The First Death

Few facts in history are more instructive and melancholy, than that the first death which ever took place in the world was by the hand of a murderer. What an humbling and fearful view must have forced itself on the mind of our first parents of the consequences of their apostasy! How strong the proof of that melancholy transformation of character from the image of God in which they were first created, to a close resemblance to him “who was a murderer from the beginning!” What demonstration of the moral depravity of the race, that the first-born should be so utterly destitute of true holiness, so insensible to the influence of motives that were virtuous, and so alive to those that were sinful and malignant! From the distance at which we look upon this deed of blood, we are ready to ask, How was it possible? Can the human heart be the subject of such great and awful depravity? What a dreadful act was this; how indicative of a stupefied conscience and a hardened heart; and how expressive of revenge and slaughter, thus to stain his hands with a brother’s blood! What a complication of evil passions must have found access to the bosom of that guilty and miserable man, and what utter extinction of his hopes, when, with breathless anxiety and boding terror, he heard the one agonizing shriek, and then looked upon that silent corpse! Never, probably, were passions known to human being more terrible than those which agitated his bosom. Whether he had been led on, step by step, or by his hatred of God and his jealousy of his more accepted brother, had plunged suddenly into this fearful crime, we do not know. But the deed was done which left nothing but remorse and anguish; which has made his name accursed; which drove him from the midst of all the warm and kindly feelings of home, and made him an outcast and a vagabond in the earth. It was not a stranger that he had slain; nor was it an enemy. There were no secular collisions between them; for there was room enough in the world for both, and they might have been mutually serviceable to one another.

No; the earth was not broad enough for them both. Though God’s creature, and one who had as good a right to live as himself, he rose up against him and slew him. There lay the brother whom he had once loved. He had broken and trampled on the nearest and dearest ties; he had murdered one who “hung on the same breast, dimmed the eyes that looked on him in infancy, frozen the warm heart that was cradled in the same womb with his.” Yes; there he lay — that youthful and manly form motionless; that smile once so cheerful, passed away in the ghastliness of death. And now the murderer stood alone in the field. God’s eye was upon him. Conscience was no longer hushed to silence. He had done his work, and the voice of his brother’s blood cried to heaven from the ground.

“Out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies.” It is not enough to say with Paul, “I know that in me, that is in my flesh, dwelleth no good thing.” The apostate mind of man is capable of all evil. It is a homely, but true remark of a quaint, but strong and sensible writer, “The spawn of original sin contains all sin in it: as a spawn is enough to consume all, if fuelled: as the mud, after the overflowing of the Nile, produceth all monsters; and the leprosy spreads all over, if let alone.” We are tempted to say, as we think of Cain, O, if this is maris nature, would that I had never been born! Yet is this man’s nature; the source must be judged of by the bitter streams which flow from it. God himself has declared, “He that liatetli his brother is a murderer.1’’ Every man is a murderer by nature; he would prove himself a murderer, but for the preventing grace of the Most High; and but for that grace, his existence would prove a curse. I know it is a wise dispensation, because it was directed by God’s wisdom, but it is a mysterious dispensation, that God suffered this first murderer to live. We are told that God” set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.’1 Whether he did this, in order to send him into the world, thus with the halter round his neck, and this brand of infamy upon his forehead, and render his life a burden; or whether, in that early age of the world, he would try the effect of his long suffering, we are unable to determine. One thing is obvious from the narrative, that the voice of nature, the voice of reason, the voice of conscience, the voice of humanity cried aloud for the fitting penalty of his crime, and demanded blood for blood; else would it never have been written, “lest any finding him, should hill him.” If the forbearance to execute this penalty was to show what the effect of the divine long-suffering would be, most abundantly was it evinced in the revenge and bloodshed, and the scenes of carnage and havoc, and gigantic crime which made God repent that he had made man on the earth, constrained him to destroy the world by a flood, and subsequently extorted from him that great and universal law, “He that sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.”

