A Sermon
(No. 6)
Delivered on Sabbath Morning, February 4, 1855, by the
REV. C.H. SPURGEON
At New Park Street Chapel, Southwark.
"A bruised reed shall he not break, and smoking flax shall he not
quench, till he send forth judgment unto victory"–Matthew 12:20.
Babbling fame ever loves to talk of one man or another. Some there be
whose glory it trumpets forth, and whose honor it extols above the
heavens. Some are her favorites, and their names are carved on marble,
and heard in every land, and every clime. Fame is not an impartial
judge; she has her favorites. Some men she extols, exalts, and almost
deifies; others, whose virtues are far greater, and whose characters
are more deserving of commendation, she passes by unheeded, and puts
the finger of silence on her lips. You will generally find that those
persons beloved by fame are men made of brass or iron, and cast in a
rough mould. Fame caresseth Caesar, because he ruled the earth with a
rod of iron. Fame loves Luther, because he boldly and manfully defied
the Pope of Rome, and with knit brow dared laugh at the thunders of the
Vatican. Fame admires Knox; for he was stern, and proved himself the
bravest of the brave. Generally, you will find her choosing out the men
of fire and mettle, who stood before their fellow-creatures fearless of
them; men who were made of courage; who were consolidated lumps of
fearlessness, and never knew what timidity might be. But you know there
is another class of persons equally virtuous, and equally to be
esteemed–perhaps even more so–whom fame entirely forgets. You do not
hear her talk of the gentle-minded Melancthon–she says but little of
him–yet he did as much, perhaps, in the Reformation, as even the
mighty Luther. You do not hear fame talk much of the sweet and blessed
Rutherford, and of the heavenly words that distilled from his lips; or
of Archbishop Leighton, of whom it was said, that he was never out of
temper in his life. She loves the rough granite peaks that defy the
storm-cloud: she does not care for the more humble stone in the valley,
on which the weary traveller resteth; she wants something bold and
prominent; something that courts popularity; something that stands out
before the world. She does not care for those who retreat in shade.
Hence it is, my brethren, that the blessed Jesus, our adorable Master,
has escaped fame. No one says much about Jesus, except his followers.
We do not find his name written amongst the great and mighty men;
though, in truth, he is the greatest, mightiest, holiest, purest, and
best of men that ever lived; but because he was "Gentle Jesus, meek and
mild," and was emphatically the man whose kingdom is not of this world;
because he had nothing of the rough about him, but was all love;
because his words were softer than butter, his utterances more gentle
in their flow than oil; because never man spake so gently as this man;
therefore he is neglected and forgotten. He did not come to be a
conqueror with his sword, nor a Mohammed with his fiery eloquence; but
he came to speak with a "still small voice," that melteth the rocky
heart; that bindeth up the broken in spirit, and that continually
saith, "Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden;" "Take my
yoke upon you and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly of heart, and ye
shall find rest unto your souls." Jesus Christ was all gentleness; and
this is why he has not been extolled amongst men as otherwise he would
have been. Beloved! our text is full of gentleness; it seems to have
been steeped in love; and I hope I may be able to show you something of
the immense sympathy and the mighty tenderness of Jesus, as I attempt
to speak from it. There are three things to be noticed: first, mortal
frailty; secondly, divine compassion; and thirdly, certain
triumph–"till he send forth judgment unto victory."
I. First, we have before us a view of MORTAL FRAILTY
–bruised reed and smoking flax–two very suggestive metaphors, and
very full of meaning. If it were not too fanciful–and if it is I know
you will excuse me–I should say that the bruised reed is an emblem of
a sinner in the first stage of his conviction. The work of God's Holy
Spirit begins with bruising. In order to be saved, the fallow ground
must be ploughed up; the hard heart must be broken; the rock must be
split in sunder. An old divine says there is no going to heaven without
passing hard by the gates of hell–without a great deal of soul-trouble
and heart-exercise. I take it then that the bruised reed is a picture
of the poor sinner when first God commences his operation upon the
soul; he is as a bruised reed, almost entirely broken and consumed;
there is but little strength in him. The smoking flax I conceive to be
a backsliding Christian; one who has been a burning and a shining light
in his day, but by neglect of the means of grace, the withdrawal of
God's Spirit, and falling into sin, his light is almost gone out–not
quite–it never can go out, for Christ saith, "I will not quench it;"
but it becomes like a lamp when ill supplied with oil–almost useless.
