Delivered by
C. H. SPURGEON,
At the Metropolitan Tabernacle, Newington
"The time of my departure is at hand."–2 Timothy 4:6.
SO NEAR, SO VERY NEAR THE CHANGE–his removal from this to another
world; and so very conscious of it; yet Paul looked back with calm
satisfaction; he looked forward with sweet assurance; and he looked
round with deepest interest on the mission that had engaged his life.
As you must have noticed while we were reading the chapter, in his case
"the ruling passion was strong in death." Writing what he well knows is
the last letter he shall ever write, its main topic is care for the
church of God–anxiety for the promotion of the truth–zeal for the
furtherance of the gospel. When he is dead, and gone from the post of
service, the scene of suffering, the field of enterprise, on whom shall
his mantle fall? He desires that in Timothy he may find a worthy
successor, strong in the faith, sincere of heart, and having dauntless
courage withal, one who will wield the sword and hold the banner when
his hand is palsied in death. Men have usually shown us what lies at
the bottom of their heart when they have come to die. Often their last
expiring expressions have been indicative of their entire character.
Certainly you have before you in the last sentences of Paul's pen a
fair epitome of his entire life. He is trusting in the Savior; he is
anxious to show his love for that Savior. The welfare of the Christian
church and the advancement of the holy cause of the gospel are
uppermost in his mind. May it be yours and mine to live wholly for
Christ, and to die also for him. May this ever be foremost in our
thoughts, "How can I advance the kingdom of our Lord and Savior? By
what means can I bless his church and people?" It is very beautiful to
observe the way in which Paul describes his death in this verse.
According to our translation he speaks of it as an offering. "I am now
ready," saith he, "to be offered." If we accept this version he may be
supposed to mean that he felt as one standing like a bullock or a lamb,
ready to be laid on an altar. He foresaw he would die a martyr's death.
He knew he could not be crucified as his brother Peter had been, for a
Roman citizen was, as a rule, exempt from that ignominious death. He
expected to die in some other manner. Probably he guessed it would be
by the sword, and so he describes himself as waiting for the
sacrificial knife to be used, that he might be presented as a
sacrifice. So I say the words of our translation would lead us to
think. But the original is far more instructive. He here likens
himself, in the Greek, not to an offering, but to the drink-offering.
Every Jew would know what that meant. When there was a burnt-sacrifice
offered, the bullock or the victim then slain was the main part of the
sacrifice. But sometimes there was a little, what if I say an
unimportant, supplement added to that sacrifice–a little oil and a
little wine were poured on to the altar or the bullock, and thus a
drink-offering was said to be added to the burnt-offering. Now, Paul
does not venture to call himself an offering,–Christ is his offering.
Christ is, so to speak, the sacrifice on the altar. He likens himself
only to that little wine and oil poured out as a supplement thereto,
not necessary to its perfection, but tolerated in performing a vow, or
allowed in connection with a free will offering, as you will find if
you refer at leisure to the fifteenth chapter of Numbers, from the
fourth to the eighth verses. The drink-offering was thus a kind of
addendum, by which the person who gave it showed his thankfulness. So
Paul is resolved to show his thankfulness to Christ, the great
sacrifice, and he is willing that his blood should be poured as a
drink-offering on the altar where his Lord and Master was the great
burnt-offering. He rejoices when he can say, "I am ready to be
presented as a drink-offering unto God."
We have mainly to do with the second description which he gives of his
death. What does he say when the hour that this grim monster must be
grappled with is at hand? I do not find him sad. Those who delight in
gloomy poetry have often represented death in terrible language. "It is
hard," says one–
To feel the hand of death arrest one's steps,
Throw a chill blight on all one's budding hopes,
And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades."
And another exclaims–
"O God, it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing,
In any shape, in any mood!
I've seen it rushing forth in blood,
I've seen it on the breaking ocean,
Strive with a swollen convulsive motion."