But we say no more of the first murderer; he has gone to his own place. It is of the murdered one that we propose to speak. It is not a poetical, nor rhetorical view of this first death that most interests us. It is a more serious and practical view, and one which interests us as dying men. The names of Cain and Abel live in the New Testament history, and are fraught with instruction. We have already adverted to some of the lovely and heaven-imparted traits of the renovated and sanctified character of this murdered man; we dwell now upon his death — the first death on the annals of time. In its proximate cause, it was a fearful death; but that the world might see and admire the power of God’s recovering grace in contrast with the terrible effects of man’s apostasy, it was a peaceful and happy death, and as such speaks to every subsequent age of the world.

The question has been long and warmly discussed, Whether the doctrine of a future state was revealed to the patriarchal age. Among the many proofs that the great Jewish lawgiver taught this truth, none is more conclusive than the death of Abel. The New Testament has most distinctly revealed to us, that this first instance of mortality was the first triumph of redeeming grace. The Apostle Paul, in directing the thoughts of the Hebrew Christians to that “great cloud of witnesses” to the truth, and efficacy, and preciousness of the gospel, includes Abel in the same catalogue of worthies with Enoch, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Moses, and then affirms, “These all died in faith”

How soon did death enter this newly formed world! Adam’s first-born probably hoped to bury his parents; little probably did the parents think to bury their first-born. Sad assurance that death is the inheritance of the race! Human life is not only frail and fugitive in itself; but ten thousand instruments of destruction are always near, and wait but the divine permission to do their fatal work. The graves of those we love compel us to pause in our course; they are breathing-places in our rapid career, where we may look back upon the ground we have trodden over, and forward to the certainty that our race must soon be run. God does not suffer time to flow on broken by no obstructions, interrupted by no changes, and checkered by no indications of its uncertainty. Everything conspires to tell us that we must die. Vacant chambers, vacant offices, vacant seats in the house of God, and places elsewhere once occupied, to be occupied no more, remind us that human life is “soon cut off, and we fly away.” Day utters this affecting sentiment unto day, and night utters it unto night. The seasons, in their alternate majesty and beauty, proclaim it. The elements announce it; the heavens and the earth are one great dial which is continually sending out its monitory notes to tell us how much of our short life is already gone, and to assure us that its end is nih.

Those there are who die, who never thought of making any preparation for death; they are “driven away in their wickedness.” Nothing is more strongly marked in their character than a fixed aversion to “consider their latter end.” The things of time interested them; they were wise to plan, and eager to pursue the business of this world; but they were slow to think of death and the world to come; or if alarmed by some fearful providence, they were constrained to serious reflection, the subject was soon dismissed and forgotten. They resolved, perhaps, to become Christians before they died; but before they were aware of his approach, death was too near for them to prepare for his coming. They were on the very threshold of eternity; nor was it until the last sands were dropping from the hour-glass, that some friendly voice whispered to them that they were already in the last conflict. Not a word was uttered about the interminable hereafter; not a thought was expressed about the immortal soul, not a lisp of Christ and his redemption. The body died, and the soul, unprepared, uncomforted, went to meet its Judge. The bond is sundered that bound them to earth; affection dropped its tears of grief, and the cold tenement of clay was committed to the coffin and the grave. Death closed upon them the door of hope and of heaven, and closed it forever. The account is sealed up; it cannot be altered; it is immutable as eternity.

The death of Abel was not such a death as this.” He died in faith? Let us pause a moment here, and inquire how it was, that he, and all who die as happily as he died, made this high attainment.

It is not in a moment that men prepare to die. There is previous thought and preparation for death, where this closing scene of life is tranquil and happy. Nor is it perturbed and distracted thought.