It is not quite extinguished–it smokes–it was a useful lamp once, but
now it has become as smoking flax. So I think these metaphors very
likely describe the contrite sinner as a bruised reed, and the
backsliding Christian as smoking flax. However, I shall not choose to
make such a division as that, but I shall put both the metaphors
together, and I hope we may fetch out a few thoughts from them.
And first, the encouragement offered in our text applies to weak ones.
What in the world is weaker than the bruised reed, or the smoking flax?
A reed that groweth in the fen or marsh, let but the wild duck light
upon it, and it snaps; let but the foot of man brush against it and it
is bruised and broken; every wind that comes howling across the river
makes it shake to and fro, and well nigh tears it up by the roots. You
can conceive of nothing more frail or brittle, or whose existence
depends more upon circumstances that a bruised reed. Then look at
smoking flax–what is it? It has a spark within it, it is true, but it
is almost smothered; an infant's breath might blow it out; or the tears
of a maiden quench it in a moment; nothing has a more precarious
existence than the little spark hidden in the smoking flax. Weak
things, you see, are here described. Well, Christ says of them, "The
smoking flax I will not quench; the bruised reed I will not break." Let
me go in search of the weaklings. Ah! I shall not have to go far. There
are many in this house of prayer this morning who are indeed weak. Some
of God's children, blessed be his name, are made strong to do mighty
works for him; God hath his Samsons here and there who can pull up
Gaza's gates, and carry them to the top of the hill; he hath here and
there his mighty Gideons, who can go to the camp of the Midianites, and
overthrow their hosts; he hath his mighty men, who can go into the pit
in winter, and slay the lions; but the majority of his people are a
timid, weak race. They are like the starlings that are frightened at
every passer by; a little fearful flock. If temptation comes, they fall
before it; if trial comes, they are overwhelmed by it; their frail
skiff is danced up and down by every wave; and when the wind comes,
they are drifted along like a sea-bird on the crest of the billows;
weak things, without strength, without force, without might, without
power. Ah! dear friends, I know I have got hold of some of your hands
now, and your hearts too; for you are saying, "Weak! Ah, that I am.
Full often I am constrained to say, I would, but cannot sing; I would,
but cannot pray; I would, but cannot believe." You are saying that you
cannot do anything; your best resolves are weak and vain; and when you
cry, "My strength renew," you feel weaker than before. You are weak,
are you? Bruised reeds and smoking flax? Blessed be God, this text is
for you then. I am glad you can come in under the denomination of weak
ones, for here is a promise that he will never break nor quench them,
but will sustain and hold them up. I know there are some very strong
people here–I mean strong in their own ideas. I often meet with
persons who would not confess any such weakness as this. They are
strong minds. They say, "Do you think that we go into sin, sir? Do you
tell us that our hearts are corrupt? We do not believe any such thing;
we are good, and pure, and upright; we have strength and might." To you
I am not preaching this morning; to you I am saying nothing; but take
heed–your strength is vanity, your power is a delusion, your might is
a lie–for however much you may boast in what you can do, it shall pass
away; when you come to the real contest with death, you shall find that
you have no strength to grapple with it: when one of these days of
strong temptation shall come, it will take hold of you, moral man, and
down you will go; and the glorious livery of your morality will be so
stained, that though you wash your hands in snow water, and make
yourselves never so clean, you shall be so polluted that your own
clothes shall abhor you. I think it is a blessed thing to be weak. The
weak one is a sacred thing; the Holy Ghost has made him such. Can you
say, "No strength have I?" Then this text is for you.
Secondly, the things mentioned in our text are not only weak, but
worthless things. I have heard of a man who would pick up a pin as he
walked along the street, on the principle of economy; but I never yet
heard of a man who would stop to pick up bruised reeds. They are not
worth having. Who would care to have a bruised reed–a piece of rush
lying on the ground? We all despise it as worthless. And smoking flax,
what is the worth of that? It is an offensive and noxious thing; but
the worth of it is nothing. No one would give the snap of a finger
either for the bruised reed or smoking flax. Well, then, beloved, in
our estimation there are many of us who are worthless things. There are
some here, who, if they could weigh themselves in the scales of the
sanctuary, and put their own hearts into the balance of conscience,
would appear to be good for nothing–worthless, useless. There was a
time when you thought yourselves to be the very best people in the
world–when if any one had said that you had more than you deserved,
you would have kicked at it, and said, "I believe I am as good as other
people." You thought yourselves something wonderful–extremely worthy
of God's love and regard; but you now feel yourselves to be worthless.
