Declension from First Love
A Sermon
(No. 217)
Delivered on Sabbath Evening, September 26, 1858, by the
REV. C.H. SPURGEON
At New Park Street Chapel, Southwark.
"Nevertheless I have somewhat against thee, because thou hast left thy
first love."–Revelation 2:4.
IT IS A GREAT THING to have as much said in our commendation as was
said concerning the church at Ephesus. Just read what "Jesus Christ,
who is the faithful witness," said of them–"I know thy works, and thy
labour, and thy patience, and how thou canst not bear them which are
evil: and thou hast tried them which say they are apostles, and are
not, and hast found them liars: and hast borne, and hast patience, and
for my name's sake hast laboured, and hast not fainted." Oh, my dear
brothers and sisters, we may feel devoutly thankful if we can humbly,
but honestly say, that this commendation applies to us. Happy the man
whose works are known and accepted of Christ. He is no idle Christian,
he has practical godliness; he seeks by works of piety to obey God's
whole law, by works of charity to manifest his love to the brotherhood,
and by works of devotion to show his attachment to the cause of his
Master. "I know thy works." Alas! some of you cannot get so far as
that. Jesus Christ himself can bear no witness to your works, for you
have not done any. You are Christians by profession, but you are not
Christians as to your practice. I say again, happy is that man to whom
Christ can say, "I know thy works." It is a commendation worth a world
to have as much as that said of us. But further, Christ said, "and thy
labour." This is more still. Many Christians have works, but only few
Christians have labour. There were many preachers in Whitfield's day
that had works, but Whitfield had labour. He toiled and travailed for
souls. He was "in labours more abundant." Many were they in the
apostle's days who did works for Christ; but pre-eminently the apostle
Paul did labour for souls. It is not work merely, it is anxious work;
it is casting forth the whole strength, and exercising all the energies
for Christ. Could the Lord Jesus say as much as that of you–"I know
thy labour?" No. He might say, "I know thy loitering; I know thy
laziness; I know thy shirking of the work; I know thy boasting of what
little thou dost; I know thine ambition to be thought something of ,
when thou art nothing." But ah! friends, it is more than most of us
dare to hope that Christ could say, "I know thy labour."
But further, Christ says, "I know thy patience." Now there be some that
labour, and they do it well. But what does hinder them? They only
labour for a little season, and then they cease to work and begin to
faint. But this church had laboured on for many years; it had thrown
out all its energies–not in some spasmodic effort, but in a continual
strain and unabated zeal for the glory of God. "I know thy patience." I
say again, beloved, I tremble to think how few out of this congregation
could win such praise as this. "I know thy works, and thy labour, and
thy patience, and how thou canst not bear them which are evil." The
thorough hatred which the church had of evil doctrine, of evil
practice, and its corresponding intense love for pure truth and pure
practice–in that I trust some of us can bear a part. "And thou hast
tried them which say they are apostles, and are not, and hast found
them liars." Here, too, I think some of us may hope to be clear. I know
the difference between truth and error. Arminianism will never go down
with us; the doctrine of men will not suit our taste. The husks, the
bran, and the chaff, are not things that we can feed upon. And when we
listen to those who preach another gospel, a holy anger burns within
us, for we love the truth as it is in Jesus; and nothing but that will
satisfy us. "And hast borne, and hast patience, and for my name's sake
hast laboured, and hast not fainted." They had borne persecutions,
difficulties, hardships, embarrassments, and discouragements, yet had
they never flagged, but always continued faithful. Who among us here
present could lay claim to so much praise as this? What Sunday-school
teacher have I here who could say, "I have laboured, and I have borne,
and have had patience, and have not fainted." Ah, dear friends, if you
can say it, it is more than I can. Often have I been ready to faint in
the Master's work; and though I trust I have not been tired of it, yet
there has sometimes been a longing to get from the work to the reward,
and to go from the service of God, before I had fulfilled, as a
hireling, my day. I am afraid we have not enough of patience, enough of
labour, and enough of good works, to get even as much as this said of
us. But it is in our text, I fear the mass of us must find our
character. "Nevertheless I have somewhat against thee, because thou
hast left thy first love." There may be a preacher here present. Did
you ever hear of a minister who had to preach his own funeral sermon?
