The Voice From Heaven

The Voice From Heaven
A SERMON DELIVERED ON SUNDAY EVENING, NOVEMBER 23, 1862, BY THE REV. C.
H. SPURGEON, AT THE METROPOLITAN TABERNACLE, NEWINGTON.
"And they heard a great voice from Hea ven, saying unto them, Come up
here."
Revelation 11:12.
WHAT may be the particular meaning of the prophecy concerning the
witnesses clothed in sackcloth, their death, their resurrection, and
their subsequent entrance into Heaven, I am unable to guess. Nor am I
clear that anybody else has hit upon it. Although I do not despise
prophesying, I entertain a very intense disgust of those who know
nothing about them, and yet pretend to be their interpreters. I am free
to confess that I have not the key to the Book of Revelation and dare
not set up to be its expositor.
This, however is no great matter–for without my venturing upon that
line of things–there are quite enough who are always studying the
apocalyptic mysteries, and a sufficient number who believe that they
can comprehend them. No branch of literature has more devoted students,
and in none are men more successful in refuting one another, or more
sure that they have established their own theories by demolishing those
of others. It may be that there are some whose office it is to open
sealed books–I know that it is mine to enforce the teachings of the
unsealed volume.
They may have a call to expound Daniel and Ezekiel–mine is of a much
humbler, but, I think I may add, of a much more useful character–not
so much to foretell the fall of dynasties and the deaths of monarchs as
to deal with matters of vital godliness–and with eternal realities.
With things that are plainly revealed, which certainly belong unto us,
and unto our children, I had rather be a sweet savor unto God in souls
converted, than explain all the last vials. And I would prefer rather
to comprehend the heights and depths of my Great Master's love, than to
count the number of the beast, or calculate the duration of the little
horn.
I. Waiving, then, all attempts at explaining the text from its
connection, I intend to use it as the voice of God to His people. We
shall regard it, first of all as A SUMMONS SENT AT THE APPOINTED HOUR
TO EVERY SAINT. When the time shall come, fixed by irreversible decree,
there shall be heard "a great voice from Heaven" to every Believer in
Christ, saying, "Come up here."
This should be to us–each one of us if we are in Christ–the subject
of very joyful anticipation. Instead of decoding the time when we shall
leave this world to go to the Father, we should be thirsting and
panting for the hour that shall set our soul at liberty, and give our
spirit, once and for all, its full discharge from an imprisonment of
clay and from the bondage of "the body of this death." To some
Christians it will not only be joyful in anticipation, but it will be
intensely delightful when it arrives. It is not true, as some suppose,
that death when it really appears, is necessarily a dreadful and
hideous apparition–
"Death no terrific foe appears. An angel's lovely form he wears, A
friendly messenger he proves To every soul whom Jesus loves." I doubt
not that many Believers welcome the kind approach of death as the
arrival of their best friend, and salute their last hour with intense
delight. Witness the saint who has been for years bedridden. She is
tossed to and fro as on a sea of pain, never resting at the anchorage
of ease. She cries at night, "Would God it were morning," and when the
light of day affects her eyes, she longs for the returning darkness
that she may slumber for a little season and forget her pains. Her
bones have worn through her skin by long lying upon a bed made as soft
as kindness can render it, but, alas, still too hard for so weak and
tormented a body.
Pangs have shot through her frame as arrows piercing the foe. Every
vein has been a river flushed with agony, and every nerve a telegraph
conveying messages of pain to the spirit. Oh, how welcome shall it be
when the Voice shall cry from Heaven, "Come up here!" No more weakness
now! The joyful spirit shall leave all bodily pain behind. The last
tear shall be wiped away by the Divine Father's hand. And she that was
a mass of disease and decay, shall now become an embodiment of intense
delight, full to the brim with satisfaction, and infinite pleasure in
that land where Jehovah-Rophi reigns. The inhabitant shall no more say,
"I am sick."
With what joy will the Voice from Heaven sound in the ear of the man
wearied with labor! The world shall know of some of us, when we die,
that we have not been idle–that we have served our God beyond our
strength. He who finds the ministry an easy profession shall find the
flames of Hell no pleasant resting place. Oh, there may be some of you
in whose name I can speak now who have served God with throbbing brow,
with palpitating heart–weary in your Master's service, but never weary
of it–springing to the collar when the load was far too heavy for your
single strength. Ready to labor, or ready to fight, never putting off
your armor–you stand harnessed both by night and day, crying in your
Master's name–
"Is there a foe before whose face I fear His cause to plead? Is there a
lamb among His flock I would refuse to feed?"