There is a God, and both living and dying men are his creatures. There is such a state of mind as the habit of reflecting upon his being as the most important reality in the universe, and of feeling that none can escape his searching eye, nor flee from his all-governing dominion. Men themselves have a rational existence; a body fearfully and wonderfully made, and a thinking, sensitive spirit within them, that will outlive time and all its. changes, and will wake to an eternity beyond the grave. Many a time a reflecting man will ask himself the question, What am If why was I horn? For what great purpose do I find myself an inhabitant of this earth, and what is the great errand on which I have been sent into this world of hope and mercy? This short life is a most important period of his being. A great work is assigned him; and by the combined laws of man’s nature and God’s government, the course which men pursue here must influence their destiny through interminable ages. Those there are who have been attracted by the charms of earth; all the fascinating pleasures of sin have exerted their influence to urge them onward in the broad way that leads to death; but they have taken the alarm at this easy and rapid descent, and trembled at the consequences of walking in the ways of the destroyer. They have entered into their closet to implore the Father of mercies that he would “send out his light and his truth and let them lead them;” and there they have learned the folly of risking their eternity upon a life of wickedness, and rushing upon the experiment of living without God, and dying without hope. They have looked into their own hearts, and there read many an humbling lesson, and have made discoveries of their wickedness that have filled them with apprehension. They have learned that God is holy, and cannot approve of sin; that he is just and cannot allow them to transgress his law with impunity. They have read his threatenings; they know that he is able to execute them, and that “he is of one mind, and none can turn him.” Their responsibility to God their Maker has assumed a character of most serious importance. They have sinned against God; the case is plain, that if they die in their sins, they must lie down in sorrow. It is a settled point, that they are heirs of eternity, and must forever dwell in glory, or despair. They have thought of these things. A secret voice within them has often uttered the expostulation, “What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” This is the earliest characteristic of those who “die in faith,” and as Abel died.

But their reflections do not stop here. Such a state of mind as that just described is not often long endured. Those who are the subjects of it, either drop the subject of religion, or take another step, and repair to the gospel of the Son of God. Abel lived under the shadow of a dark dispensation, but he believed in the promise of a Saviour to come, and rested on that promise as the only foundation of hope. This promise was not yet fulfilled; yet he had no doubt of its fulfilment, and no doubt of the perfect all-sufficiency of the predicted Messiah as “able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by him.” “Not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, he was persuaded of them and embraced them.” It were interesting to analyze the operations of his mind in view of the great truths of the gospel thus obscurely revealed under the dawning light of those early ages of time. It was by faith in this promise, as we have already seen, that “he offered unto God a more excellent sacrifice than Cain;” and by it, “he being dead, yet speaketh,” uttering to us and to all men the value and preciousness of that great sacrifice whose “blood speaketh better things” than the blood of all other sacrifices. It was by this same faith that “Enoch was translated, that he should not see death;” presenting in his own character an example of reconciliation to God, to all subsequent generations. It was thus, too, that “Noah being warned of God of things not seen as yet,” prepared the ark, and “became heir of the righteousness which is by faith.” It was thus, too, that “Abraham, when he was tried, offered up Isaac.” The command, “Take now thy son, thine only son, and offer him for a burnt offering on one of the mountains that I shall tell thee of,” was a revelation by actions instead of words, of the great sacrifice of Christ for the redemption of mankind. Abraham had longed impatiently to “see Christ’s day,” and he thus “saw it and was glad.” Yet none of these ancient believers had those clear views of the way of salvation by Christ which are furnished by the Christian revelation. They died in the faith of Jesus; but “God lias provided some better thing for us, that they without us, should not be made perfect.” The Saviour who was made known to them only by promise, is made known to us by the promise fulfilled. It is on this Sacrifice, this now completed and perfected atonement, that all who die in faith place their hopes. Their responsibility to God their Maker is sustained only by an humble reliance on the person and work of his Son. They receive this Saviour as he is offered in the gospel; as their divine teacher, and as their only deliverer from sin and the curse. They have seen that there is no other way of escape, than by repairing to him who is “the end of the law for righteousness to every one that believeth;” no cleansing, if he wash them not; and no “light of life,” if they take not up their cross and follow after him. They have been burdened and heavy laden; they have been like the troubled sea, laboring and tossing, and found no rest day nor night; but they enjoy peace in the ark, and “have entered into rest.” They did not “neglect this great salvation.” They found it dark at first, and perhaps hard to be understood; but attention, thought, prayer, and God’s blessing made this way of mercy plain, and they were satisfied with it, rejoiced in it, it was all their salvation and all their desire. It was no easy matter to give over laboring to build up a righteousness of their own; they lingered, hoping that they should grow better, and still striving to do something to recommend them to the divine favor; but they found there was salvation in no other, that they had nothing to give for it, and

nothing to do but accept it, as the gift of God through Jesus Christ. It was not in themselves they gloried; they gloried in the cross. The love of Christ constrained them to live not unto themselves, but to him; these new bonds of self-devotement they made welcome; and when they came to the close of their pilgrimage, they found it gain to die.