What a labour that must have been, to feel that he had been condemned
to die, and must preach against himself, and condemn himself! I stand
here to-night, not in that capacity, but in one somewhat similar. I
feel that I who preach shall this night condemn myself; and my prayer
before I entered this pulpit was, that I might fearlessly discharge my
duty, that I might deal honestly with my own heart, and that I might
preach, knowing myself to be the chief culprit, and you each in your
measure to have offended in this respect, even though none of you so
grievously as I have done. I pray that God the Holy Spirit, through his
renewings, may apply the word, not merely to your hearts, but to mine,
that I may return to my first love, and that you may return with me.
In the first place, what was our first love? Secondly, how did we lose
it? And thirdly, let me exhort you to get it again.
I. First, WHAT WAS OUR FIRST LOVE? Oh, let us go back–it is not many
years with some of us. We are but youngsters in God's ways, and it is
not so long with any of you that you will have very great difficulty in
reckoning it. Then if you are Christians, those days were so happy that
your memory will never forget them, and therefore you can easily return
to that first bright spot in your history. Oh, what love was that which
I had to my Saviour the first time he forgave my sins. I remember it.
You remember each for yourselves, I dare say, that happy hour when the
Lord appeared to us, bleeding on his cross, when he seemed to say, and
did say in our hearts, "I am thy salvation; I have blotted out like a
cloud thine iniquities, and like a thick cloud thy sins." Oh, how I
loved him! Passing all loves except his own was that love which I felt
for him then. If beside the door of the place in which I met with him
there had been a stake of blazing faggots, I would have stood upon them
without chains; glad to give my flesh, and blood, and bones, to be
ashes that should testify my love to him. Had he asked me then to give
all my substance to the poor, I would have given all and thought myself
to be amazingly rich in having beggared myself for his name's sake. Had
he commanded me then to preach in the midst of all his foes, I could
have said:–
"There's not a lamb amongst thy flock
I would disdain to feed,
There's not a foe before whose face
I'd fear thy cause to plead."
I could realize then the language of Rutherford, when he said, being
full of love to Christ, once upon a time, in the dungeon of
Aberdeen–"Oh, my Lord, if there were a broad hell betwixt me and thee,
if I could not get at thee except by wading through it, I would not
think twice but I would plunge through it all, if I might embrace thee
and call thee mine."
Now it is that first love that you and I must confess I am afraid we
have in a measure lost. Let us just see whether we have it. When we
first loved the Saviour how earnest we were; there was not a single
thing in the Bible, that we did not think most precious; there was not
one command of his that we did not think to be like fine gold and
choice silver. Never were the doors of his house open without our being
there. if there were a prayer meeting at any hour in the day we were
there. Some said of us that we had no patience, we would do too much
and expose our bodies too frequently–but we never thought of that "Do
yourself no harm," was spoken in our ears; but we would have done
anything then. Why there are some of you who cannot walk to the Music
Hall on a morning, it is too far. When you first joined the church, you
would have walked twice as far. There are some of you who cannot be at
the prayer meeting–business will not permit; yet when you were first
baptized, there was never a prayer meeting from which you were absent.
It is the loss of your first love that makes you seek the comfort of
your bodies instead of the prosperity of your souls. Many have been the
young Christians who have joined this church, and old ones too, and I
have said to them, "Well, have you got a ticket for a seat?" "No, sir."
"Well, what will you do? Have you got a preference ticket?" "No, I
cannot get one; but I do not mind standing in the crowd an hour, or two
hours. I will come at five o'clock so that I can get in. Sometimes I
don't get in, sir; but even then I feel that I have done what I ought
to do in attempting to get in." "Well," but I have said, "you live five
miles off, and there is coming and going back twice a day–you cannot
do it." "Oh, sir," they have said "I can do it; I feel so much the
blessedness of the Sabbath and so much enjoyment of the presence of the
Saviour." I have smiled at them; I could understand it, but I have not
felt it necessary to caution them–and now their love is cool enough.