The time must come when age shall take away the juvenile vigor which
for a while carried off weariness, and you shall be constrained to
lament, saying, "When shall the shadows be drawn out? When shall I
fulfill, as a hireling, my day?" Happy for the minister if in his
pulpit he shall hear the voice, "Come up here," and shall–
"His body and his charge lay down, And cease at once to work and live."
Happy for you, fellow laborers in the kingdom of Christ and in the
tribulation of our common Savior! When you think you can do no more,
your doing shall be ended and your reward shall come and your Savior
shall say, "Come up here"– and you shall see the glory which you have
believed in, upon the earth.
Beloved, with what intense delight will death be hailed by the sons of
abject poverty, I mean, "such as are of the household of faith." From
shivering in the winter's cold to the brightness of Heaven. From the
solitude and desolation of friendless penury to the communion and
fellowship of saints made perfect. From the table scantily furnished
with hard-earned bread–from famishing and want. From the poor
emaciated bones. From the form ready to be bowed down with hunger–from
the tongue that cleaves to the mouth with thirst. From crying children
and a wailing wife–wailing for bread, crying that they may be fed! Oh,
to be snatched away to Heaven!
Happy man, to have known so much of ill that he may know better the
sweetness of perfect bliss! Mansions of the blessed, how bright you are
in contrast with the cotter's hut! Streets of gold, how you shall make
the beggar forget the cold doorstep and dry arch! Paupers become
princes–pensioners are peers. And peasants are kings and priests. O
land of Goshen, how long before the sons of Israel receive you for an
heritage?
And, dear Friends, I think I ought to add this–with what seraphic joy
must this voice have been heard in the martyrs' ears in caves and dens
of the earth where the holy wander in their sheepskins and
goatskins–what holy triumph must this message create! Blandina, tossed
in the Roman amphitheatre on the horns of bulls–then seated in her
red-hot iron chair, and mocked while she is there consumed before the
leering multitude–oh, that voice, "Come up here!" How it must have
cheered her in those horrid agonies which she bore with more than
masculine heroism.
The many who have perished on the rack–surely they have seen visions
like those of Stephen, who, when the stones were rattling about his
ears saw Heaven open and heard the Heaven-sent voice, "Come up here."
The multitude of our ancestors–our venerated predecessors who carried
the banner of the Cross before our day, who stood on flaming wood and
bore the flames with patience. Their bodies were consumed by fire till
their lower limbs were burnt away and life just remained within a mass
of ashes–oh the joy with which they would leap into their fiery
chariots drawn by horses of fire straight to Heaven–at this omnipotent
bidding of the Master–"Come up here!"
Though yours and mine may never be the lot of protracted sickness, or
abject penury, or excessive labor, or the death of martyrdom–let us
still believe that if we are true followers of Christ, whenever death
shall come, or rather whenever life and immortality shall come–it
shall be a joyous and blessed time for us! Seek not of the Most High to
delay the time when He shall summon you to the upper chamber, but
listen every morning, listen with your heart desiring to hear it–
listen for the royal message which says, "Come up here." An ancient
singer sweetly words it–
"I said sometimes with tears, Ah me!I'm afraid to die! Lord silence You
these fears; My life's with You on high. Sweet truth to me! I shall
arise, And with these eyes My Savior see!
What means my trembling heart, To be thus shy of death? My life and I
shall not part, Though I resign my breath. Sweet truth to me!
Ishallarise, And with these eyes My Savior see!
Then welcome harmless grave! By you to Heaven I'll go– My Lord, Your
death shall save Me from the flames below. Sweet truth to me!
Ishallarise, And with these eyes My Savior see!"
To change the note a moment–while this should be the subject of joyous
anticipation, it should also be the object of patient waiting. God
knows best when it is time for us to be bid to, "Come up here." We must
not wish to antedate the period of our departure. I know that strong
love will make us cry–
"O Lord of Hosts the waves divide, And land us all in Heaven," but
patience must have her perfect work. I would not wish to die while
there is more work to do or more souls to win, more jewels to place in
the Redeemer's crown, more glory to be given to His name, and more
service to be rendered to His Church.
