Man's Ruin and God's Remedy
A Sermon
(No. 285)
Delivered on Sabbath Morning, November 20th, 1859, by the
REV. C.H. SPURGEON
at the Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens.
"And the Lord said unto Moses, Make thee a fiery serpent, and set it
upon a pole: and it shall come to pass that every one that is bitten,
when he looketh upon it, shall live."–Numbers 21:8.
I DO not propose this morning to explain again the mystery of the
brazen serpent. As many of you well remember, not long ago I preached
upon that subject, and endeavored to expound it in all its lengths and
breadths. I have a somewhat similar object at the present time, the
details may indeed be different, but after all the moral will be the
same.
Man has very many wants, and he should be grateful whenever the least
of them is supplied. But he has one want which overtops every other: it
is the want of bread. Give him raiment, house him well, decorate and
adorn him, yet if you give him not bread, his body faints, he dies of
hunger. Hence it is that while the earth when it is tilled is made to
bring forth many things that minister unto the comfort and luxury of
men, yet man is wise enough to understand that since bread is his chief
want, he must be most careful concerning corn. He therefore sows broad
acres with it, and he cultivates more of this, which is the grandest
necessary, than he doth of anything else in his husbandry. I feel that
this is the only excuse I can offer you for coming back again
constantly and continually to the simple doctrine of the salvation of
the sinner through Christ Jesus. There are many things which the soul
wants: it needs instruction, it needs comfort, it needs knowledge of
doctrine and enlightenment in its experience; but there is one grand
need of the soul, which far surmounts every other, it is the want of
salvation, the want of Christ; and I do feel that I am right in
repeating again, and again, and again, the simple announcement of the
gospel of Christ for poor perishing sinners. At any rate, I know I
seldom feel more happy than when I am preaching a full Christ to empty
sinners. My tongue becomes something like Anacreon's harp. It is said
of it, it resounded love alone. And so my tongue fangs to resound
Christ alone, and give forth no other strain, but Christ and his cross;
Christ uplifted, the salvation of a dying world; Christ crucified, the
life of poor dead sinners. I pray that this morning many here present,
who have no clear views of the plan of salvation, may now see for the
first time how men are saved through the lifting up of Christ, just, as
the poor Israelites in the wilderness were saved from the fiery
serpents by lifting up the brazen serpent on the pole.
Solemnly addressing you this morning, I shall need your attention to
two things. First–and here, remember, I am about to speak to sinners
dead in trespasses and sins–I want your attention to your ruin, and
next I shall want your faithful consideration of your remedy.
I. First of all, oh unregenerate man! thou who hast heard the Word, but
hast never felt its power, let me entreat thee, lend me thine ears
while I talk to thee of a solemn subject that much concerns thee. MAN,
THOU ART RUINED! The children of Israel in the wilderness were bitten
with fiery serpents, whose venom soon tainted their blood, and after
intolerable pain, at last brought on death. Thou art much in the same
condition. Thou standest there, healthy in body and comfortable in
mind, and I come not here to play the part of a mere alarmist; but I do
beseech thee, listen to me while I tell thee, neither more nor less
than the simple but dreadful truth concerning thy present estate, if
thou art not a believer in Christ.
Oh sinner! there are four things that stare thee in the face, and
should alarm thee. The first thing is thy sin. I hear thee say, "Yes I
know I am a sinner as well as the rest of mankind;" but I am not
content with that confession, nor is God content with it either. There
are multitudes of men who make the bare confession of sinnership, the
general confession that all men are fallen, but there are few men who
know how to take that confession home and acknowledge it as being
applicable to them. Ah! my hearers, ye that are without God and without
Christ remember, not only is the world lost, but you are lost yourself
not only has sin defiled the race, but you yourself are stained by sin.
Come, now take the universal charge home to yourself. How many have
your sins been! Count them, if you can. Stand here and wonder at them.
Like the stars of midnight, or as the sands by the sea shore,
innumerable are thine iniquities. Twenty, thirty, forty, or fifty,
perhaps more than fifty years have rolled over thy head, and in any one
of these years thy sins might out-count the drops of the sea. How
innumerable, then, have they become in ALL thy life! And what if thou
shouldst say they are but little ones, yet since they are so many, how
great has the mountain become. Though they were but as grains of sand,
yet are they so many that they might make a mountain that would soar
above the stars. Pause, I beseech thee, and let thy conscience have
play for a moment. Count over thine iniquities, turn over the pages of
thy history, and tell the blots, if thou canst, and count the mistakes.
