The Sinner's Friend
A Sermon
(No. 556)
By the
Rev. C. H. SPURGEON,
At the Metropolitan Tabernacle, Newington
"A friend of publicans and sinners."–Matthew 11:19.
MANY A TRUE WORD is spoken in jest, and many a tribute to virtue has
been unwittingly paid by the sinister lips of malice. The enemies of
our Lord Jesus Christ thought to brand him with infamy, hold him up to
derision, and hand his name down to everlasting scorn, as "a friend of
publicans and sinners." Short-sighted mortals! Their scandal published
his reputation. To this day the Savior is adored by the title which was
minted as a slur. It was designed to be a stigma, that every good man
would shudder at and shrink from; it has proved to be a fascination
which wins the heart, and enchants the soul of all the godly. Saints in
heaven, and saints on earth delight to sing of him thus–
"Savior of sinners they proclaim,
Sinners of whom the chief I am."
What the invidious Jews said in bitter spleen, has been turned by the
Holy Spirit to the most gracious account. Where they poured out vials
of hate, odours of sacred incense arise. Troubled consciences have
found a sweet balm in the very sound. Jesus, "the friend of publicans
and sinners," has proved himself friendly to them, and they have become
friends with him; so completely has he justified the very name which
his enemies gave him in ribald affront.
We shall take this title of Jesus to-night as an order of distinction
which sets forth his excellency, and as God helps us, we shall try to
exalt his name and proclaim his fame, while we attempt to explain how
he was the friend of sinners; and how he shows that he is still the
same.
I. OUR LORD PROVED HIMSELF IN HIS OWN TIME TO BE THE FRIEND OF SINNERS.
What better proof could he give of it than coming from the majesty of
his Father's house to the meanness of Bethlehem's manger? What better
proof could he give than leaving the society of cherubim and seraphim,
to lie in the manger where the horned oxen fed, and to become the
associate of fallen men? The incarnation of the Savior in the very form
of sinners, taking upon himself the flesh of sinners, being born of a
sinner, having a sinner for his reputed father–his very being a man,
which is tantamount to being in the same form with sinners–surely this
were enough to prove that he is the sinner's friend.
When you take up the roll of his earthly lineage and begin to read it
through, you will be struck with the fact that there are but few women
mentioned in it; and yet three out of those mentioned were harlots, so
that even in his lineage there was the taint of sin, and a sinner' s
blood would have run in his veins if he had been the true son of
Joseph; but inasmuch as he was begotten by the Holy Ghost, who
overshadowed the Virgin, in him was no sin; yet his reputed pedigree
ran through the veins of sinners. Tamar, and Rahab, and Bath-sheba are
three names which bring to remembrance deeds of shame, and yet these
stand in the records as the ancestors of the Son of Mary, the sinner's
friend!
As soon as Jesus Christ, being born in the likeness of sinful flesh,
has come to years of maturity, and has commenced his real life-work, he
at once discloses his friendship for sinners by associating with them.
You do not find him standing at a distance, issuing his mandates and
his orders to sinners to make themselves better, but you find him
coming among them like a good workman who stands over his work; he
takes his place where the sin and the iniquity are, and he personally
comes to deal with it. He does not write out a prescription and send by
another hand his medicines with which to heal the sickness of sin, but
he comes right into the lazar-house, touches the wounded, looks at the
sick; and there is healing in the touch; there is life in the look. The
great Physician took upon himself our sicknesses and bare our
infirmities, and so proved himself to be really the sinner's friend.