When George Whitfield lay sick and wanted to die, his Negro nurse had
prayed for him and at last said, "No Massa Whitfield there is no dying
for you! There's many a poor Negro yet to be brought to Christ and you
must live." And live he did. You know when Melancthon lay very sick,
Martin Luther said he should not die. And when his prayers began to
work a cure, Melancthon said, "Let me die Luther, let me die, leave off
your prayers." Luther replied, "No, man, I want you. God's cause wants
you, and you shall not die yet." And when Melancthon refused to eat or
to take the necessary medicine because he hoped to be soon with Christ,
Luther threatened him with excommunication if he did not then and there
do as he was bid.
It is not for us by neglect of means, or wanton waste of strength, or
profligate zeal, to cut short a life which may be useful. "Do yourself
no harm"–the advice of Paul to the jailor–is not at all amiss here.
God knows the pace at which time should travel, and how long the road
of life should be. Why, if it were possible for there to be regrets in
Heaven, it might be that we did not live longer here to do more good.
More sheaves! More jewels! But how, unless there is more work? True,
there is the other side of it–that living so briefly we sin the less,
and our temptations are the fewer–but oh, when we are fully serving
God, and He is using us to scatter precious seed and reap a
hundred-fold, we would say it is well for us to abide where we are.
An aged Christian, asked whether she would rather die or live, said she
would rather it should be as God willed it. "But if you might have your
choice, which would you have?" "If I might have my choice," said she,
"I would ask God to choose for me, for I should be afraid to choose for
myself." So be you ready to stay on this side of Jordan, or to cross
the flood–just as your Master wills it.
And then another thought. As this, "Come up here," should excite joyous
anticipation, tempered by patient waiting, so, Beloved, it should
always be to us a matter of absolute certainty as to its ultimate
reception. I would not give sleep to my eyes, nor slumber to my eyelids
if this were a subject of doubt, personally, as to whether at the last
I should stand among the justified. I can understand a man being in
doubt about his interest in Christ, but I cannot understand, and I hope
I never may, a man's resting content if there are doubts. This is a
matter about which we want absolute certainty. Young man yonder! Are
you sure that the King will say to you, "Come up here"?
If you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ with all your heart, that call
from the Divine Throne is as certain to meet your ear as that other
cry, "Dust you are, and unto dust you shall return." He that believes
on the Son of God has everlasting life. No "ifs" or "buts" ought to be
tolerated in our hearts. I know they will come up like ill weeds, but
it is ours to pull them up, heap them together, and set them on fire,
as farmers do with the twitch in their furrows. The devil loves us to
cast lots at the foot of the Cross–but Christ would have us look unto
Him and find a sure salvation.
No, no, we are not to be put off with guesswork here. My Friend, can
you be easy without infallible certainty? What? You may die tonight and
be lost forever, and can you be happy? No, Man, I charge you by the
living God, shut not those eyes until you are sure that you shall open
them either in earth or Heaven! But if there is this fear that you may
lift up those eyes in Hell, how dare you sleep? How dare you sleep,
lest your bed become your tomb, and your chamber become the door of
Tophet to you? Oh, Brothers and Sisters, let us seek to have the seal
of God upon us–the infallible witness of the Holy Spirit bearing
witness with our spirits–that we are born of God. Then, and only then,
we may joyfully hope and quietly wait to see the salvation of God when
the Master says, "Come up here."
I will add this fourth thought and then proceed. I think very often,
besides joyfully anticipating, patiently waiting, and being confidently
assured of it, the Christian should delightfully contemplate it. Ah,
let every Christian now say, "I shall soon be dying–time swiftly
speeds away. There is my chamber. I can paint the picture now. They
have told me that I am very sick, but they have kept back from me, till
I asked them plainly, the news that I must very speedily die. But now I
know it and feel the sentence of death in myself.
Now for the joyous secret–in a few minutes I shall know more of Heaven
than an assembly of Divines could teach me. But how solemn is the scene
around me–they are moving quietly about the room–very silently they
are catching each word that is uttered–treasuring it up. Now Saint,
you must play the man! Say a good word for your Master! Stir the deeps
of Jordan with your bold march of victory, O soldier of Jesus! Make its
shelving shores resound with your melodies! Show them how a Christian
can die–now let your full heart overflow with flood tides of Heaven.
