The Good Man's Life and Death
A Sermon
(No. 146)
Delivered on Sabbath Morning, August 16, 1857, by the
REV. C.H. SPURGEON
at the Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens.
"For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain."–Philippians 1:21.
HOW OMINOUSLY these words follow each other in the text–"live," "die."
There is but a comma between them, and surely as it is in the words so
is it in reality. How brief the distance between life and death! In
fact there is none. Life is but death's vestibule, and our pilgrimage
on earth is but a journey to the grave. The pulse that preserves our
being beats our death march, and the blood which circulates our life is
floating it onward to the deeps of death. To-day we see our friends in
health, to-morrow we hear of their decease. We clasped the hand of the
strong man but yesterday, and to-day we close his eyes. We rode in the
chariot of comfort but an hour ago, and in a few more hours the last
black chariot must convey us to the home of all living. Oh, how closely
allied is death to life! The lamb teat sporteth in the field must soon
feel the knife. The ox that loweth in the pasture is fattening for the
slaughter. Trees do but grow that they may be felled. Yea, and greater
things than these feel death. Empires rise and flourish, they flourish
but to decay, they rise to fall. How often do we take up the volume of
history, and read of the rise and fall of empires. We hear of the
coronation and the death of kings. Death is the black servant who rides
behind the chariot of life. See life! and death is close behind it.
Death reacheth far throughout this world, and hath stamped all
terrestrial things with the broad arrow of the grave. Stars die mayhap;
it is said that conflagrations have been seen far off in the distant
ether, and astronomers have marked the funerals of worlds, the decay of
those mighty orbs that we had imagined set for ever in sockets of
silver to glisten as the lamps of eternity. But blessed be God, there
is one place where death is not life's brother, where life reigns
alone; "to live," is not the first syllable which is to be followed by
the next, "to die." There is a land where deathknells are never tolled,
where winding-sheets are never woven, where graves are never digged.
Blest land beyond the skies! To reach it we must die. But if after
death we obtain a glorious immortality, our text is indeed true: "To
die is gain."
If you would get a fair estimate of the happiness of any man you must
judge him in these two closely connected things, his life and his
death. The heathen Solon said, "Call no man happy until he is dead; for
you know not what changes may pass upon him in life." We add to
that–Call no man happy until he is dead; because the life that is to
come, if that be miserable, shall far outweigh the highest life of
happiness that hath been enjoyed on earth. To estimate a man's
condition we must take it in all its length. We must not measure that
one thread which reacheth from the cradle to the coffin. We must go
further; we must go from the coffin to the resurrection, and from the
resurrection on throughout eternity. To know whether acts are
profitable, I must not estimate their effects on me for the hour in
which I live, but for the eternity in which I am to exist. I must not
weigh matters in the scales of time; I must not calculate by the hours,
minutes and seconds of the clock, but I must count and value things by
the ages of eternity.
Come, then, beloved; we have before us the picture of a man, the two
sides of whose existence will both of them bear inspection; we have hi
life, we have his death: we have it said of his life, "to live is
Christ," of his death, "to die is gain;" and if the same shall be said
of any of you, oh! ye may rejoice! Ye are amongst that thrice happy
number whom the Lord hath loved, and whom he delighteth to honor.
We shall now divide our text very simply into these two points, the
good man's life, and the good man's death.
I. As to HIS LIFE, we have that briefly described thus: "For me to live
is Christ." The believer did not always live to Christ. When he was
first born into this world he was a slave of sin, and an heir of wrath,
even as others. Though he may have afterwards become the greatest of
saints, yet until divine grace hath entered his heart, he is "in the
gall of bitterness and in the bonds of iniquity." He only begins to
live to Christ when God the Holy Spirit convinceth him of his sin, and
of his desperate evil nature, and when by grace he is brought to see
the dying Saviour making a propitiation for his guilt. From that moment
when by faith he sees the slaughtered victim of Calvary, and casts his
whole life on him, to be saved, to be redeemed, to be preserved, and to
be blest by the virtue of his atonement and the greatness of his grace,
from that moment the man begins to live to Christ.
