to unlearn than to learn. To get rid of old prejudices and preconceived
notions is a very hard struggle indeed. It has been well said, that
those few words, "I am mistaken," are the hardest in all the English
language to pronounce, and certainly it takes very much force to compel
us to pronounce them: and after having done so, it is even then
difficult to wipe away the slime which an old serpentine error has left
upon the heart. Better for us not to have known at all than to have
known the wrong thing. Now, I am sure that this truth is never more
true than when it applies to God. If I had been let alone to form my
notion of God, entirely from Holy Scripture, I feel, that with the
assistance of his Holy Spirit it would have been far more easy for me
to understand what he is, and how he governs the world, than to learn
even the truths of his own Word, after the mind had become perverted by
the opinions of others. Why, brethren, who is it that gives a fair
representation of God? The Arminian slanders God by accusing him (not
in his own intention, but really so) of unfaithfulness; for he teaches
that God may promise what he never performs; that he may give eternal
life, and promise that those who have it shall never perish, and yet
they may perish after all. He speaks of God as if he were a mutable
being, for he talks of his loving men one day, and hating them the
next; of his writing their names in the Book of Life one hour, and then
erasing their names in the next. And the influence of such an error as
that, is very baneful. Many children of God, who have imbibed these
errors in early youth, have had to drag along their poor wearied and
broken frames for many a day, whereas they might have walked joyfully
to heaven if they had known the truth from the beginning. On the other
hand, those who hear the Calvinistic preacher, are very apt to
misinterpret God. Although we trust we would never speak of God in any
other sense than that in which we find him represented in sacred
Scripture, yet are we well aware that many of our hearers, even through
our assertions, when most guarded, are apt to get rather a caricature
of God, than a true picture of him. They imagine that God is a severe
being, angry and fierce, very easily to be moved to wrath, but not so
easily to be induced to love; they are apt to think of him as one who
sits in supreme and lofty state, either totally indifferent to the
wishes of his creatures, or else determined to have his own way with
them, as an arbitrary Sovereign, never listening to their desires, or
compassionating their woes. O that we could unlearn all these
fallacies, and believe God to be what he is! O that we could come to
Scripture, and there look into that glass which reflects his sacred
image, and then receive him as he is, the all-Wise, the all-Just, and
yet the all-Gracious, and all-Loving Jehovah! I shall endeavor this
morning, by the help of God's Holy Spirit, to represent the lovely
character of Christ; and if I shall be happy enough to have some in my
audience who are in the position of the prodigal son in the
parable–coming to Christ, and yet a great way off from him–I shall
trust that they will be led by the same Divine Spirit, to believe in
the loving kindness of Jehovah, and so may find peace with God now, ere
they leave this house of prayer.
"When he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had
compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him." First, I
shall notice the position intended in the words, "a great way off ;"
secondly, I shall notice the peculiar troubles which agitate the minds
of those, who are in this condition; and then, thirdly, I shall
endeavor to teach the great loving-kindness of our own adorable God,
inasmuch as when we are "a great way off," he runs to us, and embraces
us in the arms of his love.
I. First, then, what is the POSITION signified by being "a great way
off?" I must just notice what is not that position. It is not the
position of the man who is careless and entirely regardless of God; for
you notice that the prodigal is represented now as having come to
himself, and as returning to his father's house. Though it be true that
all sinners are a great way off from God, whether they know it or not,
yet in this particular instance, the position of the poor prodigal is
intended to signify the character of one, who has been aroused by
conviction, who has been led to abhor his former life, and who
sincerely desires to return to God. I shall not, then, this morning,
specially address the blasphemer, and the profane. To him, there may be
some incidental warning heard, but I shall not specially address such a
character. It is another person for whom this text is intended: the man
who has been a blasphemer, if you please, who may have been a drunkard,
and a swearer, and what not, but who has now renounced these things,
and is steadfastly seeking after Christ, that he may obtain eternal
life. That is the man who is here said to be, though coming to the
Lord, "a great way off."
Once again, there is another person who is not intended by this
description, namely, the very great man, the Pharisee who thinks
himself extremely righteous, and has never learned to confess his sin.