Not so the apostle Paul. I do not even hear him speak of flying through
the gate as our grand old poet has described death. He does not say,
"The hour of my dissolution is at hand"–a very proper word if he had
used it; but he is not looking so much at the process as at the result
of his dying. He does not even say, "The hour of my death is at hand,"
but he adopts a beautiful expression, "The time of my departure"–words
which are used sometimes to signify the departure of a vessel from the
port; the pulling up of the anchor so that it looses its moorings, when
about to put out to sea–so he feels himself like a ship lying at the
harbor for awhile–but he says, "The time for pulling up the anchor,
the time for letting loose the cable, and cutting from the mooring is
at hand; I shall soon be launched upon my voyage." And he knew right
well where that voyage would end, in the fair havens of the port of
Peace in the better country, whither his Lord had gone before him.
Now we will proceed very briefly to say a word about departure; and
then a shorter word still about the time of our departure; and then a
little more about the time of our departure being at hand–trying here,
especially, to bring forward some lessons which may be of practical
usefulness to each one of us.
I. First, then, dear brethren, let us think a little about OUR
DEPARTURE.
It is quite certain we shall not dwell here for ever: we shall not live
here below as long as the first man did, or as those antediluvian
fathers, who tarried some eight or nine hundred years. The length of
human life then led to greatness of sin. Monstrosities of evil were
ripened through the long continuance of physical strength, and the
accumulating force of eager passions. All things considered, it is a
mercy that life is abridged and not prolonged to a thousand years.
Amidst the sharp competition of man with man, and class with class,
there is a bound to every scheme of personal aggrandisement, a limit to
all the spoils of individual despotism, a restraint upon the hoardings
of any one's avarice. It is well, I say, that it should be so. The
narrow span of life clips the wings of ambition, and baulks it of its
prey. Death comes in to deprive the mighty of his power, to stay the
rapacity of the invader, to scatter abroad the possessions of the rich.
The most reprobate men must end their career after they have had their
three score years and ten, or their four score years of wickedness. And
as for the good and godly, though we mourn their exit, especially when
we think that they have been prematurely taken from us, we remember how
the triumphs of genius have been for the most part achieved in youth,
and how much the world has been enriched by the heads and hearts of
those who have but sown the seeds of faith and left others to reap the
fruits. If into less than the allotted term they have crowded the
service of their generation, we may save our tears, for our regrets are
needless. The summons will reach each one of us ere long. We cannot
stop here as long as the grey fathers of our race: we expect, and it is
meet that we should prepare, to go. The world itself is to be consumed
one day. "The elements shall melt with fervent heat." The land on which
we stand we are wont to call terra firma, but beneath it is probably an
ocean of fire, and it shall itself feel the force of the ocean. We must
not marvel, the house being so frail, that the tenants are unsettled
and migratory. Certainly, whether we doubt it or not, we shall have to
go. There will be a departure for us. Beloved believer in Christ Jesus,
to you the soft term, "Departure" is not more soft than the truth it
represents. To die is to depart out of this world unto the Father. What
say you about your departure? What say you of that from which you go,
and what think you of that land to which you go? Well, of the land from
which we go, my brethren, we might say many hard things if we would,
but I think we had better not. We shall speak more correctly, if we say
the hard things of ourselves. This land, my brethren, has been a land
of mercy to us: there have been sorrows in it; but in bidding it
farewell we will do it justice and speak the truth concerning it. Our
sorrows have usually sprung up in our own bosoms, and those that have
come from the soil itself would have been very light if it had not been
for the plague of our hearts, which made us vex, and fret over them.
