Secret Sins
A Sermon
(No. 116)
Delivered on Sabbath Morning, February 8, 1857, by the
REV. C.H. SPURGEON
at the Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens.
"Cleanse thou me from secret faults.–Psalm 19:12.
SELF-RIGHTEOUSNESS arises partly from pride but mainly from ignorance
of God's law. It is because men know little or nothing concerning the
terrible character of the divine law, that they foolishly imagine
themselves to be righteous. They are not aware of the deep
spirituality, and the stern severity of the law, or they would have
other and wiser notions. Once let them know how strictly the law deals
with the thoughts, how it brings itself to bear upon every emotion of
the inner man, and there is not one creature beneath God's heaven who
would dare to think himself righteous in God's sight in virtue of his
own deeds and thoughts. Only let the law be revealed to a man; let him
know how strict the law is, and how infinitely just, and his
self-righteousness will shrivel into nothing–it will become a filthy
rag in his sight, whereas before he thought it to be a goodly garment.
Now, David, having seen God's law, and having praised it in this Psalm,
which I have read in your hearing, he is brought, by reflecting on its
excellency, to utter this thought, "Who can understand his errors?" and
then to offer this prayer, "Cleanse thou me from secret faults."
In the Lateran Council of the Church of Rome, a decree was passed that
every true believer must confess his sins, all of them, once a year to
the priest, and they affixed to it this declaration, that there is no
hope of pardon but in complying with that decree. What can equal the
absurdity of such a decree as that? Do they suppose that they can tell
their sins as easily as they can count their fingers? Why, if we could
receive pardon for all our sins by telling every sin we have committed
in one hour, there is not one of us who would be able to enter heaven,
since, besides the sins that are known to us and that we may be able to
confess, there are a vast mass of sins, which are as truly sins as
those which we do observe, but which are secret, and come not beneath
our eye. Oh! if we had eyes like those of God, we should think very
differently of ourselves. The sins that we see and confess are but like
the farmer's small samples which he brings to market, when he has left
his granary full at home. We have but a very few sins which we can
observe and detect, compared with those which are hidden to ourselves
and unseen by our fellow creatures. I doubt not it is true of all of us
who are here, that in every hour of our existence in which we are
active, we commit tens of thousands of unholinesses for which
conscience has never reproved us, because we have never seen them to be
wrong, seeing we have not studied God's laws as we ought to have done.
Now, be it known to us all that sin is sin, whether we see it or
not–that a sin secret to us is a sin as truly as if we knew it to be a
sin, though not so great a sin in the sight of God as if it had been
committed presumptuously, seeing that it lacks the aggravation of
willfulness. Let all of us who know our sins, offer this prayer after
all our confessions: "Lord, I have confessed as many as I know, but I
must add an etcetera after them, and say, Cleanse thou me from secret
faults.'"
That, however, will not be the pith of my sermon this morning. I am
going after a certain class of men who have sins not unknown to
themselves, but secret to their fellow creatures. Every now and then we
turn up a fair stone which lies upon the green sward of the professing
church, surrounded with the verdure of apparent goodness, and to our
astonishment we find beneath it all kinds of filthy insects and
loathsome reptiles, and in our disgust as such hypocrisy, we are driven
to exclaim, "All men are liars; there are none in whom we can put any
trust at all." It is not fair to say so of all; but really, the
discoveries which are made of the insincerity of our fellow-creatures
are enough to make us despise our kind, because they can go so far in
appearances, and yet have so little soundness of heart. To you, sirs,
who sin secretly, and yet make a profession; you break God's covenants
in the dark and wear a mask of goodness in the light–to you, sirs, who
shut the doors and commit wickedness in secret–to you I shall speak
this morning. O may God also be pleased to speak to you, and make you
pray this prayer: "Cleanse thou me from secret faults."
I shall endeavour to urge upon all pretenders present to give up, to
renounce, to detest, to hate, to abhor all their secret sins. And,
first, I shall endeavour to show the folly of secret sins; secondly,
the misery of secret sins; thirdly, the guilt of secret sins; fourthly,
the danger of secret sins; and then I shall try to apply some words by
way of remedy, that we may all of us be enabled to avoid secret sins.