But no, thou art committing fresh sins whilst thou art recounting
these, and the denial of thy innumerable sins were but the
multiplication of them. Thou art increasing them, mayhap, even whilst
thou art telling them. And then think how aggravated they have been. I
will not venture to mention the grosser sins into which some of you
have fallen. It may be that I have here those who have cursed God to
his face who have asked him to blast their limbs and to destroy their
souls. I may have those here who have ventured even to deny God's
existence, though they have been walking all their lives in the midst
of his works, and have even received the breath in their nostrils from
him. I may have some who have despised his Word laughed at everything
sacred made a jest of the Bible, made a mockery of God's ministers and
of his servants. Call I beseech you, these things to your remembrance,
for though you have forgotten them, God has not. You have written them
in the sand but he has engraven them as in eternal brass, and there
they stand against you. Every crime that you have done is as fresh in
the memory of the Most High as though it were committed yesterday, and
though you think that the repentance of your grey old age might almost
suffice to blot out the enormities of your youth, yet be not deceived.
Sin is not so easily put away; it needs a greater ransom than a few
expressions of regret or a few empty tears. Oh call, ye great sinners,
call to your recollection, the enormities you have committed against
God. Let your chambers speak, let your beds bear witness against you,
and let the days of your feasting, and your hours of midnight
rioting–let these things rise up to your remembrance. Let your oaths
roll back from the sky against which they have smitten, and let them
return into your bosom, to awake your conscience and bestir you to
repentance. But what am I saying? I have been talking of some men who
have committed great iniquity. Ah! sinner, be thou whosoever thou
mayest, I charge thee with great sin. Brought up in the midst of holy
influences, nurtured in God's house, it may be that some of my
unregenerate hearers this morning, may not be able to remember a single
instance of blasphemy against God. It may be that you have never
outwardly done despite to any sacred thing. Ah, my hearer, bethink
thee, thy sin may be even greater than that of the profligate, or the
debauches, for thou hast sinned against light and against knowledge;
thou hast sinned against a mother's prayers and against a father's
tears; thou rebelled against God's law, knowing the law. When thou wast
sinning, conscience pricked thee, and yet thou didst sin. Thou knewest
that hell was the portion of the ungodly, and yet thou art ungodly
still. Thou knowest the gospel of Christ; thou art no ignoramus. Thy
mother took thee in her arms to the house of God, and here thou art
even now. Every sin thou hast committed receives a greater aggravation
on account of the light thou hast received, and the privileges thou
hast enjoyed. Oh, my hearer, think not that thou canst escape in this
thing; thy sin hath bitten thee with a terrible bite. Tis no flesh
wound as thou dreamest, but the venom has entered into thy veins. Tis
no mere scurf upon the surface, but the leprosy lies deep within. Thou
hast sinned. Thou hast sinned continually. Thou hast sinned with many
aggravations. Oh, may God convict thee of this charge, and help thee to
plead guilty to it. Can you not some of you, if you are honest to
yourselves, call to remembrance peculiar sins that you have committed.
You recollect your sick bed, and your vow you made to God–where is it
now? You have returned like the dog to its vomit, and the sow that was
washed to her wallowing in the mire. You remember that prayer that you
offered in the time of your distress: you remember too that God
graciously delivered you, but where is the thanksgiving that you
promised to him? You said you would give him your heart; but where is
it? In the black hand of the devil still! You have been a liar to God,
you have deceived him, or you have pretended at least that you would
give him your soul, and you have not done so. And think too of certain
special sins you have committed after receiving special warning. Do you
not remember going out from the house of God with a tender conscience,
and then running into sin to harden it again? Do you not remember, some
of you, how after being alarmed and startled, you have gone your way,
and gone to your evil companions, and laughed away the impressions that
you have received? This is no mean sin–to strive against the striving
Spirit, and to resist the influence that was drawing you to the right
path. I beseech you, call to recollection your sins. Come, don't be
cowards. Don't shut up the book; open it. Look and see what you have
been and if you have been that which you are ashamed of, I beseech you
look it in the face, and make acknowledgment and confess it. There is
nothing to be gotten by hiding your sins. They'll spring up, man; if
you dig deep as hell to hide them, they'll spring up. Why not now be
honest, and look at them today, for they'll look at you by-and-bye,
when Christ shall come in the clouds of judgment? If you look not at
them, they'll stare you in the face with a look that will wither your
soul and blast it into infinite torment and unutterable woe. Your sin,
your sin, should make you tremble and feel alarmed.
