"The Tender Mercy of Our God"
A Sermon
(No. 1907)
Delivered on Lord's-day Morning, June 27th, 1886, by
C. H. SPURGEON,
At [8]the Metropolitan Tabernacle, Newington
"To give knowledge of salvation unto his people by the remission of
their sins through the tender mercy of our God; whereby the dayspring
from on high hath visited us, to give light to them that sit in
darkness and in the shadow of death to guide our feet into the way of
peace."–Luke 1:77-79.
OBSERVE HOW ZACHARIAS, in this his joyful song, extolled the remission
of sins, as one of the most extraordinary proofs of the tender mercy of
our God. He had been dumb for a season, as a chastisement for his
unbelief; and therefore he used his recovered speech to sing of
pardoning mercy. No salvation is possible without forgiveness, and so
Zacharias says, "To give knowledge of salvation unto his people by the
remission of their sins." The Lord could not forgive them on the ground
of justice, and therefore he did so because of his tender mercy–the
tender mercy of our God, who has made himself "our God" by the covenant
of grace. He passes by the transgression of his people because he
delighteth in mercy. At the very outset, I want any soul here that is
burdened with sin to believe in the forgiveness of sins, and to believe
in it because God is love, and has a great tenderness towards the work
of his hands. He is so pitiful that he loves not to condemn the guilty,
but looks with anxious care upon them to see how he can turn away his
wrath and restore them to favor. For this reason alone there is
remission of sins. Forgiveness comes not to us through any merit of
ours, present or foreseen; but only through the tender mercy of our
God, and the marvellous visit of love which came of it. If he be
gracious enough to forgive our sins, it can be done; for every
arrangement is already made to accomplish it. The Lord is gracious
enough for this–for anything. Behold him in Christ Jesus, and there we
see him as full of compassion. We sang just now, and sang most truly–
"His heart is made of tenderness,
His bowels melt with love."
The main point of this morning's sermon will be to bring out into
prominence those few words, "the tender mercy of our God." To me they
gleam with kindly light: I see in them a soft radiance, as of those
matchless pearls whereof the gates of heaven are made. There is an
exceeding melody to my ear as well as to my heart in that word
"tender." "Mercy" is music, and "tender mercy" is the most exquisite
form of it, especially to a broken heart. To one who is despondent and
despairing, this word is life from the dead. A great sinner, much
bruised by the lashes of conscience, will bend his ear this way, and
cry, "Let me hear again the dulcet sound of these words, tender mercy."
If you think of this tenderness in connection with God, it will strike
you with wonder, for an instant, that one so great should be so tender;
for we are apt to impute to Omnipotence a crushing energy, which can
scarcely take account of little, and feeble, and suffering things. Yet
if we think again, the surprise will disappear, and we shall see, with
a new wonder of admiration, that it must be so. He that is truly great
among men is tender because he is great in heart as well as in brain
and hand. The truly great spirit is always gentle; and because God is
so infinitely great, he is, therefore, tender. We read of his
gentleness and of his tenderness towards the children of men; and we
see them displayed to their full in the gospel of our salvation. Very
conspicuous is this "tender mercy of our God."
Now, the original word is, "The mercy of the heart of our God." The
evangelists, though they wrote in Greek, carried with them into that
language the idioms of the Hebrew tongue; so that they do not use an
adjective, as it would seem from our translation–"tender mercy;" but
they say, mercy of the bowels, or of the inwards, or of the heart of
God. "The mercy of the heart of God" is to be seen in the remission of
sin, and in the visitation of his love when he comes to us as "the
dayspring from on high." Great is the tenderness of divine mercy.
But I call your attention to the original reading because it seems to
me not only to mean tenderness, but much more. The mercy of the heart
of God is, of course, the mercy of his great tenderness, the mercy of
his infinite gentleness and consideration; but other thoughts also come
forth from the expression, like bees from a hive. It means the mercy of
God's very soul. The heart is the seat and center of life, and mercy is
to God as his own life. "I have no pleasure in the death of him that
dieth, saith the Lord God." God is love: not only is he loving, but he
is love itself. Mercy is of the divine essence: there is no God apart
from his heart, and mercy lies in the heart of God. He has bound up his
mercy with his existence: as surely as God lives, he will grant
remission of sins to those who turn unto him.