Oh, the mercy you and I have enjoyed even in this life! It has been
worth while to live for us who are believers. Even had we to die like a
dog dieth, it has been worth while to live for the joy and blessedness
which God has made to pass before us. I dare not call that an evil
country in which I have met my Savior, and received the pardon of my
sin. I dare not call that an ill life in which I have seen my Savior,
though it be through a glass darkly. How shall I speak ill of that lamb
where Zion is built, beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole
earth, the place of our solemn assemblies, where we have worshipped
God? No; cursed of old as the earth was to bring forth the thorn and
the thistle, the existence of the church of God in that land seems to a
great degree to have made reparation for the blight to such as know and
love the Savior. Oh, have we not gone up to the house of God in company
with songs of ecstatic joy, and have we not when we have gathered round
the table of the Lord–though nothing was upon it but the type and
emblem–have we not felt it a joyous thing to be found in the assembly
of the saints, and in the courts of the Lord's house even here? When we
loose our cable, and bid farewell to earth, it shall not be with
bitterness in the retrospect. There is sin in it, and we are called to
leave it; there has been trial in it, and we are called to be delivered
from it; there has been sorrow in it, and we are glad that we shall go
where we shall sorrow no more. There have been weakness, and pain, and
suffering in it, and we are glad that we shall be raised in power;
there has been death in it, and we are glad to bid farewell to shrouds
and to knells; but for all that there has been such mercy in it, such
lovingkindness of God in it, that the wilderness and the solitary place
have been made glad, and the desert has rejoiced and blossomed as a
rose. We will not bid farewell to the world, execrating it, or leaving
behind us a cold shudder and a sad remembrance, but we will depart,
bidding adieu to the scenes that remain, and to the people of God that
tarry therein yet a little longer, blessing him whose goodness and
mercy have followed us all the days of our life, and who is now
bringing us to dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
But, dear brethren, if I have had to speak in a somewhat apologetic
manner of the land from which we depart, I shall need to use many
apologies for my own poor talk about the land to which we are bound.
Ah, whither goest thou, spirit loosened from thy clay–dost know?
Whither goest thou? The answer must be, partly, that we know not. None
of us have seen the streets of gold of which we sang just now; those
harpings of the harpers, harping with their harps, have never fallen on
these ears; eye hath not seen it, ear hath not heard it: it is all
unrevealed to the senses; flesh and blood cannot inherit it, and,
therefore, flesh and blood cannot imagine it. Yet it is not unknown,
for God hath revealed it unto us by his Spirit. Spiritual men know what
it is to feel the spirit, their own new-born spirit, living, glowing,
burning, triumphing within them. They know, therefore, that if the body
should drop off they would not die. They feel there is a life within
them superior to blood and bone, and nerve and sinew. They feel the
life of God within them, and none can gainsay it. Their own experience
has proven to them that there is an inner life. Well, then, when that
inner life is strong and vigorous, the spirit often reveals to it what
the world of spirits will be. We know what holiness is, do we not,
brethren? Are we not seeking it? That is heaven–perfect holiness is
heaven. We know what peace means; Christ is our peace. Rest–he gives
us rest: we find that when we take his yoke. Rest is heaven. And rest
in Jesus tells us what heaven is. We know, even to-day, what communion
with God is. If any one should say, "I do not know it," I should reply
to him thus: Suppose I said to you, "You know not what it is to eat and
drink:" the man would tell me that I belied him, for he knew, as he
knew his own existence, what it was to eat and drink; and, as surely as
I live, I have communion with God. I know it as certainly as you know
that I have declared it to you. Well, friends, that is heaven. It has
but to be developed from the germ to the produce, and there is heaven
in its full development.
Communion with saints in like manner–know we not what that is? Have we
not rejoiced in each other's joys, been made glad with the experience
of our brethren? That, too, carried to perfection, will be heaven. Oh,
to throw yourself into the bosom of the Savior and lie there taken up
with his mind and his love, yielding all things to his supremacy,
beholding your King in him! When you have been in that state you have
had an antepast of heaven. Your view may have been but as one seeing a
man's face in shadow yet you would know that man again even by the
shadow; so know we what heaven is. We shall not be strangers in a
strange land when we get there. Though, like the Queen of Sheba, we
shall say, "The half has not been told me," yet we shall reflect on it
thus: "I did surmise there would be something of this sort. I did know
from what I felt of its buddings in my soul below that the full-blown
flower would be somewhat of this kind." Whither away, then, spirit that
art departing to soar through backs to thyself unknown? Thine answer
is, "I am away: away to the throne of him whose cross first gave me
life, and light, and hope. I am away to the very bosom of my Savior,
where I hope to rest and to have fellowship with the church of the
firstborn, whose names are written in heaven." This is your departure
that you have in near prospect.