I. First, then, THE FOLLY OF SECRET SINS.
Pretender, thou art fair to look upon; thy conduct outwardly upright,
amiable, liberal, generous and Christian; but thou dost indulge in some
sin which the eye of man has not yet detected. Perhaps it is private
drunkenness. Thou dost revile the drunkard when he staggers through the
street; but thou canst thyself indulge in the same habit in private. It
may be some other lust or vice; it is not for me just now to mention
what it is. But, pretender, we say unto thee, thou art a fool to think
of harbouring a secret sin; and thou art a fool for this one reason,
that thy sin is not a secret sin; it is known, and shall one day be
revealed; perhaps very soon. Thy sin is not a secret; the eye of God
hath seen it; thou hast sinned before his face. Thou hast shut-to the
door, and drawn the curtains, and kept out the eye of the sun, but
God's eye pierceth through the darkness; the brick walls which
surrounded thee were as transparent as glass to the eye of the
Almighty; the darkness which did gird thee was as bright as the
summer's noon to the eye of him who beholdeth all things. Knowest thou
not, O man, that "all things are naked and open to the eyes of him with
whom we have to do?" As the priest ran his knife into the entrails of
his victim, discovered the heart and liver, and what else did lie
within, so art thou, O man, seen by God, cut open by the Almighty; thou
hast no secret chamber where thou canst hide thyself; thou hast no dark
cellar where thou canst conceal thy soul. Dig deep, ay, deep as hell,
but thou canst not find earth enough upon the globe to cover thy sin;
if thou shouldst heap the mountains on its grave, those mountains would
tell the tale of what was buried in their bowels. If thou couldst cast
thy sin into the sea, a thousand babbling waves would tell the secret
out. There is no hiding it from God. Thy sin is photographed in high
heaven; the deed when it was done was photographed upon the sky, and
there it shall remain, and thou shalt see thyself one day revealed to
the gazing eyes of all men, a hypocrite, a pretender, who didst sin in
fancied secret, observed in all thine acts by the all-seeing Jehovah. O
what fools men are, to think they can do anything in secret. This world
is like the glass hives wherein bees sometimes work: we look down upon
them, and we see all the operations of the little creatures. So God
looketh down and seeth all. Our eyes are weak; we cannot look through
the darkness; but his eye, like an orb of fire, penetrateth the
blackness; and readeth the thoughts of man, and seeth his acts when he
thinks himself most concealed. Oh; it were a thought enough to curb us
from all sin, if it were truly applied to us–"Thou, God, seest me!"
Stop thief! Drop thou that which thou hast taken to thyself. God seeth
thee! No eye of detection on earth hath discovered thee, but God's eyes
are now looking through the clouds upon thee. Swearer! scarce any for
whom thou carest heard thy oath; but God heard it; it entered into the
ears of the Lord God of Sabbaoth. Ah! thou who leadest a filthy life,
and yet art a respectable merchant bearing among men a fair and goodly
character; thy vices are all known; written in God's book. He keepeth a
diary of all thine acts; and what wilt thou think on that day when a
crowd shall be assembled, compared with which this immense multitude is
but a drop of a bucket, and God shall read out the story of thy secret
life, and men and angels shall hear it. Certain I am there are none of
us who would like to have all our secrets read, especially our secret
thoughts. If I should select out of this congregation the most holy
man, should bring him forward and say, "Now, sir, I know all your
thoughts, and am about to tell them," I am sure he would offer me the
largest bribe that he could gather if I would be pleased to conceal at
least some of them. "Tell," He would say, "of my acts; of them I am not
ashamed; but do not tell my thoughts and imaginations–of them I must
ever stand ashamed before God." What, then, sinner, will be thy shame
when thy privy lusts, thy closet transgressions, thy secret crimes
shall be gazetted from God's throne, published by his own mouth, and
with a voice louder than a thousand thunders preached in the ears of an
assembled world? What will be thy terror and confusion then, when all
the deeds thou hast done shall be published in the face of the sun, in
the ears of all mankind. O renounce the foolish hope of secresy, for
thy sin is this day recorded, and shall one day be advertised upon the
walls of heaven.