And now shall we tell you as briefly as we can what living to Christ
means.
It means, first, that the life of a Christian derives its parentage
from Christ. "For me to live is Christ." The righteous man has two
lives. He has one which he inherited from his parents; he looks back to
an ancestral race of which he is the branch, and he traces his life to
the parent stock; but he has a second life, a life spiritual, a life
which is as much above mere mental life, as mental life is above the
life of the animal or the plant; and for the source of this spiritual
life he looks not to father or mother, nor to priest nor man, nor to
himself, but he looks to Christ. He says, "O Lord Jesus, the
everlasting Father, the Prince of peace, thou art my spiritual parent;
unless thy Spirit had breathed into my nostrils the breath of a new,
holy and spiritual life, I had been to this day "dead in trespasses and
sins." I owe my third principle, my spirit, to the implantation of thy
grace. I had a body and a soul by my parents, I have received the third
principle, the spirit from thee, and in thee I live, and move, and have
my being. My new, my best, my highest my most heavenly life, is wholly
derived from thee. To thee I ascribe it. My life is hid with Christ in
God. It is no longer I that live, but Christ that liveth in me." And so
the Christian says, "For me to live is Christ," because for me to live
is to live a life whose parentage is not of human origin, but of
divine, even of Christ himself. Again he intended to say, that Christ
was the sustenance of his life, the food his newborn spirit fed upon.
The believer hath three parts to be sustained. The body, which must
have its proper nutriment; the soul, which must have knowledge and
thought to supply it; and the spirit which must feed on Christ. Without
bread I become attenuated to a skeleton, and at last I die; without
thought my mind becomes dwarfed, and, and dwindles itself until I
become the idiot, with a soul that hath just life, but little more. And
without Christ my newborn spirit must become a vague shadowy emptiness.
It cannot live unless it feeds on that heavenly manna which came down
from heaven. Now the Christian can say, "The life that I live is
Christ," because Christ is the food on which he feeds and the
sustenance of his new-born Spirit.
The apostle also meant, that the fashion of his life was Christ. I
suppose that every man living has a model by which he endeavors to
shape his life. When we start in life, we generally select some person,
or persons, whose combined virtues shall be to us the mirror of
perfection. "Now," says Paul, "if you ask me after what fashion I mould
my life, and what is the model by which I would sculpture my being, I
tell you, it is Christ. I have no fashion, no form, no model by which
to shape my being, except the Lord Jesus Christ. Now, the true
Christian, if he be an upright man, can say the same. Understand,
however what I mean by the word "upright." An upright man mean" a
straightt up man–a man that does not cringe and bow, and fawn to other
men's feet; a man that does not lean for help on other men, but just
stands with his head heavenward, in all the dignity of his
independence, leaning nowhere except on the arm of the Omnipotent. Such
a man will take Christ alone to be his model and pattern. This is the
very age of conventionalities. People dare not now do a thing unless
everybody else does the same. You do not often say, "Is a thing right?"
The most you say is, "Does so-and-so do it?" You have some great
personage or other in your family connection, who is looked upon as
being the very standard of all propriety; and if he do it, then you
think you may safely do it. And oh! what an outcry there is against a
man who dares to be singular, who just believes that some of your
conventionalities are trammels and chains, and kicks them all to pieces
and says, "I am free!" The world is at him in a minute; all the
ban-dogs of malice and slander are at him, because he says, "I will not
follow your model! I will vindicate the honor of my Master, and not
take your great masters to be for ever my pattern." Oh! I would to God
that every statesman, that every minister, that every Christian were
free to hold that his only form, and his only fashion for imitation,
must be the character of Christ. I would that we could scorn all
superstitious attachments to the ancient errors of our ancestors; and
whilst some would be for ever looking upon age and upon hoary antiquity
with veneration, I would we had the courage to look upon a thing, not
according to its age, but according to its rightness, and so weigh
everything, not by its novelty, or by its antiquity, but by its
conformity to Christ Jesus and his holy Gospel; rejecting that which is
not, though it be hoary with years, and believing that which is, even
though it be but the creature of the day, and saying with earnestness,
"For me to live is not to imitate this man or the other, but for me to
live is Christ.'"