Suppose, dear friend, the thought of departing from this world to the
glory-world should ever startle you, let me remind you that you are not
the first that ever went that way. Your vessel is in the pool, as it
were, or in the dock; she is going out on her voyage; oh, but you will
not go alone, nor have to track your course through paths unnavigated
or unknown before! When the Portuguese captain first went by the Cape
of Storms it was a venturous voyage, and he called it the Cape of Good
Hope when he had rounded it. When Columbus first went in search of the
New World, his was a brave spirit that dared cross the unnavigated
Atlantic. But oh, there are tens of thousands that have gone whither
you go. The Atlantic that severs us from Canaan is white with the sails
of the vessels that are on voyage thither. Fear not, they have not been
wrecked; we hear good news of their arrival there is good hope for you.
There are no icebergs on the road, no mists, no counter currents, and
no sunken vessels or quicksands; you have but to cut your moorings, and
with Christ on board you shall be at your desired haven at once.
Remember, too, your Savior went that way. Have you to depart? So Christ
departed too. Some of my brethren are always so pleased–pleased as
some children are with a new toy–at the idea that they shall never
die; that Christ will come, it may be before the time of their decease;
for, "we shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed." Well, let
him come, ay, let him come; come quickly. But if I had my choice, were
it permitted me to choose, I would prefer to pass through the portals
of the grave. Those that are alive and remain unto the coming of the
Lord will not prevent, go before, or steal a march on them which are
asleep. But surely they will lack one point of conformity to their
Lord, for he disdained not to sojourn awhile in the tomb, though it was
impossible that he should be holden of death. Let the seal of death,
then, be set upon this face of mine, that my fate in the matter may be
like his. Enoch and Elias were exempt from this privilege–privilege, I
call it–of conformity to his death. But it is safe to go by the beaten
track, and desirable to travel by the ordinary route to the heavenly
city. Jesus died. Through the valley of shadows, the vale of
death-shades, there are the foot-prints of Immanuel all the way along:
go down into it and fear not. Bethink you, too, dear brethren and
sisters, that we may well look forward to our departure, and look
forward to it comfortably too? Is it not expedient by reason of nature?
Is it not desirable by reason of grace? Is it not necessary by reason
of glory? I say, is not our departure needful by reason of nature? Men
are not, when they come to hoary age, what they were in the prime of
their days. The staff is needed for the foot, and the glass is wanted
for the eye; and after a certain number of years, even those on whom
Time hath gently laid his hand, find the taste is gone. They might
proclaim, like old Barzillai, that they know not what they eat or
drink. The hearing fails, the daughters of music are silent, the whole
tenement gets very crazy. Oh, it were a melancholy thing if we had to
continue to live! Perhaps there is no more hideous picture than that
which the satirist drew of men who lived on to six or seven hundred
years of age–that strange satirical man, Swift. Be thankful that we do
not linger on in imbecility. Kind Nature says we may depart; she gives
us notice, and makes it welcome by the decays that come upon us.
Besides, grace desires it; for it were a poor experience of his
kindness as our best and truest friend that did not make us long to see
our Savior's face. It is no mere drivelling sentiment, I hope, when we
join to sing–
"Father, I long, I faint to see
The place of thine abode;
I'd leave thy earthly courts, and flee
Up to thy seat, my God!"