But I go further. Sinner, thou hast not only thy sin to trouble thee,
but there is a second thing, there is the sentence of condemnation gone
out against thee. I have heard some ministers talk of men being in a
state of probation. No such thing; no man has a state of probation at
all. Ye are condemned already. You are not to-day, my unregenerate
hearers, prisoners at the bar about to be tried for your lives. No,
your trial is over, your sentence is past already, and you are now this
day condemned. What though no officer has arrested you, though death
has not laid his cold hand upon you, yet Scripture saith, "He that
believeth not is condemned already because he believeth not on the Son
of God." Man, the black cap is on the judge's head. He even now
declares thee lost, nay more than this, if thou wouldst rightly know
thine own estate, thou art standing–mark that, my careless
hearer–thou art standing under the gallows, with the rope on thy neck,
and thou hast but to be cast off from the ladder by the hand of death,
and thou art swinging in eternity lost and ruined. If ye only knew your
position, ye would discover that ye are criminals with your necks on
the block this morning, and the bright axe of justice is gleaming in
this morning's sunlight, and God alone knows how long it is ere it
shall fall, or rather how soon thou shalt feel its keen edge, and its
edge shall be stained with thy blood. Thou art condemned already. Take
that home, man. Thy sentence is signed in heaven and sealed and
stamped, and the only reason why it is not carried out is because God
in mercy respites thee. But thou art condemned, and this world is thy
condemned cell from which thou shalt soon be taken to a terrible
execution.
Now you do not believe this. You think that God is putting you on your
trial, and that if you behave as well as you can, you will get off. You
think that in some future day you may yet blot out your sin. But when
the criminal is condemned, there is no room left for good behavior to
alter the sentence. When a capital sentence is passed upon him that
sentence is not to be moved by anything that he can do. And your
sentence is passed, passed be the judge of all the earth, and nothing
you can do can alter that sentence. The law leaves no room for
repentance. Condemned you are and condemned you must be, unless that
one way of escape, that I am forthwith abut to explain, shall be opened
to you by God's rich grace–you are condemned already.
Now let me ask you one question ere I leave this point. Sinner, you are
condemned to-day. I ask you this, whether you do not deserve it? If you
are what you should be, and what I hope the Lord will make you, you
will say, "Deserve it, ay, that I do!" If I never committed another
sin, my past sins would fully justify the Lord in permitting me to go
down afire into the pit. The first sin you ever committed condemned you
beyond all hope of self-salvation, but all the sins you have committed
since then have aggravated your guilt, and surely now the sentence is
not only just, but more than just. You will have one day, if you repent
not to put your finger on your lips and stand in solemn silence, when
God shall ask you whether you have anything to plead why the sentence
should not be carried into execution. You will be compelled to feel
that God condemns you to nothing more than you deserve, that his
sentence is just–a proper one on such a sinner as thou hast been.
Now, these two things are enough to make any man tremble, if he did but
feel them–his sin and his condemnation. But I have a third to mention.
Sinner, there is this to aggravate thy ease and increase thine
alarm–thy helplessness, thy utter inability to do anything to save
thyself, even if God should offer thee the chance. Thou art to-day,
sinner, not only condemned, but thou art dead in trespasses and sins.