You, sir, in your apprehension, are not a great way off. You are so
really in the sight of God; you are as far from him as light from
darkness, as the east is from the west; but you are not spoken of here.
You are like the prodigal son, only that instead of spending your life
righteously, you have run away from your Father, and hidden in the
earth the gold which he gave you, and are able to feed upon the husks
which swine do eat, whilst by a miserable economy of good works you are
hoping to save enough of your fortune to support yourself here and in
eternity. Your hope of self-salvation is a fallacy, and you are not
addressed in the words of the text. It is the man who knows himself
lost, but desires to be saved, who is here declared to be met by God,
and received with affectionate embraces.
And now we come to the question, Who is the man, and why is he said to
be a great way off? For he seems to be very near the kingdom, now that
he knows his need and is seeking the Saviour. I reply, in the first
place, he is a great way off in his own apprehensions. You are here
this morning, and you have an idea that never was man so far from God
as you are. You look back upon your past life, and you recollect how
you have slighted God, despised his Sabbath, neglected his Book,
trampled upon the blood of sprinkling, and rejected all the invitations
of his mercy. You turn over the pages of your history, and you remember
the sins which you have committed–the sins of your youth and your
former transgressions, the crimes of your manhood, and the riper sins
of your older years; like black waves dashing upon a dark shore, they
roll in wave upon wave, upon your poor troubled memory. There comes a
little wave of your childish folly, and over that there leaps one of
your youthful transgressions, and over the head of this there comes a
very Atlantic billow of your manhood's transgressions. At the sight of
them you stand astonished and amazed. "O Lord my God, how deep is the
gulf which divides me from thyself, and where is the power that can
bridge it? I am separated from thee by leagues of sin, whole mountains
of my guilt are piled upward between me and thyself. O God, shouldest
thou destroy me now, thou wouldest be just; and if thou dost ever bring
me to thyself, it must be nothing less than a power as Omnipotent as
that which made the world, which can ever do it. O! how far am I from
God!" Some of you would be startled this morning, if your neighbors
were to give you revelations of their own feelings. If yonder man
standing there in the crowd could come into this pulpit, and tell you
what he now feels, you might perhaps be horrified at his description of
his own heart. How many of you have no notion of the way in which a
soul is cut and hacked about, when it is under the convictions of the
law! If you should hear the man tell out what he feels, you would say,
"Ah! he is a poor deluded enthusiast; men are not so bad as that;" or
else you would be apt to think he had committed some nameless crime
which be dare not mention. that was preying on his conscience. Nay,
sir, he has been as moral and upright as you have been; but should he
describe himself as he now discovers himself to be, he would shock you
utterly. And yet you are the same, though you feel it not, and would
indignantly deny it. When the light of God's grace comes into your
heart, it is something like the opening of the windows of an old cellar
that has been shut up for many days. Down in that cellar, which has not
been opened for many months, are all kinds of loathsome creatures, and
a few sickly plants blanched by the darkness. The walls are dark and
damp with the trail of reptiles; it is a horrid filthy place, in which
no one would willingly enter. You may walk there in the dark very
securely, and except now and then for the touch of some slimy creature,
you would not believe the place was so bad and filthy. Open those
shutters, clean a pane of glass, let a little light in, and now see how
a thousand noxious things have made this place their habitation. Sure,
twas not the light that made this place so horrible, but it was the
light that showed how horrible it was before. So let God's grace just
open a window and let the light into a man's soul, and he will stand
astonished to see at what a distance he is from God. Yes, sir, to-day
you think yourself second to none but the Eternal; you fancy that you
can approach his throne with steady step; it is but a little that you
have to do to be saved; you imagine that you can accomplish it at any
hour, and save yourself upon your dying bed as well as now. Ah! sir, if
you could but be touched by Ithuriel's wand, and made to be in
appearance what you are in reality, then you would see that you are far
enough from God even now, and so far from him that unless the arms of
his grace were stretched out to bring you to himself, you must perish
in your sin. Now I turn my eye again with hope, and trust I leave not a
few in this large assembly who can say, "Sir, I feel I am far from God,
and sometimes I fear I am so far from him that he will never have mercy
upon me; I dare not lift so much as my eyes towards heaven; I smite on
my breast, and say, Lord, have mercy upon me, a sinner'" Oh! poor
heart; here is a comforting passage for thee: "When he was yet a great
way off, his father saw him, and had compassion on him."