I must confess there was one verse in the hymn we sung just now which I
could not quite chime in with. I am not eagerly wishing to go to heaven
this night. I have a great deal more to do here; therefore I do not
want to take a hasty leave of all below. To full many of us, I suppose,
there are times of quiet contemplation and times of rapt devotion, when
our thoughts surmount these lower skies, and look within the veil and
then, Oh, how we wish to be there! Yet there are other times; times of
strenuous activity when we buckle on the armor and press to the front;
and then we see such a battle to be waged, such a victory to be won,
such a work to be wrought, that we say: "Well to abide in the flesh, to
continue with you all for the joy and furtherance of your faith, seems
more loyal to Christ, more needful for you, and more in accord with our
present feelings." I think it is idle for us to be crying, to go home;
it is too much like the lazy workman, that wants Saturday night to come
when it is only Tuesday morning. Oh, no; if God spare us to do a long
life's work, so much the better. At the same time, as a spark flies
upward to the sun, the central source of flame, so does the newborn
spirit aspire towards heaven, towards Jesus, by whom it was kindled.
And, I add, that glory demands it, and makes our departure needful. Is
not Christ in heaven praying that we may be with him where he is? Are
there not the saints in heaven, of whom it is said, they without us
cannot be perfect? The circle of the skies cannot be completed until
all the redeemed be there. The grand orchestra of glory misses some
notes as yet. What if the bass be full, there are wanting still some
trebles and tenors! There are some sopranos that will be requisite to
swell the enchanting melodies, and consummate the worship of the
Eternal! What, therefore, nature prepares for, grace desires, and glory
itself demands, we have no just cause to shudder at. Our departure need
not make us afraid.
II. Having thus occupied so much time on this first point, I have
little or no room to enlarge on the second.
THE TIME OF OUR DEPARTURE, though unknown to us, is fixed by God,
unalterably fixed; so rightly, wisely, lovingly settled, and prepared
for, that no chance or haphazard can break the spell of destiny. The
wisdom of divine love shall be proven by the carefulness of its
provision. Perhaps you will say: "It is not easy to discern this; the
natural order of things is so often disturbed by casualties of one kind
or another." Let me remind you, then, that it is through faith, only
through faith, we can understand these things; for it is as true now of
the providence of God as it was of old of the creation of God that
"things which are seen were not made of things which do appear."
Because the mode of your departure is beyond your own ken, it does not
follow that the time of your departure is not foreseen by God. "Ah!
but," say you, "it seems so shocking for any one to die suddenly,
unexpectedly, without warning, and so come to an untimely end!" I
answer you thus. If you take counsel with death your flesh will find no
comfort; but if you trust in God your faith will cease to parley with
these feverish anxieties, and your spirit will enjoy a sweet calm. Dire
calamities befell Job when he was bereaved of his children and his
servants, his herds and his flocks. Yet he took little heed of the
different ways in which his troubles were brought about; whether by an
onslaught of the Sabeans or by a raid of the Chaldeans; whether the
fire fell from heaven, or the wind came from the wilderness; it
mattered little. Whatever strange facts broke on his ear, one thought
penetrated his heart, and one expression broke from his lips. "The Lord
gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."
So, too, beloved, when the time of your departure arrives–be it by
disease or decay, be it by accident or assault, that your soul quits
its present tenement–rest assured that "thy times are in his hand;"
and know of a surety that "all his saints are in his hand" likewise.
Besides this, dear friends, since the time of our departure must come,
were the manner of it at our own disposal, I think we should most of us
say, "What I shall choose, I wot not." Fevers and agues, the pangs and
tortures of one malady and another, or the delirium incident to
sickness, are not so much to be preferred to the shock of a disaster,
or the terror of a wreck at sea, because one is the prolonging of pain,
and the other the despatch of fate, that we need to covet, and desire
weeks or months spent in the vestibule of the grave. Rather should we
say, Let the Lord do with me as seemeth him good. To live in constant
communion with God is a sure relief from all these bitter frettings.
Those who have walked with him have often been favored with such
presentiments of their departure as no physician could give them.