Talk of performing good works–why, man, thou canst not. It is as
impossible for thee to do a good work whilst thou art what thou art, as
it would be for a horse to fly up to the stars. But thou sayest, "I
will repent." Nay, thou canst not. Repentance is not possible to thee
as thou art, unless God gives it to thee. Thou mightest force a few
tears, but what are those? Judas might do that and yet go out and hang
himself and go to his own place. You cannot repent of yourself. Nay, if
I had to preach this morning salvation by faith apart from the person
of Christ, you would be in as bad a condition as if there were no
gospel whatever. Recollect, sinner, thou art so lost, so ruined, so
undone, that thou canst do nothing to save thyself. The would is so bad
that it cannot be cured by any mortal hand. Thine inability is so
great, that unless God pull thee up out of the pit into which thou hast
fallen, thou must lie there and rot to all eternity. Thou art so undone
that thou canst neither stir hand, nor foot, nor lip, nor hearts,
unless grace help thee. Oh, what a fearful thing it is to be charged,
tried, condemned, and then moreover, to be bereft of all power. You are
to-day as much in the hand of God's justice as a little moth beneath
your own finger. He can save you if he will, he can destroy you if he
pleases, but you yourself are unable to escape from him. There is no
door of mercy left for you by the law, and even by the gospel there is
no door of mercy which you have power to enter, apart from the help
which Christ affords you. If you think you can do anything, you have
yet to unlearn that foolish conceit. If you fancy that you have some
strength left, you have not yet come where the Spirit will bring you,
for he will empty you of all creature pretension, and lay you low and
dash you in pieces, and bring you in a mortar and pound you till you
feel that you are weak and without strength, and can do nothing.
Now have I not indeed described a horrible position for a sinner to be
in–but there is something more remaining, a fourth thing. Sinner, thou
art not only guilty of past sin, and condemned for it, thou art not
only unable, but if thou wert able, thou art so bad that thou wouldst
never be willing to do anything that could save thyself. And even if
thou hadst no sins in the past, yet art thou lost, man, for thou
wouldst go on to commit sin for the future. For this know–thy nature
is totally depraved. Thou forest that which is evil, and not that which
is good. "Nay," saith one, "I love that which is good." Then thou
lovest it for a bad motive. "I love honesty," says one. Yes, because it
is the best policy. But dost thou love God? Dost thou love thy neighbor
as thyself? No, and thou canst not do this, for thy nature is too vile.
Why, man, thou wouldst be as bad as the devil, if God were to withdraw
all restraint and let thee alone. Were he but to take the bit out of
thy mouth, and the bridle from thy jaws, there is no sin that thou
wouldst not commit. Dost thou deny this? Dost thou say, "I am willing;
I am willing to be holy and to be saved." Then God has thee so; for if
not thou wouldst never be so by nature. If thou shouldst go out of this
hall and say, "I hate such preaching as that;" I should but reply, "I
knew you did." Though one should say, "I will never believe that I am
so lost as that," I should say, "I did not think you ever would–you
are too bad to believe the truth;" and if you should say, "I will never
be saved by Christ; I will never bow so low as to sue for mercy and
accept grace through him;" I should not be surprised, for I know thy
nature. Thou art so desperately bad that thou hatest thy own mercy.
Thou dost despise the grace that is offered to thee–thou dost hate the
Saviour that died for thee, for if not, why dost not thou turn now,
man. If thou art not so bad as I say thou art, why not now down on thy
knees and cry for pardon? Why not now believe in Christ? Why not now
surrender thyself to him? But if thou shouldst do this, then I would
say, "This is God's work, he has made thee do it for if he had not done
it thou wouldst not have been humble enough to bow thyself to Christ."
Let Arminianism go to the winds; let it be scattered for ever from off
the face of the earth; man is totally unable to feel his misery or seek
relief, if he were able, he is totally unwilling. The sinner could not
help the Holy Ghost, even if the Holy Ghost wanted the help of man to
perfect his own operations. What! can it be possible that any man will
say the creature is to help the Creator–that an insect of an hour is
to be yoked with the Ancient of Days–the Eternal–that the clay is to
help the potter in its own formation? Why, even if we grant the power,
where would be the sympathy or the willing hand? Man hates to be saved.
He loves darkness, and if he hath the light, it is because the light
thrusts itself upon him. He loves death with a fatal infatuation, and
if he be made alive, it is because the Spirit of God quickens him,
converts his wicked heart, makes him willing in the day of his power,
and turns him unto God.
Have I not now this morning rend a most awful indictment against you?
Mark, I mean it for every living man, woman, and child in this Hall,
who has not faith in Christ. You may be fine gentlemen or grand ladies;
you may be respectable tradesmen and very upright in your business, but
I charge you before Almighty God with being sinners, condemned sinners,
sinners that cannot save yourselves, and sinners, moreover, that would
not save yourselves if you could, unless grace made you willing, you
are sinners unwilling to be saved. What a fearful indictment is this
read in the face of high heaven! May some sinner as he hears it be
compelled to say, "It is true, it is true, it is true of me; O Lord,
have mercy upon me!"