Nor is this all–the mercy of God's heart means his hearty mercy, his
cordial delight in mercy. Remission of sins is a business into which
the Lord throws his heart. He forgives with an intensity of will, and
readiness of soul. God made heaven and earth with his fingers, but he
gave his Son with his heart in order that he might save sinners. The
Eternal God has thrown his whole soul into the business of redeeming
men. If you desire to see God most Godlike, it is in the pardon of sin,
and the saving of men. If you desire to read the character of God
written out in capital letters, you must study the visitation of his
love in the person of his dear Son, and all the wonderful works of
infinite grace which spring therefrom. It is a grand sight to behold
God in earnest when he says, "Now will I arise." With awe we watch him
as he lays bare his arm: but this full energy of power is best seen
when his work is grace. When he stirs up his strength to come and save
us, and brings the essence of his being into intense action to bless
us, we are favored indeed. It is this watching to do us good, this
eagerness to bless us, which is meant by the mercy of his heart. It is
not only tenderness, but intensity, heartiness, eagerness, delight, and
concentration of power. All this is to be seen in the dealing of God
with guilty men when he visits them to grant them the remission of
their sins.
Just as the leader of our psalmody sometimes sounds his tuning-fork at
the commencement of our song, so have I done in these opening remarks.
"Tender mercy" is the key-note of my discourse, I want you to keep it
still in your ears. Whatever else of melody there may come from the
text, yet this is to be the chief note: the tender, hearty, intense
mercy of God, which he has shown to us.
I. In the first place, I invite you to observe that he shows this
tender mercy in that HE DEIGNS TO VISIT US. "Through the tender mercy
of our God; whereby the dayspring from on high hath visited us."
Observe that God has not merely pitied us from a distance, and sent us
relief by way of the ladder which Jacob saw, but he hath himself
visited us. It needs no studied language to preach from this text, the
expressions themselves are full of holy thought. A visit from God, what
must it be! "Lord, what is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the
son of man, that thou visitest him?" A visit from the Queen would be
remembered by most of you all your lives: you would feel yourselves
half ennobled. But a visit from God, what shall I say of it?–that he
should stoop to leave his high abode, and the majesty wherein he
reigns, to visit insignificant beings like ourselves? This Bible is a
letter from him, and we prize it beyond the finest gold; but an actual
visit from God himself, what shall we say of such a favor?
In what ways has the Lord shown his tender mercy in deigning to visit
us?
I answer, first, God's great visit to us is the incarnation of our
blessed Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Many visits of God to men had
been paid before that–read your Bibles, and see; but the most
wonderful visit of all was when he came to tarry here, some thirty
years and more, to work out our salvation. What but "tender mercy,"
hearty mercy, intense mercy, could bring the great God to visit us so
closely that he actually assumed our nature? Kings may visit their
subjects, but they do not think of taking upon themselves their
poverty, sickness, or sorrow: they could not if they would, and would
not if they could; this were more than we could expect from them. But
our divine Lord, when he came hither, came into our flesh. He veiled
his Godhead in a robe of our inferior clay. O children! the Lord so
visited you as to become a babe, and then a child, who dwelt with his
parents, and was subject unto them, and grew in stature, as you must
do. O working men! the Lord so visited you as to become the carpenter's
son, and to know all about your toil, and your weariness, ay, even to
hunger and faintness. O sons of men! Jesus Christ has visited you so as
to be tempted in all points like as you are, though without sin. He
really assumed our nature, and thus paid to us a very close visit. He
took our sickness, and bare our infirmities. This was a kind of visit
such as none could have thought of granting save the infinitely tender
and merciful God. The man is our next kinsman, a brother born for
adversity; in all our affliction he is afflicted; he is tenderness
itself.