Some people appear to like to have a philanthropic love towards the
fallen, but yet they would not touch them with a pair of tongs. They
would lift them up if they could, but it must be by some
machinery–some sort of contrivance by which they would not degrade
themselves or contaminate their own hands. Not so the Savior. Up to the
very elbow he seems to thrust that gracious arm of his into the mire,
to pull up the lost one out of the horrible pit and out of the miry
clay. He takes himself the mattock and the spade, and goes to work in
the great quarry that he may get out the rough stones which afterwards
he will himself polish with his own bitter tears and bloody sweat, that
he may make them fit to shine for ever in the glorious temple of the
Lord his God. He comes himself into direct, personal contact with sin,
without being contaminated with it. He comes as close to it as a man
can come. He eats and drinks with sinners. He sits at the Pharisee's
table one day, and does not rise because there is a crowd of people no
better than they should be coming near him. Another day he goes to the
publican's house, and the publican had, no doubt, been a great
extortioner in his time; but Jesus sits there, and that day does
salvation come to that publican's house. Beloved, this is a sweet trait
about Christ, and proves how real and how true was his love, that he
made his associations with sinners, and did not shun even the chief of
them.
Nay, he not only came among them, but he was always seeking their good
by his ministry. If there was anywhere a sinner, a lost sheep of the
house of Israel, Christ was after that sinner. Never such an
indefatigable shepherd; he sought that which was lost till he found it.
One of his earliest works of mercy we will tell you of in brief. He was
once on a journey, and Samaria was a little out of his way; but there
lived in a city of that country a woman–ah! the less said of her the
better. She had had five husbands, and he whom she then had was not her
husband, nor were any of the others either. She was a disgrace to that
city of Samaria. But Jesus, who has a keen eye for sinners, and a heart
which beats high for them, means to save that woman, and he must and he
will have her. Being weary, he sits down on a well to rest. A special
providence brings the woman to the well. The conventionalities of
society forbid him to talk with her. But he breaks through the narrow
bigotry of caste. A Samaritan by birth, he cares not for that; but will
that most holy being condescend to have familiar conversation with
her–a dishonor to her sex? He will. His disciples may marvel when they
come back and find him talking with her, but he will do it. He begins
to open up the Word of life to her understanding, and that woman
becomes the first Christian missionary we ever hear of, for she ran
back to the city, leaving her water-pot, and crying, "Come, see a man
which told me all things that ever I did: is not this the Christ?" And
they came and believed; and there was great joy in that city of
Samaria. You know, too, that there was another sinner. He was a bad
fellow–I fear him. He had been constantly grinding the faces of the
poor, and getting more out of them by way of taxation than he should
have done; but the little man had the bump of curiosity, and he must
needs see the preacher, and the preacher must needs love him; for I say
there was a wonderful attraction in Jesus to a sinner. That sinner's
heart was like a piece of iron: Christ's heart was like a loadstone;
and wherever there was a sinner the loadstone began to feel it, and
soon the sinner began to feel the loadstone too. "Azccheus," said
Christ, "make haste, and come down; for to-day I must abide at thy
house;" and down comes the sinner, and salvation has come to his house
at that hour, Oh! Christ never seemed to preach so sweetly as when he
was preaching a sinner's sermon. I would have loved to have seen that
dear face of his when he cried, "Come unto me all ye that labor and are
heavy laden, and I will give you rest;" or, better still, to have seen
his eyes running with whole showers of tears when he said, "O
Jerusalem, Jerusalem . . . how often would I have gathered thy children
together, as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would
not even!" or to have heard him preach those three great sermons upon
sinners when he described the woman as sweeping the house and taking
away the dust, that she might find the lost piece of her money; and the
shepherd going from hill to hill after the wandering sheep; and the
father running to welcome that rag-clad prodigal; kissing him with the
kisses of love, clothing him with the best robe, and inviting him into
the feast, while they did dance and make merry because the lost was
found, and he who was dead was alive again. Why, he was the mightiest
of preachers for sinners, beyond a doubt, Oh! how he loved them! Never
mind the Pharisees: he has thunderbolts for them. "Woe unto you,
Scribes and Pharisees!" But when publicans and harlots come, he always
has the gate of mercy ajar for them. For them he always has some tender
word, some loving saying, such as this–"Him that cometh unto me, I
will in no wise cast out." "All manner of sin and blasphemy shall be
forgiven unto men;" or such like words of tender wooing. The very chief
of sinners was thus drawn into the circle of his disciples.