That first love does not last half so long as we could wish. Some of
you stand convicted even here; you have not that blazing love, that
burning love, that ridiculous love as the worldling would call it,
which is after all the love to be most coveted and desired. No, you
have lost your first love in that respect. Again, how obedient you used
to be. If you saw a commandment, that was enough for you–you did it.
But now you see a commandment, and you see profit on the other side;
and how often do you dally with the profit and choose the temptation,
instead of yielding an unsullied obedience to Christ.
Again, how happy you used to be in the ways of God. Your love was of
that happy character that you could sing all day long; but now your
religion has lost its lustre, the gold has become dim; you know that
when you come to the Sacramental table, you often come there without
enjoying it. There was a time when every bitter thing was sweet;
whenever you heard the Word, it was all precious to you. Now you can
grumble at the minister. Alas! the minister has many faults, but the
question is, whether there has not been a greater charge in you than
there has been in him. Many are there who say, "I do not hear Mr.
So-and-so as I used to,"–when the fault lies in their own ears. Oh,
brethren, when we live near to Christ, and are in our first love, it is
amazing what a little it takes to make a good preacher to us. Why, I
confess I have heard a poor illiterate Primitive Methodist preach the
gospel, and I felt as if I could jump for joy all the while I was
listening to him, and yet he never gave me a new thought or a pretty
expression, nor one figure that I could remember, but he talked about
Christ; and even his common things were to my hungry spirit like dainty
meats. And I have to acknowledge, and, perhaps, you have to acknowledge
the same–that I have heard sermons from which I ought to have
profited, but I have been thinking on the man's style, or some little
mistakes in grammar. When I might have been holding fellowships with
Christ in and through the ministry, I have, instead thereof, been
getting abroad in my thoughts even to the ends of the earth. And what
is the reason for this, but that I have lost my first love.
Again: when we were in our first love, what would we do for Christ; now
how little will we do. Some of the actions which we performed when we
were young Christians, but just converted, when we look back upon them,
seem to have been wild and like idle tales. You remember when you were
a lad and first came to Christ, you had a half-sovereign in your
pocket; it was the only one you had, and you met with some poor saint
and gave it all away. You did not regret that you had done it, your
only regret was that you had not a great deal more, for you would have
given all. You recollected that something was wanted for the cause of
Christ. Oh! we could give anything away when we first loved the
Saviour. If there was a preaching to be held five miles off, and we
could walk with the lay-preacher to be a little comfort to him in the
darkness, we were off. If there was a Sunday-school, however early it
might be, we would be up, so that we might be present. Unheard-of
feats, things that we now look back upon with surprise, we could
perform them. Why cannot we do them now? Do you know there are some
people who always live upon what they have been. I speak very plainly
now. There is a brother in this church who may take it to himself; I
hope he will. It is not very many years ago since he said to me, when I
asked him why he did not do something–"Well, I have done my share; I
used to do this, and I have done the other; I have done so-and-so." Oh,
may the Lord deliver him, and all of us, from living on "has beens!" It
will never do to say we have done a thing. Suppose, for a solitary
moment, the world should say, "I have turned round; I will stand
still." Let the sea say, "I have been ebbing and flowing, lo! these
many years; I will ebb and flow no more." Let the sun say, "I have been
shining, and I have been rising and setting so many days; I have done
this enough to earn me a goodly name; I will stand still;" and let the
moon wrap herself up in veils of darkness, and say, "I have illuminated
many a night, and I have lighted many a weary traveller across the
moors; I will shut up my lamp and be dark forever." Brethren, when you
and I cease to labour, let us cease to live. God has no intention to
let us live a useless life. But mark this; when we leave our first
works, there is no question about having lost our first love; that is
sure. If there be strength remaining, if there be still power mentally
and physically, if we cease from our office, if we abstain from our
labours, there is no solution of this question which an honest
conscience will accept, except this, "Thou hast lost thy first love,
and, therefore, thou hast neglected thy first works." Ah! we were all
so very ready to make excuses for ourselves. Many a preacher has
retired from the ministry, long before he had any need to do so. He has
married a rich wife. Somebody has left him a little money, and he can
do without it. He was growing weak in the ways of God, or else he would
have said,
"My body with my charge lay down,
And cease at once to work and live."