Remember that he not only took our nature, but he dwelt among us in
this world of sin and sorrow. This great Prince entered our abode–what
if I call it this hut and hovel?–wherein our poor humanity finds its
home for a season. This little planet of ours was made to burn with a
superior light among its sister stars while the Creator sojourned here
in human form. He trod the acres of Samaria, and traversed the hills of
Judea. "He went about doing good." He mingled among men with scarcely
any reservation; being through his purity separate from sinners as to
his character, yet he was the visitor of all men. He was found eating
bread with a Pharisee, which perhaps is a more wonderful thing than
when he received sinners, and ate with them. A fallen woman was not too
far gone for him to sit on the kerb of the well, and talk to her; nor
were any of the poor and ignorant too mean for him to care for them. He
was bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh, and his visit to us was
therefore of the most intimate kind. He disdained no man's lowliness;
he turned aside from no man's sin.
But remember that he visited us not merely to look upon us, and to talk
with us, and to teach us, and set us a high and divine example, which,
as I have said, were incomparably gracious, if it went no further; but
he so visited us that he went down into our condemnation, that he might
deliver us from it. He was made a curse for us, as it is written,
"Cursed is every one that hangeth on a tree." He took our debts upon
him that he might pay them, minting his own heart to create the
coinage. He gave himself for us, which is more than if I said, "he gave
his blood and his life;" his own self he gave. So did he visit us that
he took away with him our ill, and left all good behind. He did not
come into our nature, and yet keep himself reserved from all the
consequences of our sin; nor come into our world, and yet maintain a
status superior to the usual denizens of it; but he came to be a man
among men, and to bear all that train of woes which had fallen upon
human nature through its departure from the ways of God. Surely he hath
borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows, because the Lord hath laid
upon him the iniquity of us all. Our Lord so visited us as to become
our surety and our ransom. This was a wonderful piece of tender mercy
indeed. I feel at this moment as if I could not talk about it, for it
excels all conception and speech. Even if I were not full of pain, the
subject would master me. If for the first time you had heard of the
visit of the Incarnate God to this world, you would be struck with a
wonder which would last throughout all eternity, that God himself
should really condescend to such a deed as this. This is the heart of
the gospel–the incomparable fact of the incarnation of the Son of God,
his dwelling upon the earth, and his presentation of himself as a
sacrifice unto God. You need no flourish of words; do but hear the bare
statement of the fact, and leap for joy because of it. Since God has
visited us, not in form of vengeance, nor as a cherub with a flaming
sword, but in the gentle person of that lowliest of the lowly, who
said, "Suffer little children to come unto me," we are herein made to
see the tender mercy of our God. Nothing could be more tender than the
divine appearance of the Man of Sorrows.
But I do not think we ought to insist upon this as the only visit of
God's tender mercy, since the text is in the Revised Version rendered
in the future: "The tender mercy of our God, whereby the dayspring from
on high shall visit us." To this day we are visited of God in other
respects, but with equal mercy. The proclamation of the gospel in a
nation, or to any individual, is a visit of God's mercy. Whenever you
come and hear the gospel, be you sure of this, whether you receive it
or not, the kingdom of God has come nigh unto you. Even if you stop
your ears, and will have none of it, yet God has visited you in tender
mercy, in that by the gospel he tells you that there is a way of
salvation, that there is a plan for the remission of sin. It is a
monstrosity–what if I say a miracle?–of iniquity, that men having
sinned, and God having done so much to work out a way of remission of
those sins, men should refuse to accept God's pardoning love. Oh, my
hearers, Why are you so besotted? Wherefore do you hate your own souls?
Surely, the devils themselves would at the first have scarce believed
it, that there could exist a race of creatures so hardened as to refuse
the love which visits them in grace. This is what devils never did. Men
sin not only against God, but against their own interest, when they
turn aside from the wooings of disinterested goodness, and refuse
salvation through him who loved us even to the death. That which God
has so tenderly and heartily wrought out in the gift of his dear Son to
die for us ought to be received with eagerness. Will not you receive
it? My dear hearers, you shall not go out of this place this morning
without knowing that God in great tender mercy hath visited you by the
blessed fact of your having heard the good tidings of free grace. Jesus
seeks you, will you not seek him?