Survivors will tell you that though death seemed to come suddenly to
the godly merchant, he had in the last acts of his life appeared to
expect and prepare for it, and even to have taken an affecting farewell
of his family while in the vigor of health, as though he were aware
that he was setting out on his last journey, which a few hours
afterwards it proved to be. So, too, the minister of Christ has
sometimes fallen, expiring in his pulpit with a nunc dimittis, "Now
lettest thou thy servant depart in peace" on his lips; secretly, but
surely, made ready to depart and to be with his Lord. There is a time
to depart; and God's time to call me is my time to go.
III. Now, to our third point–the THE TIME AT HAND. "The time of my
departure is at hand."
In a certain sense, every Christian here may say this; for whatever
interval may interpose between us and death, how very short it is! Have
you not all a sense that time flows faster than it did? In our childish
days, we thought a year was quite a period of time, a very epoch in our
career; now as for weeks–one can hardly reckon them! We seem to be
travelling by an express train, flying along at such a rate that we can
hardly count the months. Why, the past year only seemed to come in at
one door and go out at the other; it was over so soon. We shall soon be
at the terminus of life, even if we live for several years; but in the
case of some of us, God knows of whom, this year, perhaps this month,
will be our last. I think to-morrow night we shall have to report at
the church meeting the deaths of nine members of this church within the
last eight or nine days. Since these have gone, some of us may expect
to follow them. There are those who will evidently go; disease has set
in upon them. Some of those disorders that in this land seem to be
always fatal, tell these dear friends that the time of their departure
is undoubtedly at hand. And then old age, which comes so gracefully and
graciously to many of our matrons and our veterans, shows, past all
dispute, "the time of your departure is at hand." The lease of your
life is almost up. Not indeed that I would address myself to such
special cases only. I speak to every brother and sister in Christ here.
"The time of our departure is at hand." What then, dear friends?
Is not this a reason for surveying our condition again? If our vessel
is just launching, let us see that she is seaworthy. It would be a sad
thing for us to be near departing, and yet to be just as near
discovering that we are lost. Remember, dear friends, it is possible
for any one to maintain a decent Christ profession for fifty years, and
be a hypocrite after all; possible to occupy an office in the church of
God, and that of the very highest, and yet to be a Judas; and one may
not only serve Christ, but suffer for him too, and yet, like Demas, may
not persevere to the end; for all that looks like grace is not grace.
Where true grace is, there it will always be; but where the semblance
of it is, it will ofttimes suddenly disappear. Search thyself, good
brother; set thine house in order, for thou must die and not live. Hast
thou the faith of God's elect? Art thou built on Christ? Is thy heart
renewed? Art thou verily an heir of heaven? I charge every man and
woman within this place, since the time of his departure may be far
nearer than he thinks, to take stock, and reckon up, and see whether he
be Christ's or no.
But if the time of my departure be at hand, and I am satisfied that it
is all right with me, is there not a call for me to do all I can for my
household? Father, the time of your departure is at hand; is your wife
unsaved? Will you pass another night without lovingly speaking to her
of her soul? Are those dear boys unregenerate? Is that girl still
thoughtless? The time of your departure is at hand. You can do little
more for the lads and lasses; you can do little more for the wife and
the brother. Oh! do what you can now. Sister, you are consumptive; you
will soon be gone. You are the only Christ in the family. God sent you
there to be a missionary. Do not have to say, when you are dying, "The
last hope of my family is going out, for I have not cared for their
souls." Masters, you that have servants about you, you must soon be
taken away. Will you not do something for their souls? I know if there
were a mother about to go to Australia, and she had to leave some of
her children behind, she would fret if she thought, "I have not done
all that needs to be done for those poor children. Who will care for
them now their mother is gone?" Well, but to have neglected something
necessary for their temporal comfort would be little in comparison with
not having cared for their souls! Oh, let it not be so! Let it not be a
thorn in your dying pillow that you did not fulfill the relations of
life while you had the opportunity. "The time of my departure is at
hand."