I think, however, that the very center of Paul's idea would be this:
The end of his life is Christ. You think you see Paul land upon the
shores of Philippi. There, by the river-side, were ships gathered and
many merchant men. There you would see the merchant busy with his
ledger, and overlooking his cargo, and he paused and put his hand upon
his brow, and said as he griped his money-bag, "For me to live is
gold." And there you see his humbler clerk, employed in some plainer
work, toiling for his master, and he, perspiring with work mutters
between his teeth, "For me to live is to gain a bare subsistence." And
there stands for a moment to listen to him, one with a studious face
and a sallow countenance, and with a roll full of the mysterious
characters of wisdom. "Young man," he says, "for me to live is
learning." "Aha! aha!;" says another, who stands by, clothed in mail,
with a helmet on his head, "I scorn your modes of life, for me to live
is glory." But there walks one, a humble tent-maker, called Paul; you
see the lineaments of the Jew upon his face, and he steps into the
middle of them all and says, "For me to live is Christ." Oh! how they
smile with contempt upon him, and how they scoff at him, for having
chosen such an object! "For me to live is Christ." And what did he
mean! The learned man stopped, and said, "Christ! who is he? Is he that
foolish, mad fellow, of whom I have heard, who was executed upon
Calvary for sedition?" The meek reply is, "It is he who died, Jesus of
Nazareth, the King of the Jews." "What?" says the Roman soldier, "and
do you live for a man who died a slave's death? What glory will you get
by fighting his battles?" What profit is there in your preaching,
chimes in the trader. Ah! and even the merchant's clerk thought Paul
mad; for he said, "How can he feed his family? how will he supply his
wants if all he liveth for is to honor Christ?" Ay, but Paul knew what
he was at. He was the wiser man of them all. He knew which way was
right for heaven, and which would end the best. But, right or wrong,
his soul was wholly possessed with the idea–"For me to live is
Christ."
Brethren and sisters, can you say, as professing Christians, that you
live up to the idea of the apostle Paul? Can you honestly say that for
you to live is Christ? I will tell you my opinion of many of you. You
join our churches you are highly respectable men; you are accepted
among us as true and real Christians; but in all honesty and truth I do
not believe that for you to live is Christ. I see many of you whose
whore thoughts are engrossed with the things of earth; the mere getting
of money; the amassing of wealth, seems to be your only object. I do
not deny that you are liberal, I will not dare to say that you are not
generous, and that your cheque-book does not often bear the mark of
some subscription for holy purposes, but I dare to say, after all, that
you cannot in honesty say that you live wholly for Christ. You know
that when you go to your shop or your warehouse, you do not think, in
doing business, that you are doing it for Christ; you dare not be such
a hypocrite as to say so. You must say that you do it for
self-aggrandisement, and for family advantage. "Well!" says one, "and
is that a mean reason?" By no means; not for you, if you are mean
enough to ask that question, but for the Christian it is. He professes
to live for Christ; then how IS it he dares to profess to live for his
Master, and yet does not do so, but lives for mere worldly gain? Let me
speak to many a lady here. You would be shocked if I should deny your
Christianity. You move in the highest circles of life, and you would be
astonished if I should presume to touch your piety, after your many
generous donations to religious objects; but I dare to do so. You–what
do you do? You rise late enough in the day: you have your carriage out,
and call to see your friends, or leave your card by way of proxy. You
go to a party in the evening; you talk nonsense, and come home and go
to bed. And that is your life from the beginning of the year to the
end. It is just one regular round. There comes the dinner or the ball,
and the conclusion of the day; and then Amen, so be it, for ever. Now
you don't live for Christ. I know you go to church regularly, or attend
at some dissenting chapel; all well and good. I shall not deny your
piety, according to the common usage of the term, but I deny that you
have got to anything like the place where Paul stood when he said, "For
me to live is Christ." I, my brethren, know that with much earnest
seeking I have failed to realize the fullness of entire devotion to the
Lord Jesus. Every minister must sometimes chasten himself and say, "Am
I not sometimes a little warped in my utterances? Did I not in some
sermon aim to bring out a grand thought instead of stating a home
truth? Have I not kept back some warning that I ought to have uttered,
because I feared the face of man?" Have we not all good need to chasten
ourselves, because we must say that we have not lived for Christ as we
should have done? And yet there are, I trust, a noble few, the elite of
God's elect, a few chosen men and women on whose heads there is the
crown and diadem of dedication, who can truly say, "I have nothing in
this world I cannot give to Christ–I have said it, and mean what I
have said–
'Take my soul and body's powers,
All my goods and all my hours,
All I have, and all I am.'