II. In the next place, let us notice THE MISERY OF SECRET SINS.
Of all sinners the man who makes a profession of religion, and yet
lives in iniquity, is the most miserable. A downright wicked man, who
takes a glass in his hand, and says, "I am a drunkard, I am not ashamed
of it," he shall be unutterably miserable in worlds to come, but brief
though it be, he has his hour of pleasure. A man who curses and swears,
and says, "That is my habit, I am a profane man," and makes a
profession of it, he has, at least, some peace in his soul; but the man
who walks with God's minister, who is united with God's Church, who
comes out before God's people, and unites with them, and then lives in
sin, what a miserable existence he must have of it! Why, he has a worse
existence than the mouse that is in the parlour, running out now and
then to pick up the crumbs, and then back again to his hole. Such men
must run out now and then to sin; and oh! how fearful they are to be
discovered! One day, perhaps, their character turns up; with wonderful
cunning they manage to conceal and gloss it over; but the next day
something else comes, and they live in constant fear, telling lie after
lie, to make the last lie appear truthful, adding deception to
deception, in order that they may not be discovered.
"Oh! tis a tangled web we weave,
When once we venture to deceive."
If I must be a wicked man, give me the life of a roystering sinner, who
sins before the face of day; but, if I must sin, let me not act as a
hypocrite and a coward; let me not profess to be God's, and spend my
life for the devil. That way of cheating the devil is a thing which
every honest sinner will be ashamed of. He will say, "Now, if I do
serve my master I will serve him out and out, I will have no sham about
it; if I make a profession, I will carry it out; but if I do not, if I
live in sin, I am not going to gloss it over by cant and hypocrisy."
One thing which has hamstringed the church, and cut her very sinews in
twain, has been this most damnable hypocrisy. Oh! in how many places
have we men whom you might praise to the very skies, if you could
believe their words, but whom you might cast into the nethermost pit if
you could see their secret actions. God forgive any of you who are so
acting! I had almost said, I can scarce forgive you. I can forgive the
man who riots openly, and makes no profession of being better, but the
man who fawns, and cants, and pretends, and prays, and then lives in
sin, that man I hate, I cannot bear him, I abhor him from my very soul.
If he will turn from his ways, I will love him, but in his hypocrisy he
is to me the most loathsome of all creatures. Tis said the toad doth
wear a jewel in her head, but this man hath none, but beareth
filthiness about him, while he pretends to be in love with
righteousness. A mere profession, my hearers, is but painted pageantry
to go to hell in; it is like the plumes upon the hearse and the
trappings upon the black horses which drag men to their graves, the
funeral array of dead souls. Take heed above everything of a waxen
profession that will not stand the sun; take care of a life that needs
to have two faces to carry it out; be one thing, or else the other. If
you make up your mind to serve Satan, do not pretend to serve God; and
if you serve God, serve him with all your heart. "No man can serve two
masters;" do not try it, do not endeavour to do it, for no life will be
more miserable than that. Above all, beware of committing acts which it
will be necessary to conceal. There is a singular poem by Hood, called
"The Dream of Eugene Aram"–a most remarkable piece it is indeed,
illustrating the point on which I am now dwelling. Aram has murdered a
man and cast his body into the river–"a sluggish water, black as ink,
the depth was so extreme." The next morning he visited the scene of his
guilt:
"And sought the black accursed pool,
With a wild misgiving eye;
And he saw the dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry."
Next he covered the corpse with heaps of leaves, but a mighty wind
swept through the wood and left the secret bare before the sun:
"Then down I cast me on my face,
And first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one
The earth refused to keep;
On land or sea though it should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep."
In plaintive notes he prophesies his own discovery. He buried his
victim in a cave, and trod him down with stones, but when years had run
their weary round the foul deed was discovered and the murderer put to
death.
Guilt is a "grim chamberlain," even when his fingers are not bloody
red. Secret sins bring fevered eyes and sleepless nights, until men
burn out their consciences, and become in very deed ripe for the pit.