Sometimes you imagine God can hardly know where you are, you are such a
despicable creature–so worthless–not worth his consideration. You can
understand how he can look upon an animalcule in a drop of water, or
upon a grain of dust in the sunbeam, or upon the insect of the summer
evening; but you can hardly tell how he can think of you, you appear so
worthless–a dead blank in the world, a useless thing. You say, "What
good am I? I am doing nothing. As for a minister of the gospel, he is
of some service; as for a deacon of the church, he is of some use; as
for a Sabbath-school teacher, he is doing some good; but of what
service am I?" But you might ask the same question here. What is the
use of a bruised reed? Can a man lean upon it? Can a man strengthen
himself therewith? Shall it be a pillar in my house? Can you bind it up
into the pipes of Pan, and make music come from a bruised reed? Ah! no;
it is of no service. And of what use is smoking flax? the midnight
traveller cannot be lighted by it; the student cannot read by the flame
of it. It is of no use; men throw it into the fire and consume it. Ah!
that is how you talk of yourselves. You are good for nothing, so are
these things. But Christ will not throw you away because you are of no
value. You do not know of what use you may be, and you cannot tell how
Jesus Christ values you after all. There is a good woman there, a
mother, perhaps, she says, "Well, I do not often go out–I keep house
with my children, and seem to be doing no good." Mother, do not say so,
your position is a high, lofty, responsible one; and in training up
children for the Lord, you are doing as much for his name as yon
eloquent Apollos, who so valiantly preached the word. And you, poor
man, all you can do is to toil from morning till night, and earn just
enough to enable you to live day by day, you have nothing to give away,
and when you go to the Sabbath-school, you can just read, you cannot
teach much–well, but unto him to whom little is given of him little is
required. Do you not know that there is such a thing as glorifying God
by sweeping the street crossing? If two angels were sent down to earth,
one to rule an empire, and the other to sweep a street, they would have
no choice in the matter, so long as God ordered them. So God, in his
providence, has called you to work hard for your daily bread; do it to
his glory. "Whatsoever ye do, whether ye eat or drink, do all to his
honor." But, ah! I know there are some of you here who seem useless to
the Church. You do all you can; but when you have done it, it is
nothing; you can neither help us with money, nor talents, nor time,
and, therefore, you think God must cast you out. You think if you were
like Paul or Peter you might be safe. Ah! beloved, talk not so; Jesus
Christ saith he will not quench the useless flax, nor break the
worthless bruised reed; he has something for the useless and for the
worthless ones. But mark you, I do not say this to excuse laziness–to
excuse those that can do, but do not; that is a very different thing.
There is a whip for the ass, a scourge for idle men, and they must have
it sometimes. I am speaking now of those who cannot do it; not of
Issacher, who is like a strong ass, crouching down between two burdens,
and too lazy to get up with them. I say nothing for the sluggard, who
will not plough by reason of the cold, but of the men and women who
really feel that they can be of little service–who cannot do more; and
to such, the words of the text are applicable.
Now we will make another remark. The two things here mentioned are
offensive things. A bruised reed is offensive, for I believe there is
an allusion here to the pipes of Pan, which you all know are reeds put
together, along which a man moves his mouth, thus causing some kind of
music. This is the organ, I believe which Jubal invented, and which
David mentions, for it is certain that the organ we use was not then in
use. The bruised reed, then, would of course spoil the melody of all
the pipes; one unsound tube would so let the air out, as to produce a
discordant sound, or no sound at all, so that one's impulse would be to
take the pipe out and put in a fresh one. And, as for smoking flax, the
wick of a candle or anything of that kind, I need not inform you that
the smoke is offensive. To me no odour in all the world is so
abominably offensive as smoking flax. But some say, "How can you speak
in so low a style?" I have not gone lower than I could go myself, nor
lower than you can go with me; for I am sure you are, if God the Holy
Ghost has really humbled you, just as offensive to your own souls, and
just as offensive to God as a bruised reed would be among the pipes, or
as smoking flax to the eyes and nose. I often think of dear old John
Bunyan, when he said he wished God had made him a toad, or a frog, or a
snake, or anything rather than a man, for he felt he was so offensive.