Drink up the bitter cup and say, "Death is swallowed up in victory."
But, how is this that my mind seems fluttering as though about to take
wing?–
"What is this absorbs me quite– Steals my senses–shuts my sight–
Drowns my spirit–draws my breath? Tell me, my Soul, can this be
death?" I cannot see. The film is forming on my eyes–it is the death
glaze. A clammy sweat is on my brow–it is the dew from the damps of
death. The kind hand of affection has just wiped my forehead, and I
wish to speak, but there is a throttle in my throat which keeps down
the word this is the monitor to me of the silence of the tomb. I will
strive against it–
"Joyful, with all the strength I have, My quivering lips shall sing,
Where is your victory, boasting grave? And where's the monster's
sting?"
The effort has exhausted the dying one. He must fall back again. They
stay him up with pillows. Ah, you may prop him up with pillows, but he
has a better arm beneath him than that of the fondest friend!
Now does his Beloved say, "Stay him with apples, and comfort him with
flagons," for while sick to death, he is also "sick of love." His
Master makes his bed in his sickness. His left hand is under his head,
and His right hand does embrace him. The Husband of that chosen soul is
now answering the prayer for His Presence which it delighted to offer,
saying, "Abide with Me." Now is the poet's prayer granted to the
letter–
"Hold then, Your Cross before my closing eyes! Shine through the gloom
and point me to the skies!
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee– In life and
death, O Lord, abide with me!" We cannot paint the last moment. The
rapture, the dawning Glory, the first young flash of the beatific
Glory–we must leave all that. On earth, the scene is far more somber
and yet not sad–see yonder friends? They gather round. They say, "Yes,
he is gone–how placidly he slept! I could not tell the moment when he
passed from sleep to death. He is gone." They weep, but not with
hopeless sorrow, for they mourn the body, not the soul. The setting is
broken, but the gem is safe. The fold is removed, but the sheep is
feeding on the hilltops of Glory. Worms devour the clay, but angels
welcome the soul. There is general mourning wherever the good man was
known–but mark you, it is only in the dark that this sorrow reigns.
Up there in the light, what are they doing? That spirit, as it left the
body, found itself not alone. Angels had come to meet it. Angelic
spirits clasped the disembodied spirit in their arms and bore it upward
beyond the stars–beyond where the angel in the sun keeps his
everlasting watch–beyond, beyond this lower sky immeasurable leagues.
Lo! The pearly gates appear, and the azure light of the city of
bejeweled walls! The spirit asks, "Is yonder city the fair Jerusalem
where they need no candle, neither light of the sun?" He shall see for
himself before long, for they are nearing the Holy City, and it is time
for the cherub-bearers to begin their choral.
The music breaks from the lips of those that convey the saint to
Heaven–"Lift up your heads, O you gates, and be you lifted up you
everlasting doors, that the blood-bought of the King of Glory may come
in!" The gates of pearl give way! The joyous crowds of Heaven welcome
their Brother to the seats of immortality. But what next, I cannot
tell. In vain the fancy strives to paint it. Jesus is there, and the
spirit is in His arms in Heaven, where should it be but in the arms of
Jesus? O joy! Joy! Joy! Boundless oceans of joy! I shall see Him! I
shall see Him! These eyes shall see Him and not another–
"Shall see Him wear that very flesh On which my guilt was laid. His
love intense, His merit fresh, As though but newly slain. These eyes
shall see Him in that day The Man that died for me! And all my rising
bones shall say, Lord, who is like to You."
I could lose myself while talking upon this subject, for my heart is
all on fire! I wander, but I cannot help it. My heart is far away upon
the hills with my Beloved Lord. What will the bliss of Glory be? A
surprise, I think, even to those who shall obtain it. We shall scarcely
know ourselves when we get to Heaven! We shall be so surprised at the
difference. That poor man yonder is to be robed in all the splendors of
a king! Come with me and see those bright ones–that son of toil, who
rests forever–that child of sin, washed by Jesus, and now a companion
of the God of Heaven!