But, blessed be his name, he has visited some of us in a more
remarkable manner still, for by the Holy Spirit he has entered into our
hearts, and changed the current of our lives. He has turned our
affections towards that which is right by enlightening our judgments.
He has led us to the confession of sin, he has brought us to the
acceptance of his mercy through the atoning blood; and so he has truly
saved us. What a visit is this! This visit of the Holy Ghost, when he
comes to dwell in us, is surpassingly condescending. I have often said
that I never know which to admire most, the incarnation of the Son of
God, or the indwelling of the Spirit of God. This last is a wonderful
condescension, for the Holy Ghost does not take a pure body of his own,
but he makes our bodies to be his temples; he dwells not only in one of
these, but in tens of thousands; and that not only by the space of
thirty years, but throughout the whole life of the believer. He
dwelleth in us notwithstanding all our provocations and rebellions.
Mark the word, not only with us, but in us, and that evermore. Oh, this
tender mercy! Who can describe it? Sweet Spirit, gentle Spirit, how
canst thou abide with me? O heavenly Dove, how canst thou find rest in
such a soul as mine? Yet without thee we are undone, and therefore we
adore the tender mercy which makes thee bear with us so long, and work
in us so graciously till thou hast conformed us to the image of the
Firstborn. We are melted by the love of the Spirit–the communion of
the Holy Spirit, by which the Lord hath visited us.
Often and often, since our first visitation by the Lord, I trust we
have had special visits from him, bringing with them rapturous joys,
singular deliverances, and countless blessings. "The love of God is
shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us."
The Lord has visited us in the night: he has drawn nigh unto our
spirit, and so he has preserved us. We have enjoyed near and dear
communion with the Father, and with his Son Jesus Christ. Have we not?
This hath often happened when we have been in great trouble. When we
were depressed in spirit, when we were burdened with unusual cares, or
weeping over heart-breaking bereavements, the mercy of our God has made
the dayspring from on high to visit us at just such times; and therein
we have seen his tenderness. Our life is bright with these visits as
the sky with stars. I cannot enlarge upon this charming theme, but I
leave it to your thoughts, O you whose experience will be the best
sermon on the text! The visits of God to his own children are proofs of
the heartiness, the intensity, the tenderness of his mercy. Talk of it,
ye who have had most enjoyment of such visits!
II. I call your attention now to a second point. There is so much
sea-room here that one scarce knows which way to steer. Secondly, he
shows his tender mercy in that HE VISITS US AS THE DAYSPRING FROM ON
HIGH. This means the dawning in the east, the rising of the sun at
break of day. He does not come to us in Christ, or by his Spirit, as a
tempest, as when he came from Paran, with ten thousand of his holy
ones, in all the pomp of his fiery law; but he has visited us as
smiling morn, which in gentle glory floods the world with joy.
While this gospel visitation is thus apparently less in splendor than
that of the law, yet it is not deficient in efficacy or in true glory.
God has not visited us as a candle, which might suffice to cheer our
darkness but could not change it into day. David rejoiced, saying, "The
Lord will light my candle;" but in this we go far beyond him: we need
no candle, for the Lord has visited us with the day-dawn.
He has come, moreover, not as a blaze which will soon die down, but as
a light which will last our day, yea, last for ever. After the long
dark and cold night of our misery, the Lord cometh in the fittest and
most effectual manner; neither as lightning, nor candle, nor flaming
meteor, but as the sun which begins the day.