Oh! I can conceive a nest of vipers, and I think that they are
obnoxious; I can imagine a pool of all kinds of loathsome creatures,
breeding corruption, but there is nothing one half so worthy of
abhorrence as the human heart. God spares from all eyes but his own
that awful sight–a human heart; and could you and I but once see our
heart, we should be driven mad, so horrible would be the sight. Do you
feel like that? Do you feel that you must be offensive in God's
sight–that you have so rebelled against him, so turned away from his
commandments, that surely you must be obnoxious to him? If so, my text
is yours.
Now, I can imagine some woman here this morning who has departed from
the paths of virtue; and, while she is standing in the throng up there,
or sitting down, she feels as if she had no right to tread these
hallowed courts, and stand among God's people. She thinks that God
might almost make the chapel break down upon her to destroy her, she is
so great a sinner. Never mind, broken reed and smoking flax! Though
thou art the scorn of man, and loathsome to thyself, yet Jesus saith to
thee, "Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more, lest a worse
thing come unto thee." There is some man here who hath something in his
heart that I know not of–who may have committed crimes in secret, that
we will not mention in public; his sins stick like a leech to him, and
rob him of all comfort. Here you are young man, shaking and trembling,
lest your crime should be divulged before high heaven; you are broken
down, bruised like a reed, smoking like flax. Ah! I have a word for
thee too. Comfort! comfort! comfort! Despair not; for Jesus saith he
will not quench the smoking flax, he will not break the bruised reed.
And yet, my dear friends, there is one thought before I turn away from
this point. Both of these articles, however worthless they may be, may
yet be of some service. When God puts his hand to a man, if he were
worthless and useless before, he can make him very valuable. You know
the price of an article does not depend so much upon the value of the
raw material to begin with–bruised reeds and smoking flax; but by
Divine workmanship both these things become of wondrous value. You tell
me the bruised reed is good for nothing; I tell you that Christ will
take that bruised reed and mend it up, and fit it in the pipes of
heaven. Then when the grand orchestra shall send forth its music, when
the organs of the skies shall peal forth their deep-toned sounds, we
shall ask, "What was that sweet note heard there, mingling with the
rest?" And some one shall say, "It was a bruised reed." Ah! Mary
Magdalene's voice in heaven, I imagine, sounds more sweet and liquid
than any other; and the voice of that poor thief, who said "Lord,
remember me," if it is a deep bass voice, is more mellow and more sweet
than the voice of any other, because he loved much, for he had much
forgiven him. This reed may yet be of use. Do not say you are good for
nothing; you shall sing up in heaven yet. Do not say you are worthless;
at last you shall stand before the throne among the blood-washed
company, and shall sing God's praise. Ay! and the smoking flax too,
what good can that be? I will soon tell you. There is a spark in that
flax somewhere; it is nearly out, but still a spark remaineth. Behold
the prairie on fire! See you the flames come rolling on? See you stream
after stream of hot fire deluging the plain till all the continent is
burnt and scorched–till heaven is reddened with the flame? Old night's
black face is scarred with the burning, and the stars appear affrighted
at the conflagration. How was that mass ignited? By a piece of smoking
flax dropped by some traveller, fanned by the soft wind, till the whole
prairie caught the flame. So one poor man, one ignorant man, one weak
man, even one backsliding man, may be the means of the conversion of a
whole nation. Who knows but that you who are nothing now, may be of
more use than those of us who appear to stand better before God,
because we have more gifts and talents? God can make a spark set a
world on fire–he can light up a whole nation with the spark of one
poor praying soul. You may be useful yet; therefore be of good cheer.
Moss groweth upon gravestones; the ivy clingeth to the mouldering pile;
the mistletoe groweth on the dead branch; and even so shall grace, and
piety, and virtue, and holiness, and goodness, come from smoking flax
and bruised reeds.
II. Thus, then, my dear friends, I have tried to find out the parties
for whom this text is meant, and I have shown you somewhat of mortal
frailty;
Now I mount a step higher–to DIVINE COMPASSION.