Take me, Lord, and take me for ever." These are the men who make our
missionaries; these are the women to make our nurses for the sick,
these are they that would dare death for Christ; these are they who
would give of their substance to his cause; these are they who would
spend and be spent, who would bear ignominy, and scorn, and shame if
they could but advance their Master's interest. How many of this sort
have I here this morning? Might I not count many of these benches
before I could find a score? Many there are who do in a measure carry
out this principle; but who among us is there (I am sure he standeth
not here in this pulpit) that can dare to say he hath lived wholly for
Christ, as the apostle did? And yet, till there be more Pauls, and more
men dedicated to Christ, we shall never see God's kingdom come, nor
shall we hope to see his will done on earth, even as it is in heaven.
Now, this is the true life of a Christian, its source, its sustenance,
its fashion, and its end, all gathered up in one word, Christ Jesus;
and, I must add, its happiness, and its glory, is all in Christ. But I
must detain you no longer.
II. I must go to the second point, THE DEATH OF THE CHRISTIAN. Alas,
alas, that the good should die; alas, that the righteous should fall!
Death, why dost thou not hew the deadly upas? Why dost thou not mow the
hemlock? Why dost thou touch the tree beneath whose spreading branches
weariness hath rest? Why dost thou touch the flower whose perfume hath
made glad the earth? Death, why dost thou snatch away the excellent of
the earth, in whom is all our delight? If thou wouldest use thine axe,
use it upon the cumber-grounds, the trees that draw nourishment, but
afford no fruit; thou mightest be thanked then. But why wilt thou cut
down the cedars, why wilt thou fell the goodly trees of Lebanon? O
Death, why dost thou not spare the church? Why must the pulpit be hung
in black; why must the missionary station be filled with weeping? Why
must the pious family lose its priest, and the house its head? O Death,
what art thou at? touch not earth's holy things; thy hands are not fit
to pollute the Israel of God. Why dost thou put thine hand upon the
hearts of the elect? Oh stay thou, stay thou; spare the righteous,
Death, and take the bad! But no, it must not be; death comes and smites
the goodliest of us all; the most generous, the most prayerful, the
most holy, the most devoted must die. Weep, weep, weep, O church, for
thou hast lost thy martyrs; weep, O church, for thou hast lost thy
confessors, thy holy men are fallen. Howl, fir tree, for the cedar hath
fallen, the godly fail, and the righteous are cut off. But stay awhile;
I hear another voice. Say ye thus unto the daughter of Judah, spare thy
weeping. Say ye thus unto the Lord's flock, Cease, cease thy sorrow thy
martyrs are dead, but they are glorified; thy ministers are gone, but
they have ascended up to thy Father, and to their Father, thy brethren
are buried in the grave, but the archangel's trumpet shall awake them,
and their spirits are ever now with God.
Hear ye the words of the text, by way of consolation, "To die is gain."
Not such gain as thou wishest for, thou son of the miser, not such gain
as thou art hunting for, thou man of covetousness and self-love; a
higher and a better gain is that which death brings to a Christian.