Abel also had relinquished this world as his portion, and had made choice of a better and more enduring inheritance. “These all died in faith,” says the Apostle, “not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth. For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek a country. And truly, if they had been mindful of that country from which they came out, they might have had opportunity to have returned. But now they desire a better country, that is an heavenly; wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he hath provided for them a city.”

The great struggle to which men are called is between the things that are seen, and the things that are not seen; the things that are temporal and the things that are eternal. “The flesh lusteth against the spirit,” and the spirit against the flesh; and these are “contrary the one to the other.” This is the great battle of human life. Earth and time array themselves against God, heaven, and eternity. Nor is it without an effort, nor without imparted grace, that any of the children of Adam are enabled to decide between these conflicting claims. Powerful is the appeal of the things that are seen and temporal; and not less powerful that of the things unseen and eternal. Men are creatures of sense; the appeal of the former is ever present and ever reiterated, while the appeal of the latter is from a distant world, and made not to sense, but to faith. Their own views and dispositions are naturally all on the wrong side of the question. They halt between two opinions, and hesitate to come to a decided choice. Their reason teaches them that this world cannot stand in competition with durable riches and righteousness; and their conscience teaches them that it is right to seek those things that are above. Still their hearts linger, and they complain of the want of power, of the want of time and opportunity, and even of the want of inclination, and wonder why the realities of eternity do not appear to them in their true importance. But by the grace of God they are brought to a solemn pause, and enabled to come to a decided choice.

The “eyes of their understanding being enlightened,” they “know the hope of their calling,” and begin to live for eternity. Their interest in the concerns of time begins to diminish, they scarcely know how, or why; the world seems more and more like vanity, and their relish for its pleasures is transferred to joys which this world knows not of. Their home is on the earth still, and here their duties; nor do they find these scenes and duties joyless; but they have other and higher aims, and live “as strangers and pilgrims on the earth.” They are gradually weaned from earth, and direct their steps to a different and more distant land. They do not, they ought not to depreciate this fair and beautiful world; but they enjoy and use it as not abusing it, for “the fashion of it passeth away.” There are seasons when they feel that there is nothing beneath the sun worthy of an anxious wish. Not unfrequently everything earthly seems to them shrouded in gloom; they look upon it as a desert world, and it is a soothing reflection, that “here they have no continuing city.”

Nor are these always the seasons of earthly tribulation. The world is still within their reach; its duties are not irksome, nor its joys insipid; its honors have not faded, nor was its wealth corrupted by moth and rust. But they seek a better country that is an heavenly. God, their own God “has prepared for them a city.” They “look for a new heaven and a new earth wherein dwelleth righteousness.” They have no desire to go hack to the world. Like Abel and the ancient patriarchs, if “they had been mindful” of returning to it, they might return to it as their chosen portion. But their minds are made up; they have made choice of a better and more enduring inheritance, where “God will wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away.”

Abel no doubt also ‘possessed a heavenly mind. True religion exists in various degrees in the present world; nor may we call its reality in question where the higher degrees of it are not perceived. An habitually heavenly mind is one of the most delightful indications of its reality and power, and the sweetest preparative to die in faith. Yet this is comparatively a rare attainment. Much of the time of true Christians is, and must be employed in the business of time. But while this must be so in the present condition of their being, they may at the same time employ their hands upon the world, and set their hearts on heaven. The best of men find this a difficult service; it costs them great watchfulness and much prayer, amid so many distracting cares and toils of earth, to set their affections on things that “are above.” Their souls too often “cleave to the dust,” and their hearts are sometimes overcharged, and “careful about many things.” Yet is such a state of mind the ripe fruit of the Spirit. Abel and those ancient saints were men of this character; and they constitute a “cloud of witnesses” to the power and preciousness of that faith which is “the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen.” Every heaven-born mind is substantially a heavenly mind. It is no longer a barren waste, where no heavenly affection blooms. Flowers of Paradise grow upon it; and fruits of righteousness, though stinted in their growth, there exhale their sweetness. Every heaven-born mind is a heaven-directed mind; its spiritual growth and expansion discover an upward aim and tendency. Though dwelling in this dark dungeon of flesh and blood, it pushes its way toward more sunny climes. Not unfrequently it has pleasant anticipations of the employment of the heavenly world, and sweet foretastes of its joys. There are gracious manifestations made to it; it is overshadowed by luminous clouds; and its evening twilight vanishes in brighter day. It is heavenward in its tendencies, and is more and more sustained and comforted by influences that are unearthly.