And let any man here present who was a Sunday-school teacher and who
has left it, who was a tract distributor and who has given it up, who
was active in the way of God but is now idle, stand to-night before the
bar of his conscience, and say whether he be not guilty of this charge
which I bring against him, that he has lost his first love.
I need not stop to say also, that this may be detected in the closet as
well as in our daily life; for when first love is lost, there is a want
of that prayerfulness which we have. I remember the day I was up at
three o'clock in the morning. Till six, I spent in prayer, wrestling
with God. Then I had to walk some eight miles, and started off and
walked to the baptism. Why, prayer was a delight to me then. My duties
at that time kept me occupied pretty well from five o'clock in the
morning till ten at night, and I had not a moment for retirement, yet I
would be up at four o'clock to pray; and though I feel very sleepy
now-a-days, and I feel that I could not be up to pray, it was not so
then, when I was in my first love. Somehow or other, I never lacked
time then. If I did not get it early in the morning, I got it late at
night. I was compelled to have time for prayer with God; and what
prayer it was! I had no need then to groan because I could not pray;
for love, being fervent, I had sweet liberty at the throne of grace.
But when first love departs, we begin to think that ten minutes will do
for prayer, instead of an hour, and we read a verse or two in the
morning, whereas we used to read a portion, but never used to go into
the world without getting some marrow and fatness. Now, business has so
increased, that we must get into bed as soon as we can; we have not
time to pray. And then at dinner time, we used to have a little time
for communion; that is dropped. And then on the Sabbath-day, we used to
make it a custom to pray to God when we got home from his house, for
just five minutes before dinner, so that what we heard we might profit
by; that is dropped. And some of you that are present were in the habit
of retiring for prayer when you went home; your wives have told that
story; the messengers have heard it when they have called at your
houses, when they have asked the wife–"What is your husband?" "Ah!"
she has said, "he is a godly man; he cannot come home to his breakfast
but he must slip upstairs alone. I know what he is doing–he is
praying. Then when he is at table, he often says–"Mary, I have had a
difficulty to-day, we must go and have a word or two of prayer
together." And some of you could not take a walk without prayer, you
were so fond of it you could not have too much of it. Now where is it?
You know more than you did; you have grown older; you have grown
richer, perhaps. You have grown wiser in some respects; but you might
give up all you have got, to go back to
"Those peaceful hours you once enjoyed,
How sweet their memory still!"
Oh, what would you give if you could fill
"That aching void,
The world can never fill,"
but which only the same love that you had at first, can ever fully
satisfy!
II. And now, beloved, WHERE DID YOU AND I LOSE OUR FIRST LOVE, if we
have lost it? Let each one speak for himself, or rather, let me speak
for each.
Have you not lost your first love in the world some of you? You used to
have that little shop once, you had not very much business; well, you
had enough, and a little to spare. However, there was a good turn came
in business; you took two shops, and you are getting on very well. Is
it not marvellous, that when you grew richer and had more business, you
began to have less grace?