Hypocrisy is a hard game to play at, for it is one deceiver against
many observers; and for certain it is a miserable trade, which will
earn at last, as its certain climax, a tremendous bankruptcy. Ah! ye
who have sinned without discovery, "Be sure your sin will find you
out;" and bethink you, it may find you out ere long. Sin, like murder,
will come out; men will even tell tales about themselves in their
dreams. God has sometimes made men so pricked in their consciences that
they have been obliged to stand forth and confess the story. Secret
sinner! If thou wantest the foretaste of damnation upon earth, continue
in thy secret sins; for no man is more miserable than he who sinneth
secretly, and yet trieth to preserve a character. Yon stag, followed by
the hungry hounds, with open mouths, is far more happy than the man who
is followed by his sins. Yon bird, taken in the fowler's net, and
labouring to escape, is far more happy than he who hath weaved around
himself a web of deception, and labours to escape from it day by day by
making the toils more thick and the web more strong. Oh! the misery of
secret sins! Truly, one may pray, "Cleanse thou me from secret faults."
III. But now, next, the guilt THE SOLEMN GUILT OF SECRET SIN.
Now, John, you do not think there is any evil in a thing unless
somebody sees it, do you? You feel that it is a very great sin if your
master finds you out in robbing the till–but there is no sin if he
should not discover it–none at all. And you, sir, you fancy it to be
very great sin to play a trick in trade, in case you should be
discovered and brought before the court; but to play a trick and never
be discovered, that is all fair–do not say a word about it Mr.
Spurgeon, it is all business; you must not touch business; tricks that
are not discovered, of course you are not to find fault with them. The
common measure of sin is the notoriety of it. But I do not believe in
that. A sin is a sin, whether done in private or before the wide world.
It is singular how men will measure guilt. A railway servant puts up a
wrong signal, there is an accident; the man is tried, and severely
reprimanded. The day before he put up the wrong signal, but there was
no accident, and therefore no one accused him for his neglect. But it
was just the same, accident or no accident, the accident did not make
the guilt, it was the deed which made the guilt, not the notoriety nor
yet the consequence of it. It was his business to have taken care; and
he was as guilty the first time as he was the second, for he
negligently exposed the lives of men. Do not measure sin by what other
people say of it; but measure sin by what God says of it, and what your
own conscience says of it.
Now, I hold that secret sin, if anything, is the worst of sin; because
secret sin implies that the man who commits it has Atheism in his
heart. You will ask how that can be. I reply, he may be a professing
Christian, but I shall tell him to his face that he is a practical
Atheist, if he labours to keep up a respectable profession before man,
and then secretly transgresses. Why, is he not an Atheist, who will say
there is a God, yet at the same time thinks more of man than he does of
God? Is it not the very essence of Atheism–is it not a denial of the
divinity of the Most High when men lightly esteem him and think more of
the eye of a creature than of the observation of their Creator? There
are some who would not for the life of them say a wicked word in the
presence of their minister, but they can do it, knowing God is looking
at them. They are Atheists. There are some who would not trick in trade
for all the world if they thought they would be discovered, but they
can do it while God is with them; that is, they think more of the eye
of man than of the eye of God; and they think it worse to be condemned
by man than to be condemned by God. Call it by what name you will, the
proper name of that is practical Atheism. It is dishonoring God; it is
dethroning him; putting him down below his own creatures; and what is
that, but to take away his divinity? Brethren, do not, I beseech you,
incur the fearful guilt of secret sins. No man can sin a little in
secret, it will certainly engender more sin; no man can be a hypocrite
and yet be moderate in guilt; he will go from bad to worse, and still
proceed, until when his guilt shall be published, he shall be found to
be the very worst and most hardened of men. Take heed of the guilt of
secret sin. AH, now if could I preach as Rowland Hill did, I would make
some people look to themselves at home, and tremble too! It is said
that when he preached, there was not a man in the window, or standing
in the crowd, or perched up anywhere, but said, "There, he is preaching
at me; he is telling me about my secret sins." And when he proclaimed
God's omniscience, it is said men would almost think they saw God
bodily present in the midst of them looking at them. And when he had
done his sermon, they would hear a voice in their ears, "Can any hide
himself in secret places that I cannot see him? saith the Lord. Do not
I fill heaven and earth? saith the Lord." I would I could do that; that
I could make every man look to himself, and find out his secret sin.