Minds there are such as these, and Christians such as these. And when they perceive themselves approaching the end of their course, it is no grief of heart to them that they must die. They have thought of it, and it does not come upon them as a thief in the night. They have prepared for it, and it does not fill them with alarm, or even surprise. They have set their house in order, no hasty and perturbed secular arrangements disturb their tranquillity. The shroud that is to cover them, and the quiet sepulchre where they would rest, and whence they would rise to their Father’s house, have all been thought of, and they welcome the hour when the “dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit to God who gave it.” They well know that the cheerless regions of earth are not the regions where the heirs of glory should dwell. Their thoughts are heavenward; their affections and desires are heavenward; their treasure is in heaven; and where their treasure is, there their heart is also. Their Father’s house is there; their inheritance is there, and there their portion and joy. The Saviour they love is there, and they shall see him as he is, and be like him. Loved kindred and friends, not a few, are there; the believing mother meets her believing children there; the husband, the wife of his youth; and the widow there, is a widow no more.

Many a time do those who thus die in faith, “desire to depart and be with Christ,” and are “willing rather to be absent from the body and present with the Lord.” Nor is there any stronger indication of a heavenly mind, than this heavenward tendency. There is nothing that so fits the saints of God for heaven as this; or that so certainly destroys the terrors of the grave, and prepares them to die in peace. That upward look, how sweet, how bright is it! Those hallowed influences, how sweet the fragrance they shed upon the pillow of death, how placid the tranquillity with which they clothe the sleeping clay, and how delightful the perfume they scatter upon the cold marble that covers the precious dead! That conscience and heart so tender, those habits of the soul so purified, the whole being so encircled by an unearthly atmosphere, and imbued with the temper and spirit of heaven, — what proofs are these that heaven is prepared for such a mind?

It was thus that Abel died, though he fell by the murderer’s hand. It was not he who was plunged in guilt and wretchedness. He was meet to be “partaker of the inheritance with the saints in light.” He had been suddenly taken out of this world’s wilderness, and thus decked with the beauties of holiness, in order to be transplanted to the Paradise that is above. Was he born of God; it was that he might be thus fitted for heaven. Was he progressively sanctified, and weaned from earth, and attracted upwards; it was that he might “die in faith,” and when the “earthly house of this tabernacle is dissolved, have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” He had washed his robes “and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” One there was who watched over him with unsleeping eye, guarded him by a wakeful providence, and redeemed and kept him by wonderful grace, and in whose behalf he uttered the prayer, “Father, I will that those whom thou hast given me be with me where I am, that they may behold my glory, even the glory I had with thee before the foundation of the world!” The fatal blow that severed him from earth, did not sever him from the family of God. He was one of those of whom it is written, “God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he hath prepared for them a city.” He was one of his peculiar people; God was not ashamed to own him as his child; for he meant thus early to render him the adornment of his kingdom, and in the day when he makes up his jewels, set murdered Abel in his crown. He was beautiful through the comeliness God put upon him; and on this the day of his espousals, he was presented to him without spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing. He died to time, but lived to eternity; he died to earth, but lived to heaven, lived to God; and as a “bridegroom rejoiceth over his bride, so doth his God rejoice over him.”