II. Having thus set before you the hard part of the subject–THE
SINNERS RUIN–I now come to preach of HIS REMEDY.
A certain school of physicians tell us that "like cures like." Whether
it be true or not in medicine, I know it is true enough in
theology–like cures like. When the Israelites were bitten with the
fiery serpents, it was a serpent that made them whole. And so you lost
and ruined creatures are bidden now to look to Christ suffering and
dying, and you will see in him the counterpart of what you see in
yourselves. While you are looking to him, may God fulfill his promise
and give you life. A remedy to be worth anything must reach the entire
disease. Now Christ on the cross comes to man as man is; not as he may
be made, but as he is. And it doth this in the four several respects
which I have already described.
I charge you with sin. Now in Christ Jesus behold the sinner's
substitute–the sin-offering. Do you see yonder man hanging on the
cross; he dies an awful death. In him prophecy receives a terrible
accomplishment: of him Almighty vengeance makes a tremendous example.
Jehovah hath cast off and abhorred; he hath been wroth with his
anointed. The terrors of the Lord are heavy on his soul. And why does
that man Christ Jesus die?–not as himself a sinner, but as numbered
with transgressors. O soul if thou wouldst know the terrors of the law,
behold him who was made the curse of the law. If thou wouldst see the
venom of the fiery serpent's bite, look to yonder brazen serpent; and
if thou wouldst see sin in all its deadliness look to a dying Saviour.
What makes Christ die? Sin! though not his own. What makes his body
sweat drops of blood? Sin! What nails his hands? What rends his side?
Sin! Sin does it all. And if you are saved it must be through yonder
sin-offering, you dying, bleeding Iamb. "But," saith one, "my sins are
too many to be forgiven." Stop awhile; turn thine eye to Christ.
Sometimes when I think of my sin I think it is too great to be washed
away, but when I think of Christ's blood, oh I think there can be no
sin great enough for that to fail in cleansing it every whit. I seem to
think, when I see the costly price, Christ paid a very heavy ransom.
When I look at myself I think it would need much to redeem me, but when
I see Christ dying I think he could redeem me if I were a million times
as bad as I am. Now remember Christ not only paid barely enough for us,
he paid more than enough. The Apostle Paul says, "His grace
abounded–"superabounded," says the Greek. It ran over; there was
enough to fill the empty vessel, and there was enough to flood the
world besides. Christ's redemption was so plenteous, that had God
willed it, if all the stars of heaven had been peopled with sinners,
Christ need not have suffered another pang to redeem them all–there
was a boundless value in his precious blood. And, sinner, if there were
so much as this, surely there is enough for thee.
And then again, if thou art not satisfied with Christ's sin-offering,
just think a moment; God is satisfied, God the Father is content, and
must not thou be? The Judge says, "I am satisfied; let the sinner go
free, for I have punished the Surety in his stead "and if the Judge is
satisfied, surely the criminal may be. Oh! come, poor sinner, come and
see, if there is enough to appease the wrath of God there must be
enough to answer all the requirements of man. "Nay, nay," saith one,
"but my sin is such a terrible one that I cannot see in the
substitution of Christ that which is like to meet it." What is thy sin?
"Blasphemy." Why, Christ died for blasphemy: this was the very charge
which man imputed to him, and therefore you may be quite sure that God
laid it on him if men did. "Nay, nay," saith one, "but I have been
worse than that; I have been a liar." It is just what men said of him.
They declared that he lied when he said, "If this temple be destroyed I
will build it in three days." See in Christ a liar's Saviour as well as
a blasphemer's Saviour. "But," says one, "I have been in league with
Beelzebub." Just what they said of Christ. They said that he cast out
devils through Beelzebub. So man laid that sin on him, and man did
unwittingly what God would have him do. I tell thee, even that sin was
laid on Christ. Come, sinner, there is not a sin in the world with one
exception which Jesus did not bear in his own body on the tree. "Ah,
but," says one, "when I sinned, I sinned very greedily.! did it with
all my might I took a delight in it." Ah! soul, and so did Christ take
a delight in being thy substitute. He said, "I have a baptism to be
baptized with, and how am I straitened until it be accomplished! "Let
Christ's willingness respond to the suggestion that thy greediness in
sin can make it too heinous to be forgiven. "Ah!" crieth another, "but,
sir, I acted ever with such a bad heart: my heart was worse than my
actions. If I could have been worse I would. Among all my companions in
vice there was not one who was so greedy of it and black in it as I."