And you know, dear friends, he did not prove his love merely by
preaching to them, and living with them, and by his patience in
enduring their contradiction against himself, and all their evil words
and deeds, but he proved it by his prayers too. He used his mighty
influence with the Father in their behalf. He took their polluted names
on his holy lips; he was not ashamed to call them brethren. Their cause
became his own, and in their interest his pulse throbbed. How many
times on the cold mountains he kept his heart warm with love to them!
How often the sweat rolled down his face when he was in an agony of
spirit for them I cannot tell you. This much I do know, that on that
self-same night when he sweat as it were great drops of blood falling
down to the ground, he prayed this prayer–after having prayed for his
saints, he went on to say–"Neither pray I for these alone, but for
them also which shall believe on me through their word." Here, truly,
the heart of the Savior was bubbling up and welling over towards
sinners. And you never can forget that almost his last words were,
"Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do." Though wilfully
and wickedly they pierced his hands and his feet, yet were there no
angry words, but only that short, loving, hearty prayer–"Father,
forgive them; for they know not what they do." Ah! friends, if there
ever was a man who was a friend to others, Jesus was a friend to
sinners his whole life through.
This, however, is but little. As for the river of the Savior's love to
sinners, I have only brought you to its banks. You have but stood on
the bank and dipped your feet in the flood; but now prepare to swim. So
fond was he of sinners that he made his grave with the wicked. He was
numbered with the transgressors. God's fiery sword was drawn to smite a
world of sinners down to hell. It must fall on those sinners. But
Christ loves them. His prayers stay the arm of God a little while, but
still the sword must fall in due time. What is to be done? By what
means can they be rescued? Swifter than the lightning's flash I see
that sword descending. But what is that in vision I behold? It
falls–but where? Not on the neck of sinners; it is not their neck
which is broken by its cruel edge; it is not their heart which bleeds
beneath its awful force. No; the "friend of sinners" has put himself
into the sinner's place! and then, as if he had been the sinner, though
in him was no sin, he suffers, bleeds, and dies–no common
suffering–no ordinary bleeding–no death such as mortals know. It was
a death in which the second death was comprehended; a bleeding in which
the very veins of God were emptied. The God-man divinely suffered. I
know not how else to express the suffering. It was a more than mortal
agony, for the divine strengthened the human, and the man was made vast
and mighty to endure through his being a God. Being God and man he
endured more than ten thousand millions of men all put together could
have suffered. He endured, indeed, the hells of all for whom he died,
the torments, or the equivalent for the torments, which all of them
ought to have suffered–the eternal wrath of God condensed and put into
a cup, too bitter for mortal tongue to know, and then drained to its
utmost dregs by the loving lips of Jesus. Beloved, this was love.
"Herein is love, that while we were yet sinners, in due time Christ
died for the ungodly." "Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay
down his life for his friends." This Christ has done, and he is,
therefore demonstrated to be the friend of sinners.
But the trial is over; the struggle is passed; the Savior is dead and
buried; he rises again, and after he has spent forty days on earth–in
that forty days proving still his love for sinners–he rose again for
their justification; I see him ascending up on high. Angels attend him
as the clouds receive him.
"They bring his chariot from on high,
To bear him to his throne;
Clap their triumphant wings and cry,
'The glorious work is done.'"
What pomp! What a procession! What splendor! He will forget his poor
friends the sinners now, will he not? Not he! I think I hear the song,
"Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting
doors, that the King of Glory may come in." The bars of massy light are
all unloosed; the pearly gates are all wide open flung; and as he
passes through, mark you, the highest joy which swells his soul is that
he has opened those gates, not for himself, for they were never shut on
him, but that he has opened them for sinners. It was for this, indeed,
he died; and it is for this that he ascends on high, that he may "open
the kingdom of heaven for all believers." See him as he rides through
heaven's streets! "Thou hast ascended up on high; thou hast led
captivity captive; thou hast received gifts of men." Ah! but hear the
refrain, for this is the sweetest note of all the hymn, "Yea, for the
rebellious also–yea, for the rebellious also, that the Lord God might
dwell among them." The scattered gifts of his coronation, the lavish
bounties of his ascension, are still for sinners. He is exalted on
high–for what? To give repentance and remission of sins. He still
wears upon his breastplate the names of sinners; upon his hands and
upon his heart does he still bear the remembrance of those sinners; and
every day for the sinner's sake he doth not hold his peace, and for the
sinner's sake he doth not rest, but cries unto God until every sinner
shall be brought safely home. Every sinner who believeth, every sinner
who was given to him, every sinner whom he bought with blood–he will
not rest, I say, till all such are gathered to be the jewels of his
crown, world without end.