"The bruised reed he will not break, the smoking flax he will not
quench."
Notice what is first of all stated, and then let me tell you that Jesus
Christ means a great deal more than he says. First of all, what does he
say? He says plainly enough that he will not break the bruised reed.
There is a bruised reed before me–a poor child of God under a deep
sense of sin. It seems as if the whip of the law would never stop. It
keeps on, lash, lash, lash; and though you say, "Lord, stop it, and
give me a little respite," still comes down the cruel thong, lash,
lash, lash. You feel your sins. Ah! I know what you are saying this
morning: "If God continues this a little longer my heart will break: I
shall perish in despair; I am almost distracted by my sin; if I lie
down at night I cannot sleep; it appears as if ghosts were in the
room–ghosts of my sins–and when I awake at midnight, I see the black
form of death staring at me, and saying, Thou art my prey, I shall have
thee;' while hell behind seems to burn." Ah! poor bruised reed, he will
not break you; conviction shall be too strong; it shall be great enough
to melt thee, and to make thee go to Jesus' feet; but it shall not be
strong enough to break thy heart altogether, so that thou shouldst die.
Thou shalt never be driven to despair; but thou shalt be delivered;
thou shalt come out of the fire, poor bruised reed, and shalt not be
broken.
So there is a backslider here this morning; he is like the smoking
flax. Years gone by you found such happiness in the ways of the Lord,
and such delight in his service, that you said, "There I would for ever
stay.
'What peaceful hours I then enjoyed;
How sweet their memory still!
But they have left an aching void,
The world can never fill.'"
You are smoking, and you think God will put you out. If I were an
Arminian, I should tell you that he would; but being a believer in the
Bible, and nothing else, I tell you that he will not quench you. Though
you are smoking, you shall not die. Whatever your crime has been, the
Lord says, "Return ye backsliding children of men, for I will have
mercy upon you." He will not cast thee away, poor Ephraim; only come
back to him–he will not despise thee, though thou hast plunged thyself
in the mire and dirt, though thou art covered from head to foot with
filthiness; come back, poor prodigal, come back, come back! Thy father
calls thee. Hearken poor backslider! Come at once to him whose arms are
ready to receive thee.
It says he will not quench–he will not break. But there is more under
cover than we see at first sight. When Jesus says he will not break, he
means more than that; he means, "I will take that poor bruised reed; I
will plant it hard by the rivers of waters, and (miracle of miracles) I
will make it grow into a tree whose leaf shall not wither; I will water
it every moment; I will watch it; there shall be heavenly fruits upon
it; I will keep the birds of prey from it; but the birds of heaven, the
sweet songsters of paradise shall make their dwellings in the
branches." When he says that he will not break the bruised reed, he
means more; he means that he will nourish, that he will help, and
strengthen, and support and glorify–that he will execute his
commission on it, and make it glorious for ever. And when he says to
the backslider that he will not quench him, he means more than that–he
means that he will fan him up to a flame. Some of you, I dare say, have
gone home from chapel and found that your fire had gone nearly out; I
know how you deal with it; you blow gently at the single spark, if
there is one, and lest you should blow too hard, you hold your finger
before it; and if you were alone and had but one match, or one spark in
the tinder, how gently would you blow it. So, backslider, Jesus Christ
deals with thee; he does not put thee out; he blows gently; he says, "I
will not quench thee;" he means, "I will be very tender, very cautious,
very careful;" he will put on dry material, so that by-and-by a little
spark shall come to a flame, and blaze up towards heaven, and great
shall be the fire thereof.
Now I want to say one or two things to Little-Faiths this morning. The
little children of God who are here mentioned as being bruised reeds or
smoking flax are just as safe as the great saints of God. I wish for a
moment to expand this thought, and then I will finish with the other
head. These saints of God who are called bruised reeds and smoking flax
are just as safe as those who are mighty for their Master, and great in
strength, for several reasons. First of all, the little saint is just
as much God's elect as the great saint. When God chose his people, he
chose them all at once, and altogether; and he elected one just as much
as the other. If I choose a certain number of things, one may be less
than the rest, but one is as much chosen as the other; and so Mrs.