Then there is a third lesson. Let me try to finish all my work, not
only as regards my duty to my family, but in respect to all the world
so far as my influence or ability can reach. Rich men, be your own
executors. Do what you can with your substance while it is your own.
Men of talent, speak for Jesus before your tongue has ceased to
articulate, and becomes a piece of clay. George Whitfield may supply us
with a fine model of this uniform consistency. He was so orderly and
precise in his habits, and so scrupulous and holy in his life, that he
used to say he would not like to go to bed if there were a pair of
gloves out of place in the house, much less were his will not made, or
any part of his duty unfulfilled to the best of his knowledge. He
wished to have all right, and to be fully prepared for whatever might
happen, so that, if he never woke again from the slumbers of the night,
nobody would have cause to reflect upon anything he had left undone,
entailing needless trouble on his wife or his children. Such care
bestowed on what some account to be trifles is a habit; worthy of our
imitation. The main work of life may be sadly spoiled by negligence in
little things. This is a striking test of character. "He that is
faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much: and he that
is unjust in the least is unjust also in much." Oh, then! time is
fleeting, despatch is urgent; gather up your thoughts, quicken your
hands, speed your pace, for God commandeth thee to make haste. If you
have ought to do, you must do it soon. The wheels of eternity are
sounding behind you. Press on! If you are to run a race you must run it
fast, for Death will soon overtake you. You may almost feel the hot
breath of the white horse of Death upon your cheeks already. O God,
help us to do something ere we go hence and be no more seen. It was
grand of the apostle that in the same breath, when he said, "The time
of my departure is at hand," he could also say, "I have fought a good
fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith." So may we be
able to say when the time of our departure has arrived.
If the time of our departure is at hand, let it cheer us amid our
troubles. Sometimes, when our friends go to Liverpool to sail for
Canada, or any other distant region, on the night before they sail they
get into a very poor lodging. I think I hear one of them grumbling,
"What a hard bed! What a small room! What a bad look-out" "Oh," says
the other, "never mind, brother; we are not going to live here; we are
off to-morrow." Bethink you in like manner, ye children of poverty,
this is not your rest. Put up with it, you are away tomorrow. Ye sons
of sorrow, ye daughters of weakness, ye children of sickness, let this
cheer you:–
"The road may be rough,
But it cannot be long
And I'll smooth it with hope,
And cheer it with song."
Oftentimes when I have been travelling on the Continent I have been
obliged to put up at an hotel that was full, where the room was so
inconvenient, that it scarcely furnished any accommodation at all. But
we have said, "Oh, never mind: we are off in the morning! What matters
it for one night?" So, as we are soon to be gone, and the time of our
departure is at hand, let us not be ruffling our tempers about trifles,
nor raise evil spirits around us by cavilling and finding fault. Take
things as you find them, for we shall soon be up and away.
And if the time of my departure is at hand, I should like to be on good
terms with all my friends on earth. Were you going to stop here always,
when a man treated you badly, apart from a Christ spirit, you might as
well have it out with him; but as we are going to stop such a little
while, we may well put up with it. It is not desirable to be too ready
at taking an offense. What if my neighbor has an ugly temper, the Lord
has to put up with him, and so I may. There are some people with whom I
would rather dwell in heaven for ever than abide with them half an hour
on earth. Nevertheless, for the love of the brethren, and for the peace
of the church, we may tolerate much during the short time we have to
brook with peevish moods and perverse humors. Does Christ love them,
and shall not we? He covers their offenses; why, then, should we
disclose them or publish them abroad? If, any of you have any
grievances with one another, if there is any bickering, or jealousy
between you, I should like you to make it up to-night, because the time
of your departure is at hand. Suppose there is some one you spoke
harshly to, you would not like to hear to-morrow that he was dead. You
would not have minded what you said to him if he had lived, but now
that the seal is set upon all your communications one with another, you
could wish that the last impress had been more friendly. There has been
a little difference between two brothers–a little coldness between two
sisters. Oh, since one or other of you will soon be gone, make it up!