Methinks we cannot say more; and 1 think you will say we could not have
said less concerning the way in which the Savior proved himself to be
the sinner's friend. If there are any of you who dare to doubt him
after this, I know not what further to advance. If there can be one who
has proved himself your friend, surely Jesus did it, and he is willing
to receive you now. What he has done he still continues to do. O that
you might have grace to perceive that Jesus is the lover of your soul,
that you might find the blessedness which all these tokens of
friendship, of which we have been speaking, have brought for believing
sinners.
II. While we change the subject a little, we shall still keep to the
text, and notice WHAT CHRIST IS DOING NOW FOR SINNERS.
There is a deep principle involved here–a principle the Pharisee of
old could not understand, and the cold heart of humanity is slow to
embrace it to-day. I have two explanations to offer of the way in which
Jesus personally discovers himself to be the friend of sinners, and I
will just mention these before I come to the application of the subject
I intend. Once upon a time a woman was brought to Jesus by the Scribes
and Pharisees: she was an adulteress, she had been taken in the very
act. They tell "the sinners friend" what sentence Moses would pronounce
in such a case, and they ask him, how sayest thou? This they said
tempting him. They were not much concerned about the unhappy creature;
the accusation they were intent to lay was against the Man of Nazareth.
You know how he disposed of the case, and put her accusers out of
countenance. He did not bring the sinner up before the magistrate; nay,
he would not act the judge's part, and pronounce sentence, rather would
he act the neighbor's part; he acquitted himself as a friend. There is
a proverb among a certain class of hard-dealing tradesmen, "We know no
friendship in business;" and full well they carry it out, while they
grind the faces of the poor without pity, and strive to over-reach one
another without fairness. And there was in like manner no friendship,
no mercy whatever, among those gentlemen of the long robe.
Righteousness, to their idea, stood in exacting justice with rigid
severity; and as for wickedness, it was only shameful when it was found
out. She who was taken in the act must be stoned. They who had done it
secretly must prosecute. The real friendship of Jesus appears in his
singling out the object of pity; and where they accused him of winking
at crime and harbouring the criminal, he was truly laying the axe at
the root of the tree, and sheltering the victims while he upbraided the
arrogant rulers, whose secret vices were the genuine cause of the
wretchedness which had fallen upon the dregs of the nation. I commend
this thought to your consideration. When it is said of him, he is a
"friend of pubhicans and sinners," it was implied that he was not a
friend of Scribes and Pharisees. Yet again, I want you to notice that
the office which Christ came to fulfill towards sinners was that of
pure, unmingled friendship. Let us give you an illustration. There is
an awful story abroad: a murder has been committed; and the poor wretch
who committed it has cut his own throat. The policeman and the surgeon
are quickly on the spot. The one comes there in the interest of law,
the other attends in the interest of humanity. Says the officer of
police, "Man, you are my prisoner;" says the doctor, "My dear fellow,
you are my patient." And now he lays a delicate hand upon the wound, he
stanches the blood, applies soft liniments, binds it up with plasters,
and, bending down his ear, listens to the man's breathing: taking hold
of his hand, he feels his pulse: gently raising his head, he
administers to him some wine or stimulant, takes him to the hospital,
gives the nurse instructions to watch him, and orders that he shall be
given nutritious diet as he is able to bear it. Day after day he still
visits him, and uses all his skill and all his diligence to heal the
man's Wounds. Is that the way to deal with criminals? Certainly it is
not the manner in which the police deal. Their business is to find out
all the traces and evidences of his guilt. But the medical attendant is
not concerned with the man as an evil doer, but as a sufferer. So is it
with the sinner. Moses is the officer of justice who comes to arrest
him. Christ is the good Physician who comes to heal him; he says, "O
Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself but in me is thy help." He deals
with the disease, with the wounds, with the sufferings of sinners. He
is therefore their friend. Of course the parallel will only go a little
way. In the instance of the murderer, the surgeon would hand his
patient over to the officers as soon as his wound was recovered; but in
the conduct of our Savior he redeems the soul from under the law, and
delivers it from the penalty of sin, as well as restores it from the
self-inflicted injuries. But oh! if I could but show thee that Christ
treats the sinner with pity, rather than with indignation; that the Son
of man is not come to destroy men's lives, but to save them; that his
visit to our world was mediatoral, not to condemn the world, but to
give his life a ransom for many; surely, then, thou wouldst see reason
enough why the sinner should look to him as a friend indeed.