But again, there is a second sense in which some now present may feel
themselves to be far off from God. Conscience tells every man that if
he would be saved he must get rid of his sin. The Antinomian may
possibly pretend to believe that men can be saved while they live in
sin; but conscience will never allow any man to swallow so egregious a
lie as that. I have not one person in this congregation who is not
perfectly assured that if he is to be saved he must leave off his
drunkenness and his vices. Sure there is not one here so stupefied with
the laudanum of hellish indifference as to imagine that he can revel in
his lusts, and afterwards wear the white robe of the redeemed in
paradise. If ye imagine ye can be partakers of the blood of Christ, and
yet drink the cup of Belial; if ye imagine that ye can be members of
Satan and members of Christ at the same time, ye have less sense than
one would give you credit for. No, you know that right arms must be out
off, and right eyes plucked out–that the most darling sins must be
renounced, if ye would enter into the kingdom of God. And I have a man
here who is convinced of the unholiness of his life, and he has striven
to reform, not because he thinks reformation would save him, for he
knows better than that, but because he knows that this is one of the
first-fruits of grace–reformation from sin. Well, poor man, he has for
many years been an inveterate drunkard, and he struggles now to
overcome the passion. He has almost effected it; but he never had such
an Herculean labor to attempt before; for now some temptation comes
upon him so strongly that it is as much as he can do to stand against
it; and perhaps sometimes since his first conviction of sin he has even
fallen into it. Or perhaps it is another vice, and you, my brother,
have set your face against it; but there are many bonds and fetters
that bind us to our vices, and you find that though it was easy enough
to spin the warp and woof sin together, it is not so easy to unravel
that which you have spun. You can not purge your house of your idols;
you do not yet know how to give up all your lustful pleasures. Not yet
can you renounce the company of the ungodly. You have cut off one by
one your most intimate acquaintances, but it is very hard to do it
completely, and you are struggling to accomplish it, and you often fall
on your knees and cry, "O, Lord, how far I am from thee! what high
steps these are which I have to climb! Oh! how can I be saved? Sure, if
I can not purge myself from my old sins, I shall never be able to hold
on my way; and even should I get rid of them, I should plunge into them
once more." You are crying out, "Oh, how great my distance from God!
Lord, bring me near!"
Let me present you with one other aspect of our distance from God. You
have read your Bibles, and you believe that faith alone can unite the
soul to Christ. You feel that unless you can believe in him who died
upon the cross for your sins, you can never see the kingdom of God; but
you can say this morning, "Sir, I have striven to believe; I have
searched the Scriptures, not hours, but days together, to find a
promise on which my weary foot might rest; I have been upon my knees
many and many a time, earnestly supplicating a Divine blessing; but
though I have pleaded, all in vain I have urged my plea, for until now
no whisper have I had of grace, no token for good, no sign of mercy.
Sir, I have striven to believe, and I have said,
"O could I but believe
Then all would easy be;
I would, but can not–Lord, relieve,
My help must come from thee!"
I have used all the power I have, and have desperately striven to cast
myself at the Saviour's feet and see my sins washed sway in his blood.
I have not been indifferent to the story of the cross; I have read it a
hundred times, and even wept over it; but when I strive to put my hand
upon the scape-goat's head, and labor to believe that my sins are
transferred to him, some demon seems to stop the breath that would
breathe itself forth in adoration, and something checks the hand that
would lay itself upon the head that died for me. Well, poor soul, thou
art indeed far from God. I will repeat the words of the text to thee.
May the Holy Spirit repeat them in thine ear! "When he was yet a great
way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on
his neck, and kissed him." So shall it be with thee if thou hast come
thus far, though great may be the distance, thy feet shall not have to
travel it, but God, the Eternal One, shall from his throne look down
and visit thy poor heart, though now thou tarriest by the way, afraid
to approach him.