The visitation of the Lord to us is as the dayspring, because it suits
our eye. Observe how the eye is suited to the light, and the light to
the eye, in the economy of nature; and it is even so in the realm of
grace. Day, when it first breaks in the east, has not the blaze of
burning noon about it; but it peeps forth as a grey light, which
gradually increases to the perfect day. So did the Lord Jesus Christ
come: dimly as it were, at first, at Bethlehem, but by-and-by he will
appear in all the glory of the Father. So doth the Spirit of God come
to us in gradual progress. There is sweet suitableness in the grace of
God to the heart, and in the renewed heart to the grace of God. He hath
abounded towards us in all wisdom and prudence. The revelation of God
to each individual is made in form and manner tenderly agreeable to the
condition and capacity of the favored one. I sometimes think the gospel
was made exactly to meet my case. Do you not think the same of it
yourselves? The morning light suits your eye as exactly as if there
were no other creature to behold it; and so in divine tenderness the
Lord has made his visits suitable to our sorrow, and even to our
weakness. He shows us just so much of himself as to delight us without
utterly overwhelming us with the excess of brightness. He might have
come in the majesty of his grace to us at the first, as he does to us
afterwards; but then we were not able to bear it, and so he forbore. We
are now more ready to sup with him upon strong meat, and so he puts us
upon men's fare; whereas before he gave us milk, which is more
convenient for babes. All the visits of God to us are merciful, but in
those of the dawn of grace we see tenderness as well as mercy.
The visits of God are like the dayspring, because they end our
darkness. The dayspring banishes the night. Without noise or effort, it
removes the ebon blackness, and sows the earth with orient pearl. Night
stretches her bat's wings, and is gone: she flies before the arrows of
the advancing sun; and the coming of Jesus to us, when he does really
come into our hearts, takes away the darkness of ignorance, sorrow,
carelessness, fear, and despair. Our night is ended once for all when
we behold God visiting us in Christ Jesus. Our day may cloud over, but
night will not return. O, you that are in the blackest midnight, if you
can but get a view of Christ, morning will have come to you! There is
no light for you elsewhere, believe us in this; but if Jesus be seen by
faith, you shall need no candles of human confidence, nor sparks of
feelings and impressions: the beholding of Christ shall be the ending
of all night for you. "They looked unto him, and were lightened: and
their faces were not ashamed."
I like to think of Christ as coming into the world as the morning
light, because he comes with such a largeness of present
blessing–blessing immeasurable, unlimited. Some are always for
measuring out Christ: they can never do without estimates of how much,
and how far. Truly our Lord comes to save his elect, that I do verily
believe; but hence certain friends would allot so many beams of light
to so many eyes, and limit the light by the number of those who rejoice
in it. Not so, beloved, Jesus is the light of the world; he comes from
on high to shed light over the whole universe, even as the sun goeth
forth from one end of heaven to the other, and there is nothing hid
from the heat thereof. He appears as the light which lighteneth every
man that cometh into the world: there is no other light. Whosoever is
willing to receive that light is free to do so: yea, he shines on blind
eyes. This light comes even to those who hate it, and thus they are
left without excuse: "the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness
comprehended it not," and "this is the condemnation, that light is come
into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light because their
deeds were evil." When the Lord comes to men, his blessings are
infinite. You might as well take your three feet rule, and begin to
measure the length and breadth of the sunlight as measure the length
and breadth of the tender mercy of our God in the revelation of our
Lord Jesus Christ.
When the Lord visits us, it is as the dayspring, because he brings us
hope of greater glory yet to come. The first coming of Christ has not
at once manifested everything; the dayspring is not the noon; but it is
the sure guarantee of it; and so is the First Advent the pledge of the
glory to be revealed. The sun never rises in error to set upon a
sudden: he rises to complete his course, as the strong man cometh out
of his chamber to fulfill his race. When we receive a visit from the
Lord, it may be in the way of rebuke, or of feeble hope; but let us be
patient, for the dawn shall grow with constant increase of light, and
there is no fear of its dying down into the old sinful darkness.
"Sacred, high, eternal noon" is the destiny of all those whose eyes
have beheld the Christ, so as to rejoice in his light.