Ah! then; I would go further. I would entreat thee to make the case
thine own. Thou art a sinner; can I not convince thee that he is thy
friend?
You were sick the other day. The physician looked very grave, and
whispered something to your wife. She did not tell you what it was, but
your own life trembled in the scale, and it is a wonder you are here
to-night. Shall I tell you why you are here? Do you see that tree
yonder? It has been standing in its place for many years, but it has
never yielded any fruit, and several times the master of the garden has
said, "Cut it down." The other day the woodman came with his axe; he
felt its edge, it was sharp and keen enough, and he began to cut, and
the chips were flying, and he made a deep gash. But the gardener came
by, one who had watched over the tree, and had hope of it even yet, and
he said, "Spare it–spare it yet a little longer; the wound thou hast
made may heal; and I will dig about it, and dung it, and if it bring
forth fruit well; spare it another year, and if not then cut it down."
That tree is yourself. The woodman is Death. That chipping at the trunk
of the tree was your sickness. Jesus is he who spared you. You had not
been here to-night–you had been there in hell among damned spirits,
howling in unutterable woe, if it had not been that the friend of
sinners had spared your life.
And where are you to-night? Perhaps, my hearers, you are in an unusual
place for you. Your Sunday evenings are not often spent in the house of
God. There are other places which know you, but your seat there is
empty to-night. There has been much persuasion to bring you here, and
it may be that you have come against your will; but some friend has
asked you to conduct him to the spot, and here you are. Do you know why
you are here? It is a friendly providence, managed by the sinner's
friend which has brought you here, that you may hear the sound of
mercy, and have a loving invitation tendered to you. Be grateful to the
Savior that he has brought you to the gospel-pool. May you–O, may you
this night be made to step in and be washed from sin! But it is kind of
him, and proves how true a friend he is of sinners, that he has brought
you here. I will leave you now where you are, and I will tell you how
he has dealt with other sinners, for mayhap this may lead you to ask
him to deal the same with you.
I know a sinner–while I live I must know him. Full well do I remember
him when he was hard of heart and an enemy to God by a multitude of
wicked works. But this friend of sinners loved him; and passing by one
day, he looked right into his soul with such a look, that his hard
heart began to break. There were deep throes as though a birth of a
divine sort were coming on. There was an agony, and there was a grief
unutterable; and that poor soul did not think it kind of Jesus; but,
indeed, it was kindness too intense ever fully to estimate, for there
is no saving a soul except by making it feel its need of being saved.
There must be in the work of grace an emptying and a pulling down
before there can be a filling and a building up. That soul knew no
peace for many a year, and the sole of its foot had no rest; but one
day
"I heard the voice of Jesus say,
Come unto me and rest;
Lay down, thou weary one, lay down,
Thy head upon my breast.
I came to Jesus as I was,
Weary, and worn, and sad,
I found in him a resting-place,
And he has made me glad!
I heard the voice of Jesus say,
Behold, I freely give
The living water, thirsty one,
Stoop down, and drink, and live.
