Death
Death the End of Probation. — I have sometimes likened the hour of our death to that celebrated picture, which I think you have seen in the National Gallery, of Perseus holding up the head of Medusa. That head turned all persons into stone who looked upon it. There is a warrior there with a dart in his hand; he stands stiifened, turned into stone, with the javelin even in his fist. There is another, with a poinard beneath his robe, about to stab; he is now the statute of an assassin, motionless and cold. Another is creeping along stealthily, like a man in ambuscade, and there he stands a consolidated rock; he has looked only upon that head, and he is frozen into stone. Well, such is death. What I am when death is held before me, that I must be forever.
Dying Grace. — I remember my aged grandfather once preached a sermon which I have not forgotten. He was preaching from the text “The God of all grace,” and he somewhat interested the assembly, after describing the different kinds of grace that God gave, by saying at the end of each period, “But there is one kind of grace that you do not want.” After each sentence there came the like, “But there is one kind of grace you do not want.” And, then, he wound up by saying, “You don’t want dying grace in living moments, but you shall have dying grace when you want it.” Now, you are testing yourself by a condition in which you are not placed. If you are placed in the condition, you shall have grace enough if you put your trust in Christ. In a party of friends we were discussing the question, whether if the days of martyrdom should come, we were prepared to be burned. Well, now, I must frankly say, that speaking as I feel to-day, I am not prepared to be burned. But I do be lieve if there were a stake in Smithfield, and I knew that I were to be burned there at one o’clock, that I should have grace enough to be burned at one o’clock; but I have not yet got to a quarte* past twelve, and the time has not come yet. Do not expect dying grace, until you want it, and when the time conies, you may be sure you will have sufficient grace to bear it. Cast out that stumbling-block, then. Rest thyself on Christ, and trust him to help thee in thy dying hour.
Death Certain. — “It is appointed unto all men once to die, and after death the judgment.” Run! run! but the fleet pursuer shall overtake thee. Like the stag before the hounds we fly swifter than the breeze, but the dogs of Death shall outstrip us: Fever and plague, weakness and decay; he hath but to let slip these, and they are on us, and who can resist their fury? There is a black camel upon which Death rides, say the Arabs, and that must kneel at every man’s door. With impartial hand he dashes down the palace of the monarch as well as the cabin of the peasant. At every man’s door there hangs that black knocker, and Death hath but to uplift it and the dread sound is heard, and the uninvited guest sits down to banquet on our flesh and blood. Die I must. No physician can stretch out my life beyond its allotted term. I must cross that river. I may use a thousand stratagems, but I cannot escape. Even now I am like the deer surrounded by the hunters in a circle, a circle which is narrowing every day; and soon must I fall and pour out my life upon the ground. Let me never forget, then, that while other things are uncertain, death is sure.
Death the Christian Awakening. — Let us imitate Mr. Wesley’s calm anticipation of his end. A lady once asked Mr. Wesley, “Suppose that you knew you were to die at twelve o’clock to-morrow night, how would you spend the intervening time?” “How, madam?” he replied, “why just as I intend to spend it now. I should preach this evening at Gloucester, and again at five to morrow morning; after that I should ride to Tewkesbury, preach in the afternoon, and meet the society in the evening. I should then repair to friend Martin’s house, who expects to entertain me; converse and pray with the family as usual; retire to my room at ten o’clock, commend myself to my heavenly Father, lie down to rest, and wake up in glory.”
Certainty of Death Should Humble Us. — When Saladin lay a-dying he bade them take his winding sheet and carry it upon a lance through the camp, with the proclamation, “This is all that remains of the mighty Saladin, the conqueror of nations.” A lingerer in the graveyard will take up your skull one day and moralize upon it, little knowing how wise a man you were. None will then do you reverence. Therefore be humble.
Death a Mercy. — It were a sad sentence if we were bound over to dwell in this poor world for ever. Who among us would wish to realize in his own person the fabled life of the Wandering Jew, or even Prester John? Who desires to go up and down among the sons of men for twice a thousand years? If the Supreme should say, “Live here for ever,” it were a malediction rather than a benediction. To grow ripe and to be carried home like shocks of corn in their season, is not this a fit and fair thing? To labor through a blessed day, and then at nightfall to go home and to receive the wages of grace — is there anything dark and dismal about that? God forgive you that you ever thought so! If you are the Lord’s own child, I invite you to look this home-going in the face until you change your thought and see no more in it of gloom and dread, but indeed a very heaven of hope and glory.
Death Like Going to Bed. — The child has to go to bed, but it does not cry, if mother is going upstairs with it. It is quite dark: but what of that? The mother’s eyes are lamps to the child. It is very lonely and still. Not so; the mother’s arms are the child’s company, and her voice is its music. 0, Lord, when the hour comes for me to go to bed, I know that thou wilt take me there, and speak lovingly into my ear; therefore I cannot fear, but will with faith and hope, even look forward to that hour of thy manifested love.