Now all this seems to me to be a wonderful instance of the tenderness
of divine mercy. Think you not so? This coming of the Lord, and of his
light, so gradually, and yet so lavishly; so fittingly, and yet so
effectually; does it not fill you with gratitude? Every little bird
rejoices in the rising of the sun: God has made that great orb to rise
so graciously that not even a sparrow trembles at it, but chirps with
confidence its happy praises. Not even a little flower trembles because
the great sun is about to flood the heavens, but God hath so made the
sun to rise that every tiny cup of every flower that blooms opens to
drink in the golden light, and is refreshed thereby. The coming of
Christ is just such to us, even to the least and feeblest of us. It is
not a stupendous blessing, crushing us by its enormous weight; it is
not a mysterious revelation, confounding us by its profundity; but it
is simplicity itself, gentleness itself; none the less, but all the
more grand and sublime because it is so simple and so tender. Let us
bless God this morning, then, that he visits us, and that when he
visits us, it is as the dayspring from on high.
III. Thirdly, there is another instance of great tenderness in this, in
that THE LORD VISITS US IN OUR VERY LOWEST ESTATE. Permit me to read
the text to you–"To give knowledge of salvation unto his people by the
remission of their sins," from which it appears that God comes to visit
us when we are in our sins. If the plan of salvation were that we were
to get out of our sins, and then God would come to us, it might be full
of mercy, but it would not be tender mercy. Let it never be forgotten
that "When we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for
the ungodly." "God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we
were yet sinners, Christ died for us." I feel always at home when I get
upon this blessed topic of the visits of God to undeserving,
ill-deserving, hell-deserving sinners. His saving visits spring from
grace, pure grace, altogether unmixed with any merit or claim on our
part. God comes to us as the morning, which does not wait for man, nor
tarry for the sons of men. I cannot bear the spirit which I see
spreading among us in reference to almsgiving. It should not be
indiscriminate, but it should be bounteous. Many cry, "We shall give
help only to the deserving." If God were to adopt that rule, where
would you and I be? It has even been muttered in an undertone that,
with regard to hospitals, no doubt they are used by persons who ought
to provide for themselves, and so help to support struggling medical
men. It may be so; but I like not the hard and niggardly spirit which
suggests such criticisms. Talk not so; this is fit chatter for
barbarians. Those who know the tender mercy of God will recollect that,
when we ourselves had no good about us whatsoever, his tender mercy
visited us, even as the sun ariseth upon the just and upon the unjust.
He giveth with gladness to those who have no deservings of any kind. He
will not mar the magnificence of his goodness by asking our pitiful
pence of merit as a payment for it; but he giveth freely, according to
the riches of his grace. As he makes his rain to water the fields of
the miser and of the churl, as well as those of the kind and the
generous, so doth he give his bounty to the worst of men. Let us learn
this, and imitate it, for thus we shall know the tender mercy of God.
To copy the divine example will be the surest method of coming to an
understanding of it.
Furthermore, our God visits us when we are in darkness; when we are in
such darkness as to know nothing, see nothing, believe nothing, hope
nothing; even then the Lord's mercy comes to us. Is not this
tenderness? "Educate a man up to a certain point," says one, "and then
we may hope that God's grace will visit him." Educate him by all means,
but have hope that God may visit even those who have no education of
any sort. "Follow the advance of civilization," cries one, "and do not
risk your missionaries among barbarians." Not so; our marching orders
are, "Preach the gospel to every creature." The gospel is to precede
and produce civilization. To them that sit in darkness, the Lord is
pleased to send the dayspring from on high. To send light where there
is light is superfluous. Have we not a proverb about sending coals to
Newcastle? God sendeth not grace to us because we have already
something which may be viewed as prevenient and preparatory; but the
prevenient and the preparatory are of his grace, and he comes in love
to bring these with him, to those who as yet know nothing of his light
and life. They are in the dark, and he creates their day.
Did you notice that it is said "to those that sit in darkness?" This is
more than being in the dark. The man who sits in darkness does so
because he feels that his case is hopeless, and therefore he forbears
all further action. A poor benighted traveler has wandered this way and
that to find a track, but it is so dark that he cannot perceive his
road; and so at last he embraces the rock for want of a shelter,
crouching to the earth in despair. It is a part of the tender mercy of
our God that he visits those who despond and are motionless in a dread
inactivity. Those who have lost hope are lost indeed, and such the
Savior has come to save.