My dear friends, when I discoursed upon the former part of the verse,
it was all plain. No proof was needed; ye believed it, for you saw it
clearly. "To live is Christ," hath no paradox in it. But "To die is
gain," is one of the Gospel riddles which only the Christian can truly
understand. To die is not gain if I look upon the merely visible, to
die is loss, it is not gain. Hath not the dead man lost his wealth?
though he had piles of riches, can he take anything with him? Hath it
not been said, "Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I
return thither." "Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." And
which of all thy goods, canst thou take with thee? The man had a fair
estate and a goodly mansion; he hath lost that. He can no more tread
those painted halls, nor walk those verdant lawns. He had abundance of
fame and honor; he hath lost that, so far as his own sense of it is
concerned, though still the harp string trembles at his name. He has
lost his wealth, and buried though he may be in a costly tomb, yet is
he as poor as the beggar who looked upon him in the street in envy.
That is not gain, it is loss and he hath lost his friends: he hath left
behind him a sorrowing wife and children, fatherless, without his
guardian care; he hath lost the friend of his bosom, the companion of
his youth. Friends are there to weep over him, but they cannot cross
the river with him; they drop a few tears into his tomb, but with him
they must not and cannot go. And hath he not lost all his learning,
though he hath toiled ever so much to fill his brain with knowledge?
What is he now above the servile slave, though he hath acquired all
knowledge of earthly things? Is it not said,
"Their memory and their love are lost
Alike unknowing and unknown?"
Surely death is loss. Hath he not lost the songs of the sanctuary and
the prayers of the righteous? Hath he not lost the solemn assembly, and
the great gathering of the people? No more shall the promise enchant
his ear, no more shall the glad tidings of the gospel wake his soul to
melody. He sleeps in the dust, the Sabbath-bell tolls not for him, the
sacramental emblems are spread upon the table, but not for him. He hath
gone to his grave, he knoweth not that which shall be after him. There
is neither work nor device in the grave, whither we all are hastening.
Surely death is loss. When I look upon thee, thou clay-cold corpse, and
see thee just preparing to be the palace of corruption and the carnival
for worms, I cannot think that thou hast gained. When I see that thine
eye hath lost light, and thy lip hath lost its speech, and thine ears
have lost hearing, and thy feet have lost motion, and thy heart hath
lost its joy, and they that look out of the windows are darkened, the
grinders have failed, and no sounds of tabret and of harp wake up thy
joys, O clay-cold corpse, than hast lost, lost immeasurably. And yet my
text tells me it is not so. It says, "To die is gain." It looks as if
it could not be thus, and certainly it is not, so far as I can see. But
put to your eye the telescope of faith, take that magic glass which
pierces through the veil that parts us from the unseen. Anoint your
eyes with eyesalve, and make them so bright that they can pierce the
ether and see the unknown worlds. Come, bathe yourself in this sea of
light, and live in holy revelation and belief, and then look, and oh
how changed the scene! Here is the corpse, but there the spirit; here
is the clay, but there the soul, here is the carcase, but there the
seraph. He is supremely blest; his death is gain. Come now, what did he
lose? I will show that in everything he lost, he gained far more. He
lost his friends, did he? His wife, and his children, his brethren in
church fellowship, are all lea to weep his loss. Yes, he lost them,
but, my brethren what did he gain? He gained more friends than e'er he
lost. He had lost many in his lifetime, but he meets them all again.
Parents, brethren and sisters who had died in youth or age, and passed
the stream before him, all salute him on the further brink. There the
mother meets her infant, there the father meets his children, there the
venerable patriarch greets his family to the third and fourth
generation, there brother clasps brother to his arms, and husband meets
with wife, no more to be married or given in marriage, but to live
together, like the angels of God. Some of us have more friends in
heaven than in earth. We have more dear relations in glory, than we
have here. It is not so with all of us, but with some it is so; more
have crossed the stream than are left behind. But if it be not so, yet
what friends we have to meet us there! Oh, I reckon on the day of death
if it were for the mere hope of seeing the bright spirits that are now
before the throne; to clasp the hand of Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob,
to look into the face of Paul the apostle, and grasp the hand of Peter;
to sit in flowery fields with Moses and David, to bask in the sunlight
of bliss with John and Magdalene. Oh how blest! The company of poor
imperfect saints on earth is good; but how much better the society of
the redeemed. Death is no loss to us by way of friends. We leave a few,
a little band below, and say to them, "Fear not little flock," and we
ascend and meet the armies of the living God, the hosts of his
redeemed. "To die is gain." Poor corpse! thou hast lost thy friends on
earth; nay, bright spirit, thou hast received a hundred fold in heaven.