Fearing and Miss Despondency are just as much elected as Great-Heart,
or Old Father Honest. Again: the little ones are redeemed equally with
the great ones! the feeble saints cost Christ as much suffering as the
strong ones; the tiniest child of God could not have been purchased
with less than Jesus' precious blood; and the greatest child of God did
not cost him more. Paul did not cost any more than Benjamin–I am sure
he did not–for I read in the Bible that "there is no difference."
Besides, when of old they came to pay their redemption-money, every
person brought a shekel. The poor shall bring no less, and the rich
shall bring no more than just a shekel. The same price was paid for the
one as the other. Now then little child of God, take that thought to
thy soul. You see some men very prominent in Christ's cause–and it is
very good that they should be–but they did not cost Jesus a farthing
more than you did; he paid the same price for you that he paid for
them. Recollect again, you are just as much a child of God as the
greatest saint. Some of you have five or six children. There is one
child of yours, perhaps, who is very tall and handsome, and has,
moreover, gifts of mind; and you have another child who is the smallest
of the family, perhaps has but little intellect and understanding. But
which is the most your child? "The most!" you say; "both alike are my
children, certainly, one as much as the other." And so, dear friends,
you may have very little learning, you may be very dark about divine
things, you may but "see men as trees walking," but you are as much the
children of God as those who have grown to the stature of men in Christ
Jesus. Then remember, poor tried saint, that you are just as much
justified as any other child of God. I know that I am completely
justified.
His blood and righteousness
My beauty are, my glorious dress.
I want no other garments, save Jesus' doings, and his imputed
righteousness.
The boldest child of God wants no more; and I who am "less than the
least of all saints," can be content with no less, and I shall have no
less. O Ready-to-Halt, thou art as much justified as Paul, Peter, John
the Baptist, or the loftiest saint in heaven. There is no difference in
that matter. Oh! take courage and rejoice.
Then one thing more. If you were lost, God's honor would be as much
tarnished as if the greatest one were lost. A queer thing I once read
in an old book about God's children and people being a part of Christ
and in union with him. The writer says–"A father sitteth in his room,
and there cometh in a stranger; the stranger taketh up a child on his
knee, and the child hath a sore finger; so he saith, My child, you have
a sore finger;' Yes!' Well, let me take it off, and give thee a golden
one!' The child looketh at him and saith, I will not go to that man any
more, for he talks of taking off my finger; I love my own finger, and I
will not have a golden one instead of it.'" So the saint saith, "I am
one of the members of Christ, but I am like a sore finger, and he will
take me off and put a golden one on." "No," said Christ, "no, no; I
cannot have any of my members taken away; if the finger be a sore one,
I will bind it up; I will strengthen it." Christ cannot allow a word
about cutting his members off. If Christ lose one of his people, he
would not be a whole Christ any longer. If the meanest of his children
could be cast away, Christ would lack a part of his fullness; yea,
Christ would be incomplete without his Church. If one of his children
must be lost, it would be better that it should be a great one, than a
little one. If a little one were lost, Satan would say, "Ah! you save
the great ones, because they had strength and could help themselves;
but the little one that has no strength, you could not save him." You
know what Satan would say; but God would shut Satan's mouth, by
proclaiming, "They are all here, Satan, in spite of thy malice, they
are all here; every one is safe; now lie down in thy den for ever, and
be bound eternally in chains, and smoke in fire!" So shall he suffer
eternal torment, but not one child of God ever shall.
One thought more and I shall have done with this head. The salvation of
great saints often depends upon the salvation of little ones. Do you
understand that? You know that my salvation, or the salvation of any
child of God, looking at second causes, very much depends upon the
conversion of some one else. Suppose your mother is the means of your
conversion, you would, speaking after the manner of men, say, that your
conversion depended upon hers; for her being converted, made her the
instrument of bringing you in. Suppose such-and-such a minister to be
the means of your calling; then your conversion, in some sense, though
not absolutely, depends upon his. So it often happens, that the
salvation of God's mightiest servants depends upon the conversion of
little ones. There is a poor mother; no one ever knows anything about
her; she goes to the house of God, her name is not in the newspapers,
or anywhere else; she teaches her child, and brings him up in the fear
of God; she prays for that boy; she wrestles with God, and her tears
and prayers mingle together. The boy grows up. What is he? A
missionary–a William Knibb–a Moffat–a Williams. But you do not hear
anything about the mother. Ah! but if the mother had not been saved,
where would the boy have been? Let this cheer the little ones; and may
you rejoice that he will nourish and cherish you, though you are like
bruised reeds and smoking flax.