Come my hearer, what is it? Bring it forth to the daylight; perhaps it
will die in the light of the sun. These things love not to be
discovered. Tell thine own conscience, now, what it is. Look it in the
face; confess it before God, and may he give thee grace to remove that
sin and every other, and turn to him with full purpose of heart! But
this know–that thy guilt is guilt discovered or undiscovered, and that
if there be any difference it is worse, because it has been secret. God
save us from the guilt of secret sin! "Cleanse thou me from secret
faults."
IV. And note, next, THE DANGER OF SECRET SIN. One danger is, that a man
cannot commit a little sin in secret, without being by-and-by betrayed
into a public sin. You cannot, sir, though you may think you can
preserve a moderation in sin. If you commit one sin, it is like the
melting of the lower glacier upon the Alps; the others must follow in
time. As certainly as you heap one stone upon the cairn to-day, the
next day you will cast another, until the heap, reared stone by stone,
shall become a very pyramid. See the coral insect at work, you cannot
decree where it shall stay its work. It will not build its rock just as
high as you please, it will not stay until it shall be covered with
weeds, until the weeds shall decay; and there shall be soil upon it,
and an island shall be created by tiny creatures. Sin cannot be held in
with bit and bridle. "But I am going to have a little drink now and
then, I am only going to be intoxicated once a week or so. Nobody will
see it; I shall be in bed directly." You will be drunk in the streets
soon. "I am only just going to read one lascivious book; I will put it
under the sofa-cover when any one comes in." You will keep it in your
library yet, sir. "I am only going into that company now and then." You
will go there every day, such is the bewitching character of it; you
cannot help it. You may as well ask the lion to let you put your head
into his mouth. You cannot regulate his jaws: neither can you regulate
sin. Once go into it, you cannot tell when you will be destroyed. You
may be such a fortunate individual, that like Van Amburgh you may put
your head in and out a great many times; reset assured that one of
these days it will be a costly venture. Again, you may labour to
conceal your vicious habit, but it will come out, you cannot help it.
You keep your little pet sin at home; but mark this, when the door is
ajar the dog will be out in the street. Wrap him up in your bosom, put
over him fold after fold of hypocrisy to keep him secret, the wretch
will be singing some day when you are in company; you cannot keep the
evil bird still. Your sin will gad abroad; and what is more, you will
not mind it some of these days. A man who indulges in sin privately, by
degrees gets his forehead as hard as brass. The first time he sinned,
the drops of sweat stood on his brow at the recollection of what he had
done; the second time, no hot sweat on his brow, only an agitation of
the muscle; the third time there was the sly, sneaky look, but no
agitation; the next time, he sinned a little further; and by degrees he
became the bold blasphemer of his God, who exclaimed, "Who am I that I
should fear Jehovah, and who is he that I should serve him?" Men go
from bad to worse. Launch your boat in the current–it must go where
the current takes it. Put yourself in the whirlwind–you are but a
straw in the wind: you must go which way the wind carries you–you
cannot control yourself. The balloon can mount, but it cannot direct
its course; it must go whichever way the wind blows. If you once mount
into sin there is no stopping. Take heed if you would not become the
worst of characters, take heed of the little sins, they, mounting one
upon another, may at last heave you from the summit and destroy your
soul for ever. There is a great danger in secret sins.
But I have here some true Christians who indulge in secret sins. They
say it is but a little one, and therefore do they spare it. Dear
brethren, I speak to you, and I speak to myself, when I say this–let
us destroy all our little secret sins. They are called little and if
they be, let us remember that it is the foxes, even the little foxes,
that spoil our vines; for our vines have tender shoots. Let us take
heed of our little sins. A little sin, like a little pebble in the
shoe, will make a traveller to heaven walk very wearily. Little sins,
like little thieves, may open the door to greater ones outside.