Yes, but, my dear hearer, if thou hast sinned in thy heart, remember,
Christ suffered in his heart. His heart-sufferings were the heart and
soul of his sufferings. Look and see that heart all pierced, and the
blood and water flowing therefrom, and believe that he is able to take
away even thine heart of sin, however black it may be.
"Yes," I hear another self-condemned one exclaim, "but I sinned without
any temptation. I did it deliberately in cold blood. I had become such
a wicked, beastly sinner, that I used to sit down and gloat over my sin
before I committed it." Ah, but sinner, remember before Christ died he
thought of it; ay, from all eternity he meditated on becoming thy
substitute. It was a matter of premeditation with him, and, therefore
let his forethought put aside thy forethought. Let the greatness of his
previous thought upon his sacrifice, put away the grievousness of thy
sin, on account of its having been committed in cold blood. Does there
yet come up some sobbing voice–"I have been worse than all the rest,
for I did my sin by reason of a covenant which I made with Satan. I
said, If I could have a short life and a merry one, I would be
content;' I made a covenant with death, and I made a league with hell."
And what if I am commissioned to tell you that even this bite is not
incurable? Remember, Jesus the Son of God made a covenant on thine
account. It was a greater covenant than yours, not made with death and
hell, but made with his Father on the behalf of sinners. I want, if I
can, to bring out the fact, that whatever there is in thy sins there is
its counterpart in Christ. Just as when the serpent bit the people, it
was a serpent that healed them, so if you are bitten by sin, it is, as
it were, thy sin's substitute; it is thy sin laid on Christ that heals
you. Oh, turn your eyes then to Calvary, and see the guilt of sin laid
upon Christ's shoulders, and say, "Surely he hath borne our griefs and
carried our sorrows," and looking to him thou shalt live.
Secondly, here is a remedy for the condemnation. I said, you were not
only sinners, but condemned sinners. Yes, and Christ is not only thy
substitute for sin, but he is thy condemned substitute too. See him. He
stands at Pilate's bar, is condemned before Herod and Caiaphas, and is
found guilty. Nay, he stands before the awful bar of God, and though
there is no sin of his own put upon him, yet inasmuch as his people's
sins were laid on him, justice views him as a sinner, and it cries,
"Let the sword be bathed in his blood." Christ was condemned for
sinners that they might not be condemned. Look up, look away from the
sentence that has gone out against you, to the sentence that went out
against him. Are you cursed?–so was he. "Cursed is every one that
hangeth on a tree." Are you condemned?–so was he, and there was one
point in which he excelled you; he was executed, and that you never
shall be, if you look to him now and believe that he is able to save
you, and put your trust in him.
In regard to the third particular. Our utter helplessness is such, that
as I told you, we are unable to do any thing. Yes, and I want you to
look at Christ; was not he unable too? You, in your father Adam, were
once strong, but you lost your strength. Christ too was strong, but he
laid aside all his omnipotence. See him. The hand that poises the world
hangs on a nail. See him. The shoulders that supported the skies are
drooping over the cross. Look at him, The eyes whose glances light up
the sun are sealed in darkness. Look at him. The feet that trod the
billows and that shaped the spheres are nailed with rude iron to the
accursed tree. Look away from your own weakness to his weakness, and
remember that in his weakness he is strong, and in his weakness you are
strong too. Go see his hands; they are weak, but in their weakness they
are stretched out to save you. Come view his heart; it is rent, but in
its cleft you may hide yourself. Look at his eyes; they are closing in
death, but from them comes the ray of light that shall kindle your dark
spirit. Unable though thou art, go to him who himself was crucified
through weakness, and remember that now "he is able to save them to the
uttermost that come unto God by him." I told you, you could not repent,
but if you go to Christ he can melt your heart into contrition, though
it be as hard as iron. I said you could not believe, but if you sit
down and look at Christ, a sight of Christ will make you believe, for
he is exalted on high to give repentance and remission of sins.