The Scriptures speak of dying in faith; and they also speak of living in faith. What God hath thus joined together, let not man put asunder! They are the actings of faith in the ordinary course of human life, which prepare the soul for the more special and extraordinary actings of it at the approach of death. We may not look for comfortable evidence of a gracious state in the melancholy hour when the “last enemy” invades us, if we have no comfortable evidence amid the checkered scenes of labor, mourning and joy. Just think of Abel, if he had looked for a death-bed repentance! There must be something to feed these vital hopes beside the dying embers that are just ready to expire. If the goal be attained, the race must be run. Joy and peace in believing are the results of the process of redemption in our own hearts. The fear of death will hold us in bondage, if we wait till he approaches, for the delightful, or even the tranquil anticipations of the heavenly immortality. It is a vain hope to expect to bask in the brightness of the divine presence when the last dark cloud of time overshadows us, if we have never walked in the light of God’s countenance while travelling through the wilderness. Take heed, then, how you allow your minds to be so absorbed in the pursuits of time, that, instead of living as strangers and pilgrims on the earth, and seeking a better country, that is an heavenly, your thoughts and habits become so secularized that when you lie on your bed of languishing, the terrible apprehension shall agitate yon, that the God of heaven is not your refuge, your portion, your resting-place. A living faith carries its own evidence with it. It shines by its own light, and shines brightest when it gilds the dark mountains that hide it from the view of men. But are there not some of my readers to whom we must address a different language? Are there not those of whom, had the rapacious grave swallowed them up before the present hour, it could not have been said, That they died as peacefully as Abel died? Melancholy thought! Temporal death would only have conducted you to the death eternal; the dark grave would have been but the short passage to a darker eternity. What thanks do you not owe to God’s forbearance, that it is still the day of your merciful visitation! Even now, after so long a time, you may flee to the Saviour’s arms, and in him find the earnest and pledge of that life which is forfeited by sin and restored by grace. If you would die in faith, your hearts must bow to the claims of that Saviour. If those who follow your mortal bodies to the grave, are elevated above the sorrows and afflictions which oppress them by your departure, it must be because they cherish heavenly hopes for you after you sleep in the dust. There is no such consolation to the dying, there is no such balm to the wounds of the bereaved as this. Will you die without it; or, without it, will you leave them to mourn? O this were cruel! — cruelty to them — cruelty to your own souls! It is unutterably painful to think of living thus, and dying thus, in full view of the all-sufficient provisions of the gospel. You may be nearer to death than you are aware, but not nearer than is God’s offered salvation. The “kingdom of God is come nigh unto you,” in all its fulness and all its adaptation to your wants and woes. Its truths and mercy meet you as a creature born for immortality, and accountable to God the judge of all. They meet you as a sinner, under his wrath and curse, and tell you of one, and but one way of escape. They solemnly admonish you to “flee from the wrath to come;” and they tenderly expostulate with you in language you cannot misunderstand, when they say,” Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts,

and let him return unto the Lord and he will have mercy upon Mm, and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.” They proclaim to you, “Behold now is the accepted time; behold now is the day of salvation!” They startle you by their Warnings; they allure you by their consolations and hopes.

Fearful terrors issue from theni, if you disregard their call; if you obey, sweet peace and heavenly radiance. Yes, ‘peace — “peace of God which passeth all understanding;” a radiance so pure and heavenly, that it cannot be obscured even by the night of the grave. But they most solemnly caution you against delay. They hold no man guiltless who hesitates to become the friend of truth and duty. They give you no warrant to presume on the abused patience of God for a future season of repentance; because inexorable death is hastening on the hour when “your souls shall be required of you.” The invisible and noiseless Foe has not yet come up into your chambers. He waits a little to see whether you will awake from this fatal slumber and make your peace with God and heaven; or whether you will still go on in your trespasses, and bury these immortal hopes without a sigh.

It were wise to be prepared for sudden death. Abel had not a moment’s warning. Few men know the time when death will come. You cannot appoint your own time. We have adverted to the first death; we do not know the last. Nor can we predict the next, nor say that it will not be yours or mine. On this solemn subject, God’s word and his providence are alike silent; while both unite in urging the admonition, “Boast not thyself of to-morrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth!” “Human life is a lighted taper in the hands of a watchful providence.” How watchfully must it be covered by the hand, or a fold of the garment, of him who carries it! A drop of rain, or dew, a breath of air, and it is extinguished. A thousand instruments of destruction are always near it. “It is a vapor that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.”

Is it wise, then, to defer accepting the great salvation in which the first departed of our race placed his confidence? Ask this question at Abel’s grave, where the mourners wept, but wept not because their first-born was born to die? Ask it at the grave of the millions who since that time have been numbered with the dead? Ask it of your own beating pulse, where the question is put sixty times a minute, whether you shall live or die?