And /, the chief of sinners singing out His praise! Saul of Tarsus,
hymning the music of Calvary! The penitent thief, with his deep bass
note, exalting dying love. And Magdalene, mounting to the alto notes,
for there must be some voices even in Heaven which must sing alone, and
mount to higher notes where the rest of us cannot reach–the whole
together singing, "Unto Him that loved us, and has washed us from our
sins in His blood, unto Him be glory forever and ever." Oh that we were
there! Oh that we were there! But we must patiently wait the Master's
will. It shall not be long before He shall say, "Come up here."
II. And now we shall turn to a second part of the subject. We will take
the text, this time, not as a summons to depart, but as a WHISPER FROM
THE SKIES TO THE BELIEVER'S HEART. There is a Voice that sounds from
Heaven tonight, not as a peremptory summons, but as a gently-whispered
invitation–"Come up here."
The Father seems to say this to every adopted child tonight. We say,
"Our Father which are in Heaven." The Father's heart desires to have
His children round His knees, and His love each day beckons us with a
tender, "Come up here." Nor will your Father, and my Father ever be
content till everyone of His children shall be in the many mansions
above. And Jesus whispers this in your ear tonight, too. Listen! Do you
not hear Him say, "I will that they also whom You have given Me be with
Me where I am, that they may behold My glory–the glory which You have
given Me–the glory which I had with You before the world was." Jesus
beckons you to the skies, Believer.
Lay not hold upon the things of earth. He who is but a lodger in an inn
must not live as though he were at home. Keep your tent ready for
striking. Be always prepared to draw up your anchor, and to sail across
the sea and find the better port–for while Jesus beckons, here we have
no continuing city. No true wife has rest save in the house of her
husband. Where her consort is, there is her home–a home which draws
her soul towards it every day. Jesus, I say, invites us to the skies.
He cannot be completely content until He brings His body, the Church,
into the Glory of its Head, and conducts His elect spouse to the
marriage feast of her Lord.
Besides the desires of the Father and the Son, all those who have gone
before seem to be leaning over the battlements of Heaven tonight, and
calling, "Courage, Brothers! Courage, Brothers and Sisters! Eternal
Glory awaits you. Fight your way, stem the current, breast the wave,
and come up here. We, without you, cannot be made perfect–there is no
perfect Church in Heaven till all the chosen saints are there.
Therefore come up here."
They stretch out their hands of fellowship. They look with glistening
eyes of strong affection upon us, and again, they say, "Come up here."
Warriors who wear your laurels, you call us to the brow of the hill
where the like triumphs await us. The angels do the same tonight. How
they must wonder to see us so careless, so worldly, so hardened! They
also beckon us away, and cry from their starry seats, "Beloved, you
over whom we rejoiced when you were brought as prodigals to your
Father's house, 'Come up here,' for we long to see you. Your story of
Divine Grace will be a strange and wondrous one–one which angels love
to hear–
"Stretch your wings, you saints and fly, Straight to yonder worlds of
joy."
I have kept my pledge to be short on that point. You can walk in this
meditation as in a garden when you are quiet and alone. All nature
rings the bell which calls you to the temple above. You may see the
stars at night, looking down like the eyes of God upon you, and saying,
"Come up here." The whispers of the wind, as they come in the stillness
of the night talk to you, and say, "There is another and a better land.
Come away with us–'Come up here.' " Yes, every cloud that sails across
the sky may say to you, "Mount up beyond me, into the clear ether which
no cloud can dim. Behold the sun which I can never hide–the noon which
I can never mar. "Come up here."
III. I shall want your attention to my third point for a few minutes,
for I think these words may be used as A LOVING INVITATION TO
UNCONVERTED PERSONS. There are many spirit voices which cry to them,
"Come up here.
Come up to Heaven."
I like to see so many crowding here on these dark, cold, wintry days.
This huge place is just as crowded as though it were some little
vestry. You press upon one another as did the throngs in the days of
the Master. God gives a spirit of hearing nowadays in a most wonderful
manner. And oh, I would that while you are hearing, some living spark
of Divine fire may fall into your hearts and become the parent of a
glowing fire! If we ask any man whether he desires to go to Heaven, he
will say, "Yes," but alas, his desires for Heaven are not strong enough
to be of practical use! They are such sorry winds, that there is no
sailing to Heaven with them.
Perhaps if we can quicken those desires tonight, God the Spirit may
bless our words to the bringing of men into the way of life. Sinner,
Wanderer, far from God, many voices salute you tonight. Albeit you have
chosen the paths of the Destroyer, there are many who would turn you to
the way of peace. First, God our Father calls you. You say, "How?"