II. Our second point is the PECULIAR TROUBLES which agitate the breasts
of those who are in this position. Let us introduce to you the poor
ragged prodigal. After a life of ease, he is, by his own vice, plunged
into penury and labor. After feeding swine for a time, and being almost
starved, he sets about returning to his father's house. It is a long
and weary journey. He walks many a mile, until his feet are sore, and
at last, from the summit of a mountain, he views his father's house far
away in the plain. There are yet many miles between him and his father
whom he has neglected. Can you conceive his emotions when, for the
first time after so long an absence, he sees the old house at home? He
remembers it well in the distance, for though it is long since he trod
its floors, he has never ceased to recollect it; and the remembrance of
his father's kindness, and of his own prosperity when he was with him,
has never yet been erased from his consciousness. You would imagine
that for one moment he feels a flash of joy, like some flash of
lightning in the midst of the tempest, but anon a black darkness comes
over his spirit. In the first place, it is probable he will think, "Oh!
suppose I could reach my home, will my father receive me? Will he not
shut the door in my face and tell me begone and spend the rest of my
life where I have been spending the first of it?" Then another
suggestion might arise: "Surely, the demon that led me first astray may
lead me back again, before I salute my parent." "Or mayhap," thought
he, "I may even die upon the road, and so, before I have received my
father's blessing, my soul may stand before its God." I doubt not each
of these three thoughts has crossed your mind if you are now in the
position of one who is seeking Christ, but mourns to feel himself far
away from him.
First, you have been afraid lest you should die before Christ has
appeared to you. You have been for months seeking the Saviour without
finding him, and now the black thought comes, "And what if I should die
with all these prayers unanswered? Oh! if he would but hear me ere I
departed this world I would be content, though he should keep me
waiting in anguish for many years. But what, if before tomorrow morning
I should be a corpse? At my bed I kneel to-night and cry for mercy. Oh!
if he should not send the pardon before to-morrow morning, and in the
night my spirit should stand before his bar!–What then?" It is
singular that other men think they shall live for ever, but men
convinced of sin, who seek a Saviour, are afraid they shall not live
another moment. You have known the time, dear Christian brethren, when
you dared not shut your eyes for feel you should not open them again on
earth; when you dreaded the shadows of the night lest they should
darken for ever the light of the sun, and you should dwell in outer
darkness throughout eternity. You have mourned as each day has entered,
and you have wept as it has departed, because you fancied that your
next step might precipitate you into your eternal doom. I have known
what it is to tread the earth and fear lest every tuft of grass should
but cover a door to hell; trembling, lest every particle, and every
atom, and every stone, should be solar league with God against me, as
to destroy me. John Bunyan says, that at one time in his experience, he
felt that he had rather have been born a dog or a toad than a man; he
felt so unutterably wretched on account of sin; and his great point of
wretchedness was the fact, that though he had been three years seeking
Christ, he might after all die without finding him. And in truth, this
is no needless alarm. It may be perhaps too alarming to some who
already feel their need of Christ, but the mass of us need perpetually
to be startled with the thought of death. How few of you ever indulge
that thought! Because ye live and are in health, and eat, and drink,
and sleep, ye think ye shall not die. Do ye ever soberly look at your
last end? Do ye ever, when ye come to your beds at night, think how one
day ye shall undress for the last slumber? And when ye wake in the
morning, do ye never think that the trump of the archangel shall
startle you to appear before God in the last day of the great assize,
wherein an universe shall stand before the Judge? No. "All men think
all men mortal but themselves;" and thoughts of death we still push
off, until at last we shall find ourselves waking up in torment, where
to wake is to wake too late. But thou to whom I specially speak this
morning, thou who feelest that thou art a great way off from Christ,
thou shalt never die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord; if
thou hast really sought him, thou shalt never die until thou hast found
him. There was never a soul yet, that sincerely sought the Saviour, who
perished before he found him. No; the gates of death shall never shut
on thee till the gates of grace have opened for thee; till Christ has
washed thy sins away thou shalt never be baptized in Jordan's flood.
Thy life is secure, for this is God's constant plan–he keeps his own
elect alive till the day of his grace, and then he takes them to
himself. And inasmuch as thou knowest thy need of a Saviour, thou art
one of his, and thou shalt never die until thou hast found him.