I came to Jesus and I drank
Of that life-giving stream;
My thirst was quench'd, my soul revived,
And now I live in him.
I heard the voice of Jesus say,
I am this dark world's light,
Look unto me, thy morn shall rise,
And all thy days be bright.
I look'd to Jesus and I found
In him my star, my sun
And in that light of light I'll walk,
Till travelling days are done."
Ay, said I, Christ is the friend of sinners! So say I, and so will I
say while this poor lisping stammering tongue can articulate a sound.
And methinks God had a design of abundant mercy when he saved my soul.
I had not then believed it, though a mother's loving accents might have
whispered it in my ears. But he seems to remind me of it over and over
again, till love and terror mingle in my breast, saying, "Woe is me if
I preach not the gospel." O my blessed Master, thou dost trust my lips
when thou dost bear witness to my heart. Thou givest charge to my
tongue when thou constrained my soul. "Am I a chosen vessel?" It is to
bear his name to sinners. As a full bottle seeks vent, so must my
testimony pant for utterance. O sinner, if thou trustest him, he will
be such a friend to thee; and if thou hast now a broken heart and a
contrite spirit, these are his work; and it is a proof of his great
love to thee if he has made thee to hunger and thirst after him.
Let me impress upon you that Jesus is the friend of the friendless. She
who had spent all her money on physicians without getting relief,
obtained a cure gratis when she came to him. He who bath "nothing to
pay" gets all his debts cancelled by this friend. And he who was ready
to perish with hunger, finds not only a passing meal, but a constant
supply at his hands.
We know of a place in England still existing, where there is a dole of
bread served to every passer-by who chooses to ask for it. Whoever he
may be he has but to knock at the door of St. Cross Hospital, and there
is the dole of bread for him. Jesus Christ so loveth sinners that he
has built a St. Cross Hospital, so that, whenever a sinner is hungry,
he has but to knock and have his wants supplied. Nay, he has done
better; he has attached to this hospital of the cross a bath; and
whenever a soul is black and filthy it has but to go there and be
washed. The fountain is always full, always efficacious. There is no
sinner who ever went into it and found it, could not wash away his
stains. Sins which were scarlet and crimson have all disappeared, and
the sinner has been whiter than snow. As if this were not enough, there
is attached to this hospital of the cross a wardrobe, and a sinner,
making application simply as a sinner, with nothing in his hand, but
being just empty and naked, he may come and be clothed from head to
foot. And if he wishes to be a soldier, he may not merely have an under
garment, but he may have armor which shall cover him from the sole of
his foot to the crown of his head. Nay, if he wants a sword he shall
have that given to him, and a shield too. There is nothing that his
heart can desire that is good for him which he shall not receive. He
shall have spending-money so long as he lives, and he shall have an
eternal heritage of glorious treasure when he enters into the joy of
his Lord.
Beloved, I cannot tell you all that Christ has done for sinners, but
this I know, that if he meets with you to-night, and becomes your
friend, he will stand by you to the last. He will go home with you
to-night. No matter how many pairs of stairs you have to go up, Jesus
will go with you. No matter if there be no chair to sit down on, he
will not disdain you. You shall be hard at work to-morrow, but as you
wipe the sweat from your brow he shall stand by you. You will, perhaps,
be despised for his sake, but he will not forsake you. You will,
perhaps, have days of sickness, but he will come and make your bed in
your sickness for you. You will, perhaps, be poor, but your bread shal
be given you, and your water shall be sure, for he will provide for
you. You will vex him much and grieve his Spirit. You will often doubt
him–you will go after other lovers. You will provoke him to jealousy,
but he will never cease to love you. You will, perhaps, grow cold to
him, and even forget his dear name for a time, but he will never forget
you. You may, perhaps, dishononr his cross, and damage his fair fame
among the sons of men, but he will never cease to love you; nay, he
will never love you less–he cannot love you more. This night he doth
espouse himself unto you. Faith shall be the wedding-ring which he will
put upon your finger. He plights his troth to you,
"Though you should him ofttimes forget
His lovingkindness fast is set."