Now, to finish up, there is a CERTAIN VICTORY.
"Till he send forth judgment unto victory."
Victory! There is something beautiful in that word. The death of Sir
John Moore, in the Peninsular war, was very touching; he fell in the
arms of triumph; and sad as was his fate, I doubt not that his eye was
lit up with lustre by the shout of victory. So also, I suppose, that
Wolfe spoke a truth when he said, "I die happy," having just before
heard the shout, "they run, they run." I know victory even in that bad
sense–for I look not upon earthly victories as of any value–must have
cheered the warrior. But oh! how cheered the saint when he knows that
victory is his! I shall fight during all my life, but I shall write
"vici" on my shield. I shall be "more than conqueror through him that
loved me." Each feeble saint shall win the day; each man upon his
crutches; each lame one; each one full of infirmity, sorrow, sickness,
and weakness, shall gain the victory. "They shall come with singing
unto Zion; as well the blind, and lame, and halt, and the woman with
child, together." So saith the Scripture. Not one shall be left out;
but he shall "send forth judgment unto victory." Victory! victory!
victory! This is the lot of each Christian; he shall triumph through
his dear Redeemer's name.
Now a word about this victory. I speak first to aged men and women.
Dear brethren and sisters, you are often, I know, like the bruised
reed. Coming events cast their shadows before them; and death casts the
shadow of old age on you. You feel the grasshopper to be a burden; you
feel full of weakness and decay; your frame can hardly hold together.
Ah! you have here a special promise. "The bruised reed I will not
break." "I will strengthen thee." "When thy heart and thy flesh
faileth, I will be the strength of thy heart and thy portion for ever."
Even down to old age, all my people shall prove
My sovereign, eternal, unchangeable love;
And when hoary hairs shall their temples adorn,
Like lambs they shall still in my bosom be borne.
Tottering on thy staff, leaning, feeble, weak, and wan; fear not the
last hour; that last hour shall be thy best; thy last day shall be a
consummation devoutly to be wished. Weak as thou art, God will temper
the trial to thy weakness; he will make thy pain less, if thy strength
be less; but thou shalt sing in heaven, Victory! victory! victory!
There are some of us who could wish to change places with you, to be so
near heaven–to be so near home. With all your infirmities, your grey
hairs are a crown of glory to you; for you are near the end as well as
in the way of righteousness.
A word with you middle-aged men, battling in this life's rough storm.
You are often bruised reeds, your religion is so encumbered by your
worldly callings, so covered up by the daily din of business, business,
business, that you seem like smoking flax; it is as much as you can do
to serve your God, and you cannot say that you are "fervent in spirit"
as well as "diligent in business." Man of business, toiling and
striving in this world, he will not quench thee when thou art like
smoking flax; he will not break thee when thou art like the bruised
reed, but will deliver thee from thy troubles, thou shalt swim across
the sea of life, and shalt stand on the happy shore of heaven, and
shalt sing, "Victory" through him that loved thee.
Ye youths and maidens! I speak to you, and have a right to do so. You
and I ofttimes know what the bruised reed is, when the hand of God
blights our fair hopes. We are full of giddiness and waywardness, it is
only the rod of affliction that can bring folly out of us, for we have
much of it in us. Slippery paths are the paths of youths, and dangerous
ways are the ways of the young, but God will not break or destroy us.
Men, by their over caution, bid us never tread a step lest we fall; but
God bids us go, and makes our feet like hind's feet that we may tread
upon high places. Serve God in early days; give your hearts to him, and
then he will never cast you out, but will nourish and cherish you.
Let me not finish without saying a word to little children. You who
have never heard of Jesus, he says to you, "The bruised reed I will not
break; the smoking flax I will not quench." I believe there is many a
little prattler, not six years old, who knows the Saviour. I never
despise infantile piety; I love it. I have heard little children talk
of mysteries that grey-headed men knew not. Ah! little children who
have been brought up in the Sabbath-schools, and love the Saviour's
name, if others say you are too forward, do not fear, love Christ
still.
Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Still will look upon a child;
Pity thy simplicity,
And suffer thee to come to him.
He will not cast thee away; for smoking flax he will not quench, and
the bruised reed he will not break.