What else did we say he lost? We said he lost all his estate, all his
substance and his wealth. Ay, but he has gained infinitely more. Though
he were rich as Crþsus, yet he might well give up his wealth for that
which he hath attained. Were his fingers bright with pearls, and hath
he lost their brilliancy? The pearly gases of heaven glisten brighter
far. Had he gold in his storehouse? Mark ye, the streets of heaven are
paved with gold, and he is richer far. The mansions of the redeemed are
far brighter dwelling places than the mansions of the richest here
below. But it is not so with many of you. You are not rich, you are
poor. What can you lose by death? You are poor here, you shall be rich
there. Here you suffer toil, there you shall rest for ever. Here you
earn your bread by the sweat of your brow but there, no toil Here
wearily you cast yourself upon your bed at the week's end, and sigh for
the Sabbath, but there Sabbaths have no end. Here you go to the house
of God, but you are distracted with worldly cares and thoughts of
suffering; but there, there are no groans to mingle with the songs that
warble from immortal tongues, Death will be gain to you in point of
riches and substance.
And as for the means of grace which we leave behind, what are they when
compared with what we shall have hereafter? Oh, might I die at this
hour, I think I would say something like this, "Farewell Sabbaths,–I
am going to the eternal Sabbath of the redeemed. Farewell minister; I
shall need no candle, neither light of the sun, when the Lord God shall
give me light, and be my life for ever and ever. Farewell ye songs and
sonnets of the blessed; farewell, I shall not need your melodious
burst; I shall hear the eternal and unceasing hallelujahs of the
beatified. Farewell, ye prayers of God's people; my spirit shall hear
for ever the intercessions of my Lord, and join with the noble army of
martyrs in crying, O Lord, how long?' Farewell, O Zion! Farewell, house
of my love, home of my life! Farewell, ye temples where God's people
sing and pray; farewell, ye tents of Jacob, where they daily burn their
offering!-I am going to a better Zion than you, to a brighter
Jerusalem, to a temple that hath foundations, whose builder and maker
is God!" O my dear friends, in the thought of these things, do we not,
some of us, feel as if we could die!
"E'en now by faith we join our hands
With those that went before,
And greet the blood-besprinkled bands
Upon th' eternal shore.
One army of the living God,
At his command we bow,
Part of the host have crossed the flood,
And part are crossing now."
We have not come to the margin yet, but we shall be there soon: we soon
expect to die.
And again, one more thought. We said that when men died they lost their
knowledge, we correct ourselves. Oh, no, when the righteous die they
know infinitely more than they could have known on earth.
"There shall I see and hear and know
All I desired or wished below;
And every power find sweet employ,
In that eternal world of joy."
"Here we see through a glass darkly, but there face to face." There,
what "eye hath not seen nor ear heard" shall be fully manifest to us.
There, riddles shall be unravelled, mysteries made plain, dark texts
enlightened, hard providences made to appear wise. The meanest soul in
heaven knows more of God than the greatest saint on earth. The greatest
saint on earth may have it said of him, "Nevertheless he that is least
in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he." Not our mightiest divines
understand so much of theology as the lambs of the flock of glory. Not
the greatest master-minds of earth understand the millionth part of the
mighty meanings which have been discovered by souls emancipated from
clay. Yes, brethren, "To die is gain." Take away, take away that
hearse, remove that shroud; come, put white plumes upon the horse's
heads and let gilded trappings hang around them. There, take away that
fife, that shrill sounding music of the death march. Lend me the
trumpet and the drum. O hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah; why weep we
the saints to heaven; why need we lament? They are not dead, they are
gone before. Stop, stop that mourning, refrain thy tears, clap your
hands, clap your hands.