Oh, friends, it is a very serious thing to grow rich? Of all the
temptations to which God's children are exposed it is the worst,
because it is one that they do not dread, and therefore it is the more
subtle temptation. You know a traveller if he is going a journey, takes
a staff with him, it is a help to him; but suppose he is covetous, and
says, "I will have a hundred of these sticks," that will be no help to
him at all; he has only got a load to carry, and it stops his progress
instead of assisting him. But I do believe there are many Christians
that lived near to God, when they were living on a pound a week, that
might give up their yearly incomes with the greatest joy, if they could
have now the same contentment, the same peace of mind, the same
nearness of access to God, that they had in times of poverty. Ah, too
much of the world is a bad thing for any man! I question very much
whether a man ought not sometimes to stop, and say, "There is an
opportunity of doing more trade, but it will require the whole of my
time, and I must give up that hour I have set apart for prayer; I will
not do the trade at all; I have enough, and therefore let it go. I
would rather do trade with heaven than trade with earth."
Again: do you not think also that perhaps you may have lost your first
love by getting too much with worldly people? When you were in your
first love, no company suited you but the godly; but now you have got a
young man that you talk with, who talks a great deal more about
frivolity, and gives you a great deal more of the froth and scum of
levity, than he ever gives you of solid godliness. Once you were
surrounded by those that fear the Lord, but now you dwell in the tents
of "Freedom," where you hear little but cursing. But, friends, he that
carrieth coals in his bosom must be burned; and he that hath ill
companions cannot but be injured. Seek, then, to have godly friends,
that thou mayest maintain thy first love.
But another reason. Do you not think that perhaps you have forgotten
how much you owe to Christ? There is one thing, that I feel from
experience I am compelled to do very often, viz., to go back to where I
first started:–
" I, the chief of sinners am,
But Jesus died for me."
You and I get talking about our being saints; we know our election, we
rejoice in our calling, we go on to sanctification; and we forget the
hole of the pit whence we were digged. Ah, remember my brother, thou
art nothing now but a sinner saved through grace; remember what thou
wouldst have been, if the Lord had left thee. And surely, then, by
going back continually to first principles, and to the great foundation
stone, the cross of Christ, thou wilt be led to go back to thy first
love.
Dost thou not think, again, that thou hast lost thy first love by
neglecting communion with Christ? Now preacher, preach honestly, and
preach at thyself. Has there not been, sometimes, this temptation to do
a great deal for Christ, but not to live a great deal with Christ? One
of my besetting sins, I feel, is this. If there is anything to be done
actively for Christ, I instinctively prefer the active exercise to the
passive quiet of his presence. There are some of you, perhaps, that are
attending a Sunday school, who would be more profitably employed to
your own souls if you were spending that hour in communion with Christ.
Perhaps, too, you attend the means so often, that you have no time in
secret to improve what you gain in the means. Mrs. Bury once said, that
if "all the twelve apostles were preaching in a certain town, and we
could have the privilege of hearing them preach, yet if they kept us
out of our closets, and led us to neglect prayer, better for us never
to have heard their names, than to have gone to listen to them." We
shall never love Christ much except we live near to him. Love to Christ
is dependent on our nearness to him. It is just like the planets and
the sun. Why are some of the planets cold? Why do they move at so slow
a rate? Simply because they are so far from the sun: put them where the
planet Mercury is, and they will be in a boiling heat, and spin round
the sun in rapid orbits. So, beloved, if we live near to Christ, we
cannot help loving him: the heart that is near Jesus must be full of
his love. But when we live days and weeks and months without personal
intercourse, without real fellowship, how can we maintain love towards
a stranger? He must be a friend, and we must stick close to him, as he
sticks close to us–closer than a brother; or else, we shall never have
our first love.
There are a thousand reasons that I might have given, but I leave each
of you to search your hearts, to find out why you have lost, each of
you, your first love.