Your second fear is, "Ah, sir! I am not afraid of dying before I find
Christ, I have a worse fear than that; I have had convictions before,
and they have often passed away; my greatest fear to-day is, that these
will be the same." I have heard of a poor collier, who on one occasion,
having been deeply impressed under a sermon, was led to repent of sin
and forsake his former life; but he felt so great horror of ever
returning to his former conversation, that one day he knelt down and
cried thus unto God, "O Lord, let me die on this spot, rather than ever
deny the religion which I have espoused, and turn back to my former
conversation:" and we are credibly told, that he died on that very
spot, and so his prayer was answered. God had rather take him home to
heaven than suffer him to bear the brunt of temptation on earth. Now,
when men come to Christ, they feel that they had rather suffer anything
than lose their convictions. Scores of times have you and I been drawn
to Christ under the preaching of the Word. We can look back upon dozens
of occasions on which it seemed just the turning point with us.
Something said in our hearts, "Now, believe in Christ, now is the
accepted time, now is the day of salvation." But we said, "To-morrow,
to-morrow ;" and when to-morrow came our convictions were gone. We
thought what we said yesterday would be the deed of to-day; but instead
of it, the procrastination of yesterday became the hardened wickedness
of to-day: we wandered farther from God and forgot him. Now you are
crying to him for fear, lest he should give you up again. You have this
morning prayed before you came here, and you said, "Father, suffer not
my companions to laugh me out of my religion; let not my worldly
business so engross my thoughts, as to prevent my due attention to the
matters of another world. Oh, let not the trifles of to-day so absorb
my thoughts that I may not be preparing myself to meet my God–
'Deeply on my thoughtful heart,
Eternal things impress,'
and make this a real saving work that shall never die out, nor be taken
from me." Is that your earnest prayer? O poor prodigal, it shall be
heard, it shall be answered. Thou shalt not have time to go back.
To-day thy Father views thee from his throne in heaven; to-day he runs
to thee in the message of his gospel; today he falls upon thy neck and
weeps for joy; to-day he says to thee, "Thy sins, which are many, are
all forgiven ;" to-day, by the preaching of the Word, he bids thee come
and reason with him, "for though thy sins be as scarlet, they shall be
as wool, though the be red like crimson, they shall be whiter than
snow."
But the last and the most prominent thought which I suppose the
prodigal would have, would be, that when he did get to his father, he
would say to him, "Get along with you, I will have nothing more to do
with you." "Ah!" thought he to himself, "I recollect the morning, when
I rose up before day-break, because I knew I could not stand my mothers
tears; I remember how I crept down the back staircase and took all the
money with me, how I stole down the yard and ran away into the land
where I spent my all. Oh! what will the old gentlemen say of me when I
come back? Why, there he is! he is running to me. But he has got a
horsewhip with him, to be sure, to whip me away. It is not at all
possible that if he comes he will have a kind word for me. The most I
can expect is that he will say, Well John, you have wasted all your
money, you can not expect me to do anything for you again. I won't let
you starve; you shall be one of my servants: there, come, I will take
you as footman;' and if he will do that I will be obliged to him; nay,
that is the very thing I will ask of him; I will say, Make me as one of
thy hired servants.'" "Oh," said the devil within him, "your father
will never speak comfortably to you: you had better run away again. I
tell you if he gets near you, you will have such a dressing as you
never received in your life. You will die with a broken heart; you will
very likely fall dead here; the old man will never bury you; the
carrion crows win eat you. There is no hope for you: see how you have
treated him. Put yourself in his place: what would you do if you had a
son that had run away with half your living, and spent it upon
harlots?" And the son thought if he were in his fathers place he should
be very harsh and severe; and possibly, he almost turned upon his heel
to run away. But he had not time to do that. When he was just thinking
about running away, on a sudden his father's arms were about his neck,
and he had received the paternal kiss. Nay, before he could get his
whole prayer finished, he was arrayed in a white robe, the best in the
house; and they had brought him to the table, and the fatted calf was
being killed for his repast. And poor soul, it shall be so with you.