Then it is added, "and in the shadow of death." Did you ever feel that
shadow? It has a horrible influence. Chill and cold, it freezes the
marrow of the bones, and stops the genial current of life in the veins.
Death stands over the man, and if his hand does not smite, yet his
shadow darkens joy, and chills hope, benumbing the heart, and making
life itself a mode of death. The shadow of death is confusion of mind,
depression of spirit, dread of the unknown, horror at the past, and
terror of the future. Are any of you at this time bowing down under the
shadow of death? Has hell gaped wide, and opened her jaws for you? Have
you in your despair made a league with death, and a covenant with hell?
Thus saith the Lord, "Your covenant with death shall be disannulled,
and your agreement with hell shall not stand;" for the Lord has come
forth, and visited you in the person of his dear Son to deliver the
captive, and save those who are appointed unto death. Knowing your
guilt, the Lord visits you this morning, and bids you look up. "Behold
the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world." Look and
live; look, and be delivered at once, even from the horrible
deathshadow which now broods over you. I do delight to think of this
tender mercy of God to those who are lost. There are lost that shall be
found, and last that shall be first. You seem forgotten of God, left
out of the register of hope, but yet to you has Jesus come–"to give
light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death." Is not
this tender mercy? If he had not come to shine on such I should never
have been saved. A gospel for the cheerful would never have met my
case; I wanted a gospel for the despairing. I know some here who must
have perished if the gospel had only been suitable to those who are of
good character, and have the beginnings of natural religion within
them. Only a sinner's Savior would have suited some of you, or, indeed,
any of us. As the good Samaritan did to the wounded man, "he came where
he was," so did Jesus come to us in our ruin. The benefactor of the
wounded did not stand and say to him, "Come here, and get on my beast,
and he shall carry you to the inn." But he went to him when he was
lying half dead, and therefore helpless; and he poured the oil and wine
into his wounds while the poor wretch could not move an inch, nor stir
hand or foot. He bound up his wounds, and then set him on his own
beast, and took him to the inn. This is tender mercy; and in this
fashion Jesus deals with us. He does everything for us from the very
beginning. He is Alpha, even as he must be Omega. Does not this show
the tender mercy of our God, that he does come to us in the darkness,
and under the grim shadow of death, and there and then reveals his love
to us?
IV. Both time and strength fail me, so now I must finish with a fourth
reflection from the text–Our God shows his tender mercy in that HE
VISITS US WITH SUCH WONDERFUL AND JOYFUL RESULTS–"to give light to
them that sit in darkness, to guide our feet into the way of peace."
One sketch must suffice. Help me as I make an outline. Imagine a
caravan in the desert, which has long lost its way, and is famishing.
The sun has long gone down, and the darkness has caused every one's
heart to droop. All around them is a waste of sand, and an Egyptian
darkness. There they must remain and die unless they can find the
track. They feel themselves to be in a fearful case, for, hungry and
thirsty, their soul fainteth in them. They cannot even sleep for fear.
Heavier and heavier the night comes down, and the damps are on the
tents chilling the souls of the travelers. What is to be done? How they
watch! Alas, no star comforts them! At last the watchmen cry, "The
morning cometh." It breaks over the sea of sand, and, what is better,
it reveals a heap which had been set up as a way-mark, and the
travelers have found the track. The dayspring has saved them from swift
destruction by discovering the way of peace.
Our point is this, that when the Lord Jesus Christ visits us, he
actually brings light to our darkness; really leads into the way, and
makes that way a way of peace to us. Put all together, and remember
what the Lord has done for you. You did not know the way once, and all
the preaching in the world would not have made you know it, if Jesus
had not by his Spirit visited you as the dayspring. When you did know
the way, you could not reach it of yourself: you saw it as from a
distance, and could not enter upon it, but when Jesus came near, he
actually guided your feet into that way. He put your feet upon a rock,
and established your goings. That way, good as it was, would have been
to you a way of doubt, and fear, and hesitation, if the Lord had not so
sweetly shone upon you that your road became a way of perfect peace.