III. Now, dear friends, just give me all your attention for a moment,
while I earnestly beseech and implore of you to SEEK TO GET YOUR FIRST
LOVE RESTORED. Shall I tell you why? Brother, though thou be a child of
God, if thou hast lost thy first love, there is some trouble near at
hand. "Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth," and he is sure to chasten
thee when thou sinnest. It is calm with you to night, is it? Oh! but
dread that calm, there is a tempest lowering. Sin is the harbinger of
tempest: read the history of David. All David's life, in all his
troubles, even in the rocks of the wild goats, and in the caves of
Engedi, he was the happiest of men till he lost his first love; and
from the day when his lustful eye was fixed upon Bathsheba, even to the
last, he went with broken bones sorrowing to his grave. It was one long
string of afflictions: take heed it be not so with thee. "Ah, but," you
say, "I shall not sin as David did." Brother, you cannot tell: if you
have lost your first love, what should hinder you but that you should
lose your first purity? Love and purity go together. He that loveth is
pure; he that loveth little shall find his purity decrease, until it
becomes marred and polluted. I should not like to see you, my dear
friends, tried and troubled: I do weep with them that weep. If there be
a child of yours sick, and I hear of it, I can say honestly, I do feel
something like a father to your children, and as a father to you. If
you have sufferings and afflictions, and I know them, I desire to feel
for you, and spread your griefs before the throne of God. Oh, I do not
want my heavenly Father to take the rod out to you all; but he will do
it, if you fall from your first love. As sure as ever he is a Father,
he will let you have the rod if your love cools. Bastards may escape
the rod. If you are only base-born professors you may go happily along;
but the true-born child of God, when his love declines, must and shall
smart for it.
There is yet another thing, my dear friends, if we lose our first
love–what will the world say of us if we lose our first love? I must
put this, not for our name's sake, but for God's dear name's sake. O
what will the world say of us? There was a time, and it is not gone
yet, when men must point at this church, and say of it, "There is a
church, that is like a bright oasis in the midst of a desert, a spot of
light in the midst of darkness." Our prayer meetings were prayer
meetings indeed, the congregations were as attentive as they were
numerous. Oh, how you did drink in the words; how your eyes flashed
with a living fire, whenever the name of Christ was mentioned! And
what, if in a little time it shall be said, "Ah, that church is quite
as sleepy as any other; look at them when the minister preaches, why
they can sleep under him, they do not seem to care for the truth. Look
at the Spurgeonites, they are just as cold and careless as others; they
used to be called the most pugnacious people in the world, for they
were always ready to defend their Master's name and their Master's
truth, and they got that name in consequence, but now you may swear in
their presence and they will not rebuke you: how near these people once
used to live to God and his house, they were always there; look at
their prayer meetings, they would fill their seats as full at a prayer
meeting as at an ordinary service; now they are all gone back." "Ah,"
says the world, "just what I said; the fact is, it was a mere spasm, a
little spiritual excitement, and it has all gone down." And the
worldling says, "Ah, ah, so would I have it, so would I have it!" I was
reading only the other day of an account of my ceasing to be popular;
it was said my chapel was now nearly empty, that nobody went to it: and
I was exceedingly amused and interested. "Well, if it come to that," I
said, "I shall not grieve or cry very much; hut if it is said the
church has left its zeal and first love, that is enough to break any
honest pastor's heart." Let the chaff go, but if the wheat remain we
have comfort. Let those who are the outer-court worshippers cease to
hear, what signifieth? let them turn aside, but O, ye soldiers of the
Cross, if ye turn your backs in the day of battle, where shall I hide
my head? what shall I say for the great name of my Master, or for the
honour of his gospel? It is our boast and joy, that the old-fashioned
doctrine has been revived in these days, and that the truth that Calvin
preached, that Paul preached, and that Jesus preached, is still mighty
to save, and far surpasses in power all the neologies and new-fangled
notions of the present time. But what will the heretic say, when he
sees it is all over? "Ah," he will say, "that old truth urged on by the
fanaticism of a foolish young man, did wake the people a little; but it
lacked marrow and strength, and it all died away!" Will ye thus
dishonour your Lord and Master, ye children of the heavenly king? I
beseech you do not so–but endeavour to receive again as a rich gift of
the Spirit your first love.
And now, once again, dear friends, there is a thought that ought to
make each of us feel alarmed, if we have lost our first love. May not
this question arise in our hearts–Was I ever a child of God at all?