"They are supremely blest,
Have done with care and sin and woe;
And with their Saviour rest."
What! weep! weep! for heads that are crowned with coronals of heaven?
Weep, weep for hands that grasp the harps of gold? What, weep for eyes
that see the Redeemer? What, weep for hearts that are washed from sin,
and are throbbing with eternal bliss! What, weep for men that are in
the Saviour's bosom?-No, weep for yourselves, that you are here. Weep
that the mandate has not come which bids you to die. Weep that you must
tarry. But weep not for them. I see them turning back on you with
loving wonder, and they exclaim, "Why weepest thou?" What, weep for
poverty that it is clothed in riches? What, weep for sickness, that it
hath inherited eternal health? What, weep for shame, that it is
glorified; and weep for sinful mortality, that it hath become
immaculate? Oh, weep not, but rejoice. "If ye knew what it was that I
have said unto you, and whither I have gone, ye would rejoice with a
joy that no man should take from you." "To die is gain." Ah, this makes
the Christian long to die–makes him say,
"Oh, that the word were given!
O Lord of Hosts, the wave divide,
And land us all in heaven!"
And now, friends, does this belong to you all? Can you claim an
interest in it? Are you living to Christ? Does Christ live in you? For
if not, your death will not be gain. Are you a believer in the Saviour?
Has your heart been renewed, and your conscience washed in the blood of
Jesus? If not, my bearer, I weep for thee. I will save my tears for
lost friends; there, with this handkerchief I'd staunch mine eyes for
ever for my best beloved that shall die, if those tears could save you.
O, when you die, what a day! If the world were hung in sackcloth, it
could not express the grief that you would feel. You die. O death! O
death! how hideous art thou to men that are not in Christ! And yet, my
hearer, thou shalt soon die. Save me thy bed of shrieks, thy look of
gall, thy words of bitterness! Oh that thou couldst be saved the dread
hereafter! Oh! the wrath to come! the wrath to come! the wrath to come!
who is he that can preach of it? Horrors strike the guilty soul! It
quivereth upon the verge of death; no, on the verge of hell. It looketh
over, clutching hard to life, and it heareth there the sullen groans,
the hollow moans, and shrieks of tortured ghosts, which come up from
the pit that is bottomless, and it clutcheth firmly to life, clasps the
physician, and bids him hold, lest he should fall into the pit that
burneth. And the spirit looketh down and seeth all the fiends of
everlasting punishments, and back it recoileth. But die it must. It
would barter all it hath to coin an hour; but no, the fiend hath got
its grip, and down it must plunge. And who can tell the hideous shriek
of a lost soul? It cannot reach heaven; but if it could, it might well
be dreamed that it would suspend the melodies of angels, might make
even God's redeemed weep, if they could hear the wailings of a damned
soul. Ah! you men and women, ye have wept; but if you die unregenerate,
there will be no weeping like that, there will be no shriek like that,
no wail like that. May God spare us from ever hearing it or uttering it
ourselves! Oh, how the grim caverns of Hades startle, and how the
darkness of night is frighted, when the wail of a lost soul comes up
from the ascending flames, whilst it is descending in the pit. "Turn
ye, turn ye; why will ye die, O house of Israel?" Christ is preached to
you. "This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that
Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners." Believe on him and
live, ye guilty, vile, perishing; believe and live. But this know–if
ye reject my message, and depise my Master, in that day when he shall
judge the world in righteousness by that man, Jesus Christ, I must be a
swift witness against you. I have told you–tat your soul's peril
reject it. Receive my message, and you are saved; reject it–take the
responsibility on your own head. Behold, my skirts are clear of your
blood. If ye be damned, it is not for want of warning. Oh God grant, ye
may not perish.