Peace in our text means prosperity, plenty, rest, joy. I ask you,
friends, whether you have not found it so. Since the Lord has visited
you, have you not gone forth with joy, and been led forth with peace?
Well, now, the conclusion of all this is a practical matter. If the
tender mercy of God has visited us, and done so much more for us than I
can tell, or than you can hear, let us ourselves exhibit tender mercy
in our dealings with our fellow-men. It is a wretched business for a
man to call himself a Christian, and have a soul which never peeps out
from between his own ribs. It is horrible to be living to be saved,
living to get to heaven, living to enjoy religion, and yet never to
live to bless others, and ease the misery of a moaning world. Do you
not know that it is all nonsense to regard religion as a selfish
spiritual trade by which we save our own souls? It is useless to hope
for peace till you know how to love. Whence come wars and fightings but
from a want of love? Unless your religion tears you away from yourself,
and makes you live for something nobler than even your own spiritual
good, you have not passed out of the darkness into the light of God.
Only the way of unselfishness is the way of peace. I ask you,
therefore, today to think very tenderly of all poor people. These are
hard times; let those who have more than they actually want be ready
always to relieve distress, which is very urgent just now.
The call this morning is for liberal help to our hospitals. These are
called in France "houses of God;" truly they are Godlike in their
design. There is not a man here but may be in a hospital to-morrow. Do
you reply that you are a wealthy man? Yet you may be run over in the
street, or fall in a fit, and the hospital's door is open to you. It is
not merely for the beggar, but for the noble, that this is a refuge.
Many a time men of immense wealth have had to be carried to the
hospital from injury inflicted by fire or water, accident, or sudden
sickness. I appeal to your selfishness, and to your honor: pay your
proportion towards a common protection.
But I appeal to you on higher grounds. I forget just now how many
thousands of cases of accident have gone into the hospital during the
past year, but it is very surprising. They never ask who they are, or
where they come from, but receive all the wounded. Every great accident
involves a huge expense upon the hospital which is near the spot. This
is not sufficiently thought of, or there would be special contributions
on each sad occasion. Few consider how these noble institutions are
supported. "Oh, the rich people give to them!" Alas, the rich people
often forget them! "Oh, but these general collections will do the
work!" No such thing! It is such a pitiful contribution which usually
makes up a collection that the hospitals are little aided thereby.
These institutions are left to run into debt, or spend their capital,
or keep their beds empty. I could not too strongly put the case of
hospitals just now. I have half wished that the Government would
undertake them, only I am not sure that they would be so well conducted
in that case as when they are left to private management by hearts that
feel for men. Something must be done. We must give a great deal more;
the collections ought to be at least twice as much in all our churches
and chapels as they have ever been. If you were present when a man was
run over, and you heard his bone break, you would put your hand into
your pocket, or do anything else in your power to help him. I wish I
could make you feel in the presence of such a calamity for a minute, so
as to touch your hearts and your hands. Diseases are always abroad, and
driving thousands to seek hospital help. I would like to take you down
a ward, and cause you to listen to the stories told from half-a-dozen
beds. What sickness! What poverty caused by sickness! What pains poor
bodies are capable of enduring! Oh, come, let us help them! Let us give
to the support of those who nurse them, and for the help of those who
exercise their best skill for their relief. Who can withhold? By the
tender mercy of our God, I charge you to give freely to this excellent
cause. As the box goes round, remember that this is not the time for
threepenny-pieces. You who are wealthy must write cheques or give
notes, and you may send them to our treasurer if you prefer it. All
must be generous for the sake of that tender mercy which is the
dayspring of our hope and life.
PORTION OF SCRIPTURE READ BEFORE SERMON–Matthew 8:1-18.
HYMNS FROM "OUR OWN HYMN BOOK"–912, 328, 195.