Oh, my God, must I ask myself this question? Yes, I will. Are there not
many of whom it is said, they went out from us because they were not of
us; for if they had been of us, doubtless they would have continued
with us? Are there not some whose goodness is as the morning cloud and
as the early dew–may that not have been my case? I am speaking for you
all. Put the question–may I not have been impressed under a certain
sermon, and may not that impression have been a mere carnal excitement?
May it not have been that I thought I repented but did not really
repent? May it not have been the case, that I got a hope somewhere but
had not a right to it? And I never had the loving faith that unites me
to the Lamb of God. And may it not have been that I only thought I had
love to Christ, and never had it, for if I really had love to Christ
should I be as I now am? See how far I have come down! May I not keep
on going down until my end shall be perdition, and the never-dying
worm, and the fire unquenchable? Many have gone from heights of a
profession to the depths of damnation, and may not I be the same? May
it not be true of me that I am as a wandering star for whom is reserved
blackness of darkness for ever? May I not have shone brightly in the
midst of the church for a little while, and yet may I not be one of
those poor foolish virgins who took no oil in my vessel with my lamp,
and therefore my lamp will go out? Let me think, if I go on as I am, it
is impossible for me to stop, if I am going downwards I may go on going
downwards. And O my God, if I go on backsliding for another year–who
knows where I may have backslidden to? Perhaps into some gross sin.
Prevent, prevent it by thy grace! Perhaps I may backslide totally. If I
am a child of God I know I cannot do that. But still, may it not happen
that I only thought I was a child of God, and may I not so far go back
that at last my very name to live shall go because I always have been
dead? Oh! how dreadful it is to think and to see in our church, members
who turn out to be dead members! If I could weep tears of blood, they
would not express the emotion that I ought to feel, and that you ought
to feel, when you think there are some among us that are dead branches
of a living vine. Our deacons find that there is much of unsoundness in
our members. I grieve to think that because we cannot see all our
members, there are many who have backslidden. There is one who says, "I
joined the church, it is true, but I never was converted. I made a
profession of being converted, but I was not, and now I take no delight
in the things of God. I am moral, I attend the house of prayer, but I
am not converted. My name may be taken off the books; I am not a godly
man." There are others among you who perhaps have gone even further
than that–have gone into sin, and yet I may not know it. It may not
come to my ears in so large a church as this. Oh! I beseech you, my
dear friends, by him that liveth and was dead, let not your good be
evil spoken of, by losing your first love.
Are there some among you that are professing religion, and not
possessing it? Oh, give up your profession, or else get the truth and
sell it not. Go home, each of you, and cast yourselves on your faces
before God, and ask him to search you, and try you, and know your ways,
and see if there be any evil way in you, and pray that he may lead you
in the way everlasting. And if hitherto you have only professed, but
have not possessed, seek ye the Lord while he may be found, and call ye
upon him while he is near. Ye are warned, each one of you; you are
solemnly told to search yourselves and make short work of it. And if
any of you be hypocrites, at God's great day, guilty as I may be in
many respects, there is one thing I am clear of–I have not shunned to
declare the whole counsel of God. I do not believe that any people in
the world shall be damned more terribly than you shall if you perish;
for of this thing I have not shunned to speak–the great evil of making
a profession without being sound at heart. No, I have even gone so near
to personality, that I could not have gone further without mentioning
your names. And rest assured, God's grace being with me, neither you
nor myself shall be spared in the pulpit in any personal sin that I may
observe in any one of you. But oh, do let us be sincere! May the Lord
sooner split this church till only a tenth of you remain, than ever
suffer you to be multiplied a hundred-fold unless you be multiplied
with the living in Zion, and with the holy flock that the Lord himself
hath ordained, and will keep unto the end. To-morrow morning, we shall
meet together and pray, that we may have our first love restored; and I
hope many of you will be found there to seek again the love which you
have almost lost.
And as for you that never had that love at all, the Lord breathe it
upon you now for the love of Jesus. Amen.
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