Live in love, as Christ loved you and gave himself for you. If one of
you were going to Australia to-morrow, never to come back again, and
you had had a little tiff with your brother, why I know before you
started you would say, "Come, brother, let us part good friends." So
now, since you are so soon to depart, end all strife, and dwell
together in blessed harmony till the departure actually occurs.
If the time of my departure is at hand, then let me guard against being
elated by any temporal prosperity. Possessions, estates, creature
comforts dwindle into insignificance before this out-look. Yes, you may
have procured a comfortable house and a delightful garden, but it is
not your rest: your tenure is about to expire. Yes, you may say, "God
did prosper me last year, the bank account did swell, the premises were
enlarged, and the business thrived beyond all expectation." Ah! hold
them loose. Do not think that they are to be your heaven. Be very
jealous lest you should get your good things here, for if you do you
will not have them hereafter. Be not lifted up too much when you grasp
the pain, of which you must so soon quit your hold. As I said of the
discomfort of the hotel, we did not think much of it, because we were
going away. So, if it happens to be very luxurious, do not be enamoured
of it, for you must go to-morrow. "These are the things," said one,
when he looked at a rich man's treasures, "that make it hard to die."
But it need not be so, if you hold them as gifts of God's kindness, and
not as gods to be worshipped with self-indulgence, you may take leave
of them with composure; "knowing in yourselves that ye have in heaven a
better and an enduring substance."
Lastly, if the time of our departure is at hand, let us be prepared to
bear our testimony. We are witnesses for Christ. Let us bear our
testimony before we are taken up and mingle with the cloud of witnesses
who have finished their course and rested from their labors. Dost thou
say, "I hope to do that on my dying bed?" Brother, do it now: do it
now, for you may never have opportunity to do it then. Mr. Whitfield
was always desirous that he might bear a testimony for Christ in the
hour of death; but he could not do so at that momentous crisis, for as
you well know, he was suddenly taken ill after preaching, and very soon
expired. Was this to be grievously deplored? Ah, no. Why, dear friends,
he had borne so many testimonies for his Lord and Master while he was
alive, there was no need to add anything in the last few moments before
his death, or to supply the deficiencies of a life devoted to the
proclamation of the gospel. Oh, let you and I bear our testimony now!
Let us tell to others wherever we can what Christ hath done for us. Let
us help Christ's cause with all our might while it is called to-day.
Let us work for Jesus while we can work for him. As to thinking we can
undo the effect of our idleness by the spasmodic effort of our dying
breath, that were a vain hope indeed compared with living for Jesus
Christ. Your dying testimony, if you are able to bear it, will have the
greater force if it is not a sickly regret, but a healthy confirmation
of your whole career.
I only wish these words about departure were applicable to all here.
"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints." But,
"As I live, saith the Lord God, I have no pleasure in the death of the
wicked, but that the wicked turn from his ways, and live." O
unconverted man, the time for letting loose your cable draws nigh; it
is even at the door. You must shortly, set sail for a far country.
Alas! then yours is not the voyage of a passenger, with a sweeter
clime, a happier home, a brighter prospect in view. Your departure is
the banishment of a convict, with a penal settlement looming in the
distance; fear all rife, and hope all blank, for the term of your
banishment is interminable. I fear there are some of you who may depart
ere long full of gloom with a fearful looking for of judgment and of
fiery indignation. I seem to see the angel of death hovering over my
audience. He may, perhaps, select for his victim an unconverted soul.
If so, behind that death-angel attends there something far more grim.
Hell follows death to souls that love not Christ. Oh, make haste, make
haste! Seek Christ. Lay hold on eternal life; and may infinite mercy
save you, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen and Amen.
"The Treasury Of David."
By C. H. Spurgeon. Vols. I & II.
This Work is the substance of many Libraries. It contains the essence
of all the commentators upon the Psalms, both ancient and modern.
Besides containing original observations by the Author, it is crowded
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