And then the fourth thing. "Oh," cries one, "you said we were too
estranged to be even willing to come to Christ." I know you were; and
therefore it is he came down to you. You would not come to him, but he
comes to you this morning, and though you are very evil, he comes with
sacred magic in his arm, to change your heart. Sinner, thou unwilling,
but guilty sinner, Christ stands before thee this morning, he that was
made in the likeness of sinful flesh, a man and a brother born for
adversity. And he puts his hand to day in thy hand, and he says,
"Sinner, wilt thou be saved?" Then trust in me. Ah! if I preach the
gospel, you will reject it, but if he preaches it you cannot. Methinks
I see the crucified one finding his way in that thick crowd under the
gallery, and going between the ranks seated here, and above, and
everywhere, and as he goes along, he stops at each broken-hearted
sinner, and says, "Sinner, will you trust me? See here I am, the Son of
God, yet I am man. Look at my wounds, see still the nail-marks, and the
prints of the thorn-crown. Sinner, will you trust me?" And while he
says it, he graciously works in you the grace of faith. But are there
any who looking him in the face, can reply, "Thou crucified one we
cannot trust thee, our sins are too great to be forgiven?" Oh, nothing
can grieve him so much as to tell him that. You think that you are
humble; you are proud; despising Christ while you think you are
despising yourself. And is there one in all this great assembly who
says, "This is all twaddle, I care not to hear such preaching as this?"
Nay I do not ask thee to care for what I speak; but Jesus the crucified
one is standing by thy side, and he asks thee, "Sinner, have I ever
done anything to offend thee; have I ever done thee a displeasure? What
hurt hast thou ever suffered at my hands? Then why dost thou persecute
thy wife for loving me–then why hate thy child for loving one that did
thee no hurt? Besides," saith he, and he takes the veil from his face,
"did you ever see a face like this? It was marred by suffering for
men–for men that hate me too, but whom I love. I need not have
suffered. I was in my Father's house, happy and glorious; love made me
come down and die. Love nailed me to the tree, and now will you spit in
my face after that?" "No," said a young man to me this last week, "I
found it hard to love Christ, but," said he, "once upon a time I
thought Well, if Christ never died for me, and never loved me, yet I
must love him for his goodness in dying for other people.'" And
methinks if you did but know Christ, you must love him. Thou wouldst
say to him, "Thou dear, thou suffering man, didst thou endure all this
for those that did hate thee? didst thou die for those that murdered
thee? didst thou shed thy blood for those that drew it from thy veins
with cursed iron? didst thou dive into the depths of the grave that
thou mightest lift out rebellious ones who scorned thee and would have
none of thee? Then dissolved by thy goodness I fall before thy feet and
I weep. My soul repents of sin–I weep–Lord accept me, Lord have mercy
upon me."
Did you think I have run away from my point? So I had, but I have
brought you back to it. You know I was to shew that Christ could
overcome our depravity. And he has done it in some of you while I have
been speaking. You hated him, but you do not hate him now. It may be,
you said you would never trust him, but you do trust him now. And if
God has done this in your heart, this is the true end of preaching; the
best way of keeping to the subject, is for the subject to be brought
home to the heart. Ah! dear hearers, I wish I had a better voice this
morning. I wish I had more earnest tones and a more loving heart, for I
do feel when I am preaching about Christ, that I am a poor dauber. When
I grant to paint him so beautiful, I am afraid you will say of him, he
is not lovely! No, no; it is my bad picture of him; but he is lovely.
Oh! he is a loving Lord. He has bowels of compassion; he has a heart
brimful of tenderest affection; and he bids me tell you–and I do tell
you that–he bids me say, "This is a faithful saying and worthy of all
acceptation, that Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners of
whom I am chief." And he bids me add his kind invitation, "Come unto me
all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest; take
my yoke upon you and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and
ye shall find rest to your souls." Do not believe what the devil tells
you. He says that Christ is not ready to forgive; oh! he is more
willing to forgive then you are to be forgiven. Do not believe your
heart, when it says, that Christ will shut you out, and will not pardon
you: Come and try him, come and try him; and the first one that is shut
out, I will agree to be shut out with him. The first soul that Christ
rejects after it has put its trust in him–I risk my soul's salvation
with that man. It cannot be. He never was hard-hearted yet, and he
never will be. Only believe, and may he himself help thee to believe.
Only look to him, and may he himself open thine eyes and enable thee to
look, and this shall be a happy morning. For though I may have spoken
feebly, as I am too conscious I have, God will have worked powerfully;
and unto him shall be the glory for ever and ever. Amen.
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