Sinner, you have had many troubles of late. Business goes amiss. You
have been out of work, unfortunate, troubled, disappointed. You have
tried to get on, but you cannot do it in your house. Everything is out
of order–somehow or other, whatever you put your hand to–nothing
prospers.
You are always floundering from one slough into another. And you are
growing weary of your life. Do you not know, Sinner, this is your
Father saying, "Come up here"? Your portion is not here. Seek another
and a better land. You have built your nest on a tree that is marked
for the axe, and He is pulling your nest down for you, that you may
build on the Rock. I tell you, these troubles are but love strokes to
deliver you from yourself. If you had been left untouched, I had had
little hope for you. Surely then, God would have said, "Let him alone.
He will have no portion in the next life, let him have his portion
here."
We have heard of a wife, a godly woman, who for twenty years had been
persecuted by a brutal husband–a husband so excessively bad that her
faith at last failed her, and she ceased to be able to believe that he
would ever be converted. But all this while she was more kind to him
than ever. One night, at twelve o'clock, in a drunken state, he told
his friends he had such a wife as no other man had. And if they would
go home with him, he would get her up, to try her temper, and she
should get a supper for them all.
They came and the supper was very soon ready, consisting of such things
as she had prepared, as well and as rapidly as the occasion would
allow. And she waited at the table with as much cheerfulness as if the
feast had been held at the proper time. She did not utter a word of
complaint. At last, one of the company, more sober than the rest, asked
how it was she could always be so kind to such a husband. Seeing that
her conduct had made some little impression, she ventured to say to
him, "I have done all I can to bring my husband to God, and I fear he
will never be saved. Since, therefore, his portion must be in Hell
forever, I will make him as happy as I can while he is here, for he has
nothing to expect hereafter."
Now, such is your case tonight. You may get some pleasure here, but you
have nothing to expect hereafter. God has been pleased, I said just
now, to take your pleasures away. Here, then, I have good hopes that,
since He shakes you from the present, you may be driven to the future.
God your Father is thus making you uncomfortable in order that you may
seek Him. It is the beckoning of the finger of His love, "Come up
here." And you know, those deaths you have had lately, all say, "Come
up here."
You remember when your mother died–that was a Saint, indeed! Do you
remember, John, what she said to you? She said, "I could die happy, if
it were not for you, and your brother. But O that I might have a hope
that you may yet come to God." Do you remember, Man, how that little
daughter of yours, that had been to the Sunday School and died so
young, kissed you and said to you, "Father, dear Father, do give up the
drunkard's cup and follow me to Heaven. Do not be angry, Father, I am
dying. Do not be angry because I said that, Father. Follow me to
Heaven." You have not yielded to that loving entreaty. You are
descending into Hell.
Yet remember, all this was God beckoning to you and saying, "Come up
here." He has called, and you have refused. Take care, lest when you
call, He should refuse you. Besides, you have had a sickness yourself.
If I am not mistaken, I am speaking to the right man now. It is not so
long ago since you had a fever, or what was it? It was an accident, and
everybody said you had a near escape for life. You had time for
reflection when you lay in that hospital, or in your own little room.
Do you remember what conscience said to you? How it rent away the
curtain and made you look at your destiny, until you read in fiery
letters these words, "You shall make your bed in Hell"?
Oh, how you trembled then! You had no objection to see the minister.
You could not laugh, then, at the Gospel of Christ! You made a great
many vows and resolutions, and you have broken them all. You have lied
unto the Most High. You have perjured yourself to the God of Israel,
and mocked at the God of mercy, and of justice. Beware, lest He take
you away with a stroke, for then a great ransom shall not deliver you.
These things, then, have been beckonings of your Father's hand to you,
saying, "Come up here."
But more, the Lord Jesus Christ has also beckoned to you to come. You
have heard that He made a way to Heaven. What does a way mean? Is not a
road an invitation to a traveler to walk therein? I have crossed the
Alps, and have seen the mighty roads which Napoleon made that he might
take his cannon into Austria. But how shall we compare the works which
men have made through the solid granite and over pathless
mountains–mountains that before were pathless– how shall we compare
these with the road which Christ has made to Heaven through the rocks
of Justice, over the gulfs of Sin, throwing Himself into the gaps,
leaping into the chasm to complete the way?