His heart shall be so true to you that he will never leave you nor
forsake you. You will come to die soon, but the friend of sinners, who
loved you as a sinner and would not cast you off when your sinnership
kept breaking up, will still he with you when you come to the sinner's
doom, which is to die. I see you going down the shelving banks of
Jordan, but the sinner's friend goes with you. Ah! dear heart, he will
put his arm beneath you, and bid you fear not; and when in the thick
shades of that grim night you expect to see a fearful visage–the grim
face of Death–you shall see instead thereof, you shall see his sweet
and smiling face, bright as an evening star, by your soul, and you
shall hear him say, "Fear not, I am with thee; be not dismayed; I am
thy God." You will land in the world of spirits by-and-by; but will the
sinner's friend forsake you then? No; he will be pleased to own you; he
will meet you on the other side the Jordan, and he will say, "Come, my
beloved, I have loved thee with an everlasting love, and have bought
thee, though thou wast a sinner vile, and now I am not ashamed to
confess thee before my holy angels; nay, come with me, and I will take
thee to my Father's face, and will confess thee there." And when the
day shall come in which the world shall be judged, he will be thy
friend then. Thou shalt sit on the bench with him. At the right hand of
the Judge shalt thou stand, accepted in him who was thine Advocate, and
who is now thy Judge, to acquit thee. And when the splendours of the
millennium shall come, thou shalt partake of them; and when the end
shall be, and the world shall be rolled up like a worn-out vesture, and
these arching skies shall have passed away like a forgotten dream; when
eternity, with its deep-sounding waves shall break upon the mocks of
time and sweep them away for ever–then, on that sea of glass mingled
with fire, thou shalt stand with Christ, thy friend still, owning thee
notwithstanding all thy misbehaviour in the world which has gone, and
loving thee now, loving thee on as long as eternity shall last. Oh!
what a friend is Christ to sinners, to sinners!
Now do recollect, that we have been talking about sinners; there is a
notion abroad that Jesus Christ came into the world to save respectable
people, and that he will save decent sort of folks; that those of you
who go regularly to a place of worship, and are good sort of people,
will be saved. Now Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners;
and who does that mean? Well, it includes some of us who have not been
permitted to go into outward sin; but it also includes within its deep,
broad compass those who have gone to the utmost extent of iniquity.
Talk of sinners! Walk the streets by moonlight, if you dare, and you
will see sinners then. Watch when the night is dark, and the wind is
howling, and the picklock is grating in the door, and you will see
sinners then. Go to you jail, and walk through the wards, and see the
men with heavy, over-hanging brows, men whom you would not like to meet
out at night, and there are sinners there. Go to the Reformatories, and
see those who have betrayed an early and a juvenile depravity, and you
will see sinners there. Go across the seas to the place where a man
will gnaw a bone upon which is reeking human flesh, and there is a
sinner there. Go you where you will, and ransack earth to find sinners,
for they are common enough; you may find them in every lane and street,
of every city and town, and village and hamlet. It is for such that
Jesus died. If you will select me the grossest specimen of humanity, if
he be but born of woman, I will have hope of him yet, because the
gospel of Christ is come to sinners, and Jesus Christ is come to seek
and to save sinners. Electing love has selected some of the worst to be
made the best. Redeeming love has bought, specially bought, many of the
worst to be the reward of the Savior's passion. Effectual grace calls
out and compels to come in many of the vilest of the vile; and it is
therefore that I have tried to-night to preach my Master's love to
sinners.
Oh! by that love, looking out of those eyes in tears; oh! by that love,
streaming from those wounds flowing with blood; by that faithful love,
that strong love, that pure, disinterested, and abiding love; oh! by
the heart and by the bowels of the Savior's compassion, I do conjure
you turn not away as though it were nothing to you; but believe on him
and you shall be saved. Trust your souls with him and he will bring you
to his Father's right hand in glory everlasting.
May God give us a blessing for Jesus' sake. Amen.