Thou sayest, "If I go to God, he win never receive me. I am too vile
and wretched: others he may have pressed to his heart, but he will not
me. If my brother should go, he might be saved; but there are such
aggravations in my crime; I have grown so old since; I have done such a
deal of mischief; I have so often blasphemed him, so frequently broken
his Sabbaths; ah! and I have so often deceived him; I have promised I
would repent, and when I got well I have lied to God, and gone back to
my old sin. Oh, if he would but let me creep inside the door of heaven!
I win not ask to be one of his children; I win only ask that he will
let me be where the Syro-Phoenician woman desired to be–to be a dog,
to eat the crumbs that fall from the Master's table. That is all I ask;
and oh! if he will but grant it to me, he shall never hear the last of
it, for as long as I live I will sing his praise; and when the world
doth fade away, and the sun grow dim with age, my gratitude, immortal
as my soul, shall never cease to sing his love, who pardoned my
grossest sins and washed me in his blood." It shad be so. Come and try.
Now, sinners, dry your tears; let hopeless sorrows cease; look to the
wounds of Christ, who died; let all your griefs now be removed, there
is no further cause for them; your Father loves you; he accepts and
receives you to his heart.
III. Now, in conclusion, I may notice HOW THESE FEARS WERE MET IN THE
PRODIGAL'S CASE, and how they shall be met in ours if we are in the
same condition.
The text says, "The Father saw him." Yes, and God saw thee just now.
That tear which was wiped away so hastily–as if thou wast ashamed of
it–God saw it, and he stored it in his bottle. That prayer which thou
didst breathe just a few moments ago, so faintly, and with such little
faith–God heard it. The other day thou wast in thy chamber, where no
ear heard thee; but God was there. Sinner, let this be thy comfort,
that God sees thee when thou beginnest to repent. He does not see thee
with his usual gaze, with which he looks on all men; but he sees thee
with an eye of intense interest. He has been looking on thee in an thy
sin, and in all thy sorrow, hoping that thou wouldst repent; and now he
sees the first gleam of grace, and he beholds it with joy. Never warder
on the lonely castle top saw the first grey light of morning with more
joy than that with which God beholds the first desire in thy heart.
Never physician rejoiced more when he saw the first heaving of the
lungs in one that was supposed to be dead, than God doth rejoice over
thee, now that he sees the first token for good. Think not that thou
art despised and unknown, and forgotten. He is marking thee from his
high throne in glory, and rejoicing in what he sees. He saw thee pray,
he heard thee groan; he marked thy tear; he looked upon thee and
rejoiced to see that these were the first seeds of grace in thine
heart.
And then, the text says, "he had compassion on him." He did not merely
see him, but he wept within himself to think he should be in such a
condition. The old father had a very long range of eye-sight; and
though the prodigal could not see him in the distance, he could see the
prodigal. And the fathers first thought when he saw him was this–"O my
poor son, O my poor boy! that ever he should have brought himself into
such a state as this!" He looked through his telescope of love, and he
saw him, and said, "Ah! he did not go out of my house in such trim as
that. Poor creature, his feet are bleeding; he has come a long way,
I'll be bound. Look at his face, he doesn't look like the same boy he
was when he left me. His eye that was so bright, is now sunken in its
socket; his cheeks that once stood out with fatness, have now become
hollow with famine. Poor wretch, I can tell all his bones, he is so
emaciated." Instead of feeling any anger in his heart, he felt just the
contrary; he felt such pity for his poor son. And so the Lord feels for
you–you that are groaning and moaning on account of sin. He forgets
your sins; he only weeps to think you should have brought yourself to
be what you are: "Why didst thou rebel against me, and bring thyself
into such a state as this?" It was just like that day when Adam sinned.
God walked in the garden, and he missed Adam. He did not cry out,
"Adam, come here and be judged!" No; with a soft, sorrowful, and
plaintive voice, he said, "Adam, where art thou? Oh, my fair Adam, thou
whom I made so happy, where art thou now? Oh, Adam! thou didst think to
become a God; where art thou now? Thou hast walked with me: dost thou
hide thyself from thy friend? Little dost thou know, O Adam, what woes
thou hast brought on thyself, and thine offspring. Adam, where art
thou?" And Jehovah bowels yearn to-day over you. He is not angry with
you; his anger is passed away, and his hands are stretched out still.