Now, the way itself speaks to you. The blood of Christ, which made the
way, speaks better things than that of Abel. And it says, "Sinner,
believe on Christ and you are saved." By every drop of blood which
streamed in sweat from Him in the garden. By every drop which poured
from His hands and feet. By all the agony which He endured, I do
beseech you– hear the Voice which cries, "Go and sin no more." Trust
your soul with Him and you are saved.
But, my dear Hearer, have patience with me–give me your ear. The
Spirit of God strives with you, and cries, "Come up here." The Spirit
of God wrote this Book. And why was this Book written? Hear the words
of Scripture, "These are written that you might believe that Jesus is
the Christ, the Son of God, and that believing, you might have life
through His name." Here is the Book full of promises, perfumed with
affection, brimming with love. Oh, why, why will you spurn it, and put
the voice of mercy from you? Every time you see the Bible, imagine you
see written on its cover, "Go up to Heaven, seek eternal life."
Then there is the ministry through which the Spirit of God speaks. I
have often prayed my Master to give me a Baxter's heart to weep for
sinners, and a Whitfield's tongue to plead. I have neither. But if I
had them, oh, how would I plead with you! But such as I have, I give
you. As God's ambassador, I do beseech you, Sinner, turn from the error
of your ways. "As I live, says the Lord, I have no pleasure in the
death of him that dies, but would rather that he turn unto Me and
live." "Why will you die?" Is Hell so pleasant? Is an angry God a
trifle? Is sin a thing to be laughed at? Is the right hand of God, when
bared in thunder, a thing to be despised? Oh, turn! Flee to the Refuge!
The Spirit bids you fly!
Moreover, does not your conscience say the same? Is not there something
in your heart tonight which says–"Begin to think about your soul.
Trust your soul with Christ"? May Divine Grace constrain you to listen
to the still small voice, that you may be saved!
And, last of all, the spirits of your departed friends cry from Heaven
to you tonight–that voice which I would you could hear, "Come up
here." Mother–unconverted woman–you have a babe in Heaven. Perhaps
not one or two, but a family of babes in Heaven. You are a mother of
angels, and those young cherubs cry to you, "Mother, come up here!" But
this can never be unless you repent and believe in the Lord Jesus
Christ! I know there are some of you who have carried to the tomb the
most sainted of relatives. Your hoary-headed father at last went the
way of all flesh, and from his celestial seat before the eternal throne
he cries, "Come up here."
A sister, sickened by consumption, who has long since left your house
for you to mourn her absence, cries "Come up here." I entreat you, you
sons of saints in glory! I entreat you, daughter of immortal
mothers–despise not now the voice of those who speak from Heaven to
you! Oh, were they here–could it be possible for them to come here to
speak to you tonight, I know the notes of fond affection which would
spring from your lips–"There's my mother." "There's my father."
They cannot come–but I am the spokesman for them. If I cannot speak as
they might, yet remember, if you are not converted when you hear the
Gospel preached, "neither would you be converted if one rose from the
dead." They could but tell you the Gospel. I do no less. That Gospel
is, "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and you shall be saved." "He that
believes and is baptized shall be saved," says the Evangelist. To
believe is to trust Christ. To be baptized is not baby sprinkling–for
that there is no warrant but in the inventions of man. To be baptized
is to be buried with Christ in Baptism after faith–for that which is
done without faith, and not done of faith, is contrary to the Lord's
command.
Baptism is for Believers, not for sinners–like the Lord's Supper, it
is in the Church, not out of it. Believing, you are saved. Baptism does
not save you. You are baptized because you are saved. Baptism is the
outward recognition of the great inward change which the Spirit of God
has worked. Believe, then, in Jesus. Flat on your face before His
Cross, cast yourself. Then rise and say, "Now will I confess His name,"
and be united with His Church, and believe that at last, having
confessed Him before men, He may confess you before His Father which is
in Heaven.
And now you are going home tonight–I am clear of your blood, remember.
I know not how many may be here, but I suppose there are seven thousand
people here tonight who will be without excuse in the Day of Judgment.
I have warned you as best I can. I have pleaded with you. Sinner!
Sinner! Your blood is on your own head if you refuse this great
Salvation! O God the Holy Spirit, make them willing in the day of Your
Power, and save them this night and forever, for Your name's sake.
Amen.