Christians, recollect that little sins will spoil your communion with
Christ. Little sins, like little stains in silk, may damage the fine
texture of fellowship; little sins, like little irregularities in the
machinery, may spoil the whole fabric of your religion. The one dead
fly spoileth the whole pot of ointment. That one thistle may seed a
continent with noxious weeds. Let us, brethren, kill our sins as often
as we can find them. One said–"The heart is full of unclean birds; it
is a cage of them." "Ah, but," said another divine, "you must not make
that an apology, for a Christian's business is to wring their necks."
And so it is; if there be evil things, it is our business to kill them.
Christians must not tolerate secret sins. We must not harbour traitors;
it is high treason against the King of Heaven. Let us drag them out to
light, and offer them upon the altar, giving up the dearest of our
secret sins at the will and bidding of God. There is a great danger in
a little secret sin; therefore avoid it, pass not by it, turn from it
and shun it; and God give thee grace to overcome it!
V. And now I come, in finishing up, to plead with all my might with
some of you whom God has pricked in your consciences. I have come to
intreat you, if it be possible, even to tears, that you will give up
your secret sins. I have one here for whom I bless God; I love him,
though I know him not. He is almost persuaded to be a Christian; he
halteth between two opinions; he intendeth to serve God, he striveth to
give up sin, but he findeth it a hard struggle, and as yet he knoweth
not what shall become of him. I speak to him with all love: my friend,
will you have your sin and go to hell, or leave your sin and go to
heaven? This is the solemn alternative: to all awakened sinners I put
it; may God choose for you, otherwise I tremble as to which you may
choose. The pleasures of this life are so intoxicating, the joys of it
so ensnaring, that did I not believe that God worketh in us to will and
to do, I should despair of you. But I have confidence that God will
decide the matter. Let me lay the alternative before you:–on the one
hand there is a hour's merriment, a short life of bliss, and that a
poor, poor bliss; on the other hand, there is everlasting life and
eternal glory. On the one hand, there is a transient happiness, and
afterwards overwhelming woe; in this case there is a solid peace and
everlasting joy, and after it overflowing bliss. I shall not fear to be
called an Arminian, when I say, as Elijah did, "Choose you this day
whom you will serve. If God be God, serve him; if Baal be God serve
him." But, now, make your choice deliberately; and may God help you to
do it! Do not say you will take up with religion, without first
counting the cost of it; remember, there is your lust to be given up,
your pleasure to be renounced; can you do it for Christ's sake? Can
you? I know you cannot, unless God's grace shall assist you in making
such a choice. But can you say, "Yes, by the help of God, earth's gaudy
toys, its pomps, pageantries, gewgaws, all these I renounce?–
"These can never satisfy,
Give me Christ or else I die."
Sinner, thou wilt never regret that choice, if God help thee to make
it; thou wilt find thyself a happy man here, and thrice happy
throughout eternity.
"But," says one, "Sir, I intend to be religious, but I do not hold with
your strictness." I do not ask you to do so; I hope, however, you will
hold with God's strictness, and God's strictness is ten thousand times
greater than mine. You may say that I am puritanical in my preaching;
God will be puritanical in judging in that great day. I may appear
severe, but I can never be so severe as God will be. I may draw the
harrow with sharp teeth across your conscience, but God shall drag
harrows of eternal fire across you one day. I may speak thundering
things! God will not speak them, but hurl them from his hands.
Remember, men may laugh at hell, and say there is none; but they must
reject their Bibles before they can believe the lie. Men's consciences
tell them that
"There is a dreadful hell,
And everlasting pains;
Where sinners must with devils dwell,
In darkness, fire and chains."
Sirs, will ye keep your secret sins, and have eternal fire for them?