Inasmuch as he has brought you to feel that you have sinned against
him, and to desire reconciliation with him, there is no wrath in his
heart. The only sorrow that he feels is sorrow that you should have
brought yourself into a state so mournful as that in which you now are
found.
But he did not stop in mere compassion. Having had compassion, "he ran,
and fell on his neck, and kissed him." This you do not understand yet;
but you shall. As sure as God is God, if you this day are seeking him
aright through Christ, the day shall come when the kiss of full
assurance shall be on your lip, when the arms of sovereign love shall
embrace you, and you shall know it to be so. Thou mayest have despised
him, but thou shalt know him yet to be thy Father and thy Friend. Thou
mayest have scoffed his name: thou shalt one day come to rejoice in it
as better than pure gold. Thou mayest have broken his Sabbaths and
despised his Word; the day is coming when the Sabbath shall be thy
delight, and his Word thy treasure. Yes, marvel not; thou mayest have
plunged into the kennel of sin, and made thy clothes black with
iniquity; but thou shalt one day stand before his throne white as the
angels be; and that tongue that once cursed him shall yet sing his
praise. If thou be a real seeker, the hands that have been stained with
lust shall one day grasp the harp of gold, and the head that has
plotted against the Most High shall yet be girt with gold. Seemeth it
not a strange thing that God should do so much for sinners? But strange
though it seem, it shall be strangely true. Look at the staggering
drunkard in the ale-house. Is there a possibility that one day he shall
stand among the fairest sons of light? Possibility! ay, certainty, if
he repents and turns from the error of his ways. Hear you yon curser
and swearer? See you the man who labels himself as a servant of hell,
and is not ashamed to do so? Is it possible that he shall one day share
the bliss of the redeemed? Possible! ay, more, it is sure, if he
turneth from his evil ways. O sovereign grace, turn men that they may
repent! "Turn ye, turn ye, why will ye die, O house of Israel?"
"Lord, do thou the sinner turn,
For thy tender mercy's sake."
One word or so, and I have done. If any of you to-day are under
conviction of sin, let me solemnly warn you not to frequent places
where those convictions are likely too be destroyed.
A correspondent of the New York Christian Advocate furnishes the
following affecting narrative:–
"When I was travelling in the state of Massachusetts, twenty-six years
ago, after preaching one evening in the town of ___________, a very
serious-looking young man arose, and wished to address the assembly.
After obtaining leave, he spoke as follows:–'My friends, about one
year ago, I set out in company with a young man of my intimate
acquaintance, to seek the salvation of my soul. For several weeks we
went on together, we laboured together, and often renewed our covenant
not to give over seeking till we obtained the religion of Jesus. But,
all at once, the young man neglected attending meeting, appeared to
turn his back on all the means of grace, and grew so shy of me, that I
could scarcely get an opportunity to speak with him. His strange
conduct gave me much painful anxiety of mind; but still I felt resolved
to obtain the salvation of my soul, or perish, making the publican's
plea. After a few days, a friend informed me that my young companion
had received an invitation to a ball, and was determined to go. I went
immediately to him, and, with tears in my eyes, endeavoured to persuade
him to change his purpose, and to go with me on that evening to a
prayer-meeting. I pleaded with him in vain. He told me, when we parted,
that I must not give him up as lost, for after he had attended that
ball, he intended to make a business of seeking religion. The appointed
evening came, and he went to the ball, and I went to the
prayer-meeting. Soon after the meeting opened, it pleased God, in
answer to my prayer, to turn my spiritual captivity, and make my soul
rejoice in his justifying love. Soon after the ball opened, my young
friend was standing at the head of the ball-room, with the hand of a
young lady in his hand, preparing to lead down the dance; and, while
the musician was turning his violin,, without one moment's warning, the
young man sallied back, and fell dead on the floor. I was immediately
sent for, to assist in devising means to convey his remains to his
father's house. You will be better able to judge what were the emotions
of my heart, when I tell you that that young man was my own brother.'"
Trifle not, then, with thy convictions, for eternity shall be too short
for thee to utter thy lamentations over such trifling.
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