Remember it is of no use, they must all be given up, or else you cannot
be God's child. You cannot by any means have both; it cannot be God and
the world, it cannot be Christ and the devil; it must be one or the
other. Oh! that God would give you grace to resign all; for what are
they worth? They are your deceivers now, and will be your tormentors
for ever. Oh! that your eyes were open to see the rottenness, the
emptiness and trickery of iniquity. Oh! that God would turn you to
himself. Oh! may God give you grace to cross the Rubicon of repentance
at this very hour; to say, "Henceforth it is war to the knife with my
sins; not one of them will I willingly keep, but down with them, down
with them; Canaanite, Hittite, Jebusite, they shall all be driven out."
"The dearest idol I have known,
Whate'er that idol be;
Help me to tear it from its throne,
And worship only thee."
"But oh! sir, I cannot do it; it would be like pulling my eyes out."
Ay, but hear what Christ says: "It were better for thee to enter into
life with one eye, than having two eyes to be cast into hell fire."
"But it would be like cutting my arms off." Ay, and it would be better
for thee to enter into life halt or maimed, than to be cast into hell
fire for ever. Oh! when the sinner comes before God at last, do you
think he will speak as he does now? God will reveal his secret sins:
the sinner will not then say, "Lord, I thought my secret sins so sweet,
I could not give them up." I think I see how changed it will be then.
"Sir" you say now, "you are too strict;" will you say that when the
eyes of the Almighty are glowering on you? You say now, "Sir, you are
too precise;" will you say that to God Almighty's face? "Sir, I mean to
keep such-and-such a sin." Can you say it at God's bar at last? You
will not dare to do it then. Ah! when Christ comes a second time, there
will be a marvellous change in the way men talk. Methinks I see him;
there he sits upon his throne. Now, Caiaphas, come and condemn him now!
Judas! comes and kiss him now! What do you stick at, man? Are you
afraid of him? Now, Barrabbas! go; see whether they will prefer you to
Christ now. Swearer, now is your time; you have been a bold man; curse
him to his face now. Now drunkard; stagger up to him now. Now infidel;
tell him there is no Christ now–now that the world is lit with
lightning and the earth is shaken with thunder till the solid pillars
thereof do bow themselves–tell God there is no God now; now laugh at
the Bible; now scoff at the minister. Why men, what is the matter with
you? Why, can't you do it? Ah! there you are; you have fled to the
hills and to the rocks–"Rocks hide us! mountains fall on us; hide us
from the face of him that sitteth on the throne." Ah! where are now
your boasts, your vauntings, and your glories? Alas! alas! for you, in
that dread day of wonders.
Secret sinner, what will then become of thee? Go out of this place
unmasked; go out to examine thyself, go out to bend thy knee, go out to
weep, go out to pray. God give thee grace to believe! And oh, how sweet
and pleasant the thought, that this day sinners have fled to Christ,
and men have been born again to Jesus! Brethren, ere I finish, I repeat
the words at which so many have cavilled–it is now, or never, it is
turn or burn. Solemnly in God's sight I say it; if it be not God's
truth I must answer for it in the great day of account. Your
consciences tell you it is true. Take it home, and mock me if you will;
this morning I am clear of your blood: if any seek not God, but live in
sin, I shall be clear of your blood in that day when the watchman shall
have your souls demanded of him; oh, may God grant that you may be
cleared in a blessed manner! When I went down those pulpit stairs a
Sabbath or two ago, a friend said to me words which have been in my
mind ever since–"Sir, there are nine thousand people this day without
excuse in the day of judgment." It is true of you this morning. If you
are damned, it will be not for want of preaching to you, and it shall
not be for want of praying for you. God knoweth that if my heart could
break of itself, it would, for your souls, for God is my witness, how
earnestly I long for you in the bowels of Christ Jesus. Oh, that he
might touch your hearts and bring you to him! For death is a solemn
thing, damnation is a horrible thing, to be out of Christ is a dreadful
thing, to be dead in sin is a terrific thing. May God lead you to view
these things as they are, and save you, for his mercy's sake! "He that
believeth and is baptised shall be saved."
"Lord, search my soul, try every thought;
Though my own heart accuse me not
Of walking in a false disguise,
I beg the trial of thine eyes.
Doth secret mischief lurk within?
Do I indulge some unknown sin?
O turn my feet whene'er I stray,
And lead me in thy perfect way."