Death Sets Us Free. — I am told that persons who in the cruel ages had lain in prison for years suffered much more in the moment of the knocking off of their fetters than they had endured for months in wearing the hard iron; and yet I suppose that no man languishing in a dungeon would have been unwilling to stretch out his arm or leg, that the heavy chains might be beaten off by the smith. We should all be content to endure that little inconvenience to obtain lasting liberty. Now, such is death — the knocking off of the fetters; yet ‘the iron may never seem to be so truly iron as when that last liberating blow of grace is about to fall. Let us not mind the harsh grating of the key as it turns in the lock; if we understand it aright it will be as music to our ears. Imagine that your last hour is come! The key turns with pain for a moment; but, lo, the bolt is shot! The iron gate is open! The spirit is free! Glory be unto the Lord for ever and ever!
A Message from the Grave. — History tells us of Peter Waldo, of Lyons, who was sitting at a banquet as thoughtless and careless as any of the revellers, when suddenly one at the table bowed his head and died. Waldo was startled into thought, and went home to seek his God; he searched the Scriptures, and, according to some, became a great helper, if not the second founder, of the Waldensian church, which in the Alpine valleys kept the lamp of the gospel burning when all around was veiled in night. A whole church of God was thus strengthened and perpetuated by the hallowed influence of death upon a single mind. I suppose it is also true that Luther in his younger days, walking with his friend Alexis, saw him struck to the ground by a flash of lightning, and became thenceforward prepared in heart for that deep work of grace through which he learned the doctrine of justification by faith, and rose to be the liberator of Europe from Papal bondage. How much every way we owe to this weighty subject! Among the earnest, the prayerful, the holy, many must own that the vaults of death have brought them spiritual health. Men have been helped to live by remembering that they must die: yea, some men knew nothing of the highest form of life till death aroused them from their deadly slumbers.
Death Can do no Real Harm. — Certain Swiss peasants not very long ago were feeding their flocks on one of the lofty upland valleys. On one side of the pasturage stood a number of chalets, or wooden huts, in which they were accustomed to live during the summer, poor shelters which were left as soon as the winter set in. One day they heard a strange rumbling up in the lofty Alps, and they understood what it meant; it meant that a mass of rock or snow or ice had fallen, and would soon come crushing down in the form of an avalanche. In a brief ioo SPURGEON’S ILLUSTRATIVE ANECDOTES
space their fears were realized, for they saw a tremendous mass come rushing from above, bearing destruction in its course. What did it destroy? Only the old, crazy chalets: that was all. Every man of the shepherds was safe, and untouched: the event was rather to them a matter which caused a Te Deum to be sung in the village church below than a subject for mourning and sorrow. They said, “The avalanche is terrible, but it has not slain the aged mother, nor crushed the babe in its cradle: it has injured none of us, but only buried a few hovels which we can soon rebuild.” Their case is a picture of ours. The avalanche of death will fall; but O ye saints when it comes this is all it will do for you — your earthly house will be dissolved! Will you fret over so small a loss?
Dying Without Hope. — Some years ago I was awakened about three o’clock in the morning by a sharp ring of the doorbell. I was urged without delay to visit a house not very far from London Bridge. I went; and up two pair of stairs I was shown into a room the occupants of which were a nurse and a dying man. There was no body else. “Oh, sir,” said she, “Mr. So-and-so, about half-an-hour ago, begged me to send for you.” “What does he want?” I asked. “He is dying, sir,” she replied. I said, “I see that. What sort of a man was he?” “He came home last night, sir, from Brighton. He had been out all day. I looked for a Bible, sir, but there is not one in the house; I hope you have got one with you.” “Oh,” I said, “a Bible would be of no use to him now. If he could understand me I could tell him the way of salvation in the very words of Holy Scripture.” I spoke to him, but he gave me no answer. I spoke again; still there was no reply. All sense had fled. I stood a few minutes gazing at his face, till I perceived he was dead. His soul had departed. That man in his lifetime had been wont to jeer at me. In strong language he had often denounced me as a hypocrite. Yet he was no sooner smitten with the darts of death than he sought my presence and my counsel, feeling no doubt in his heart that I was a servant of God, though he did not care to own it with his lips. There I stood, unable to help him. Promptly as I had responded to his call, what could I do, but look at his corpse, and go home again. He had, when too late, sighed for the ministry of reconciliation, sought to enter in, but he was not able.
Death of the Wicked. — I never wish to stand by the deathbed of any who die in their sins; this is a dreadful woe indeed, to be wrapped in the black winding-sheet of guilt. I have seen the eyes starting from the sockets; I have seen the throat dried up like a potsherd; I have heard the cries of one man in death whom I visited. The scene comes up before me at the present moment as I saw him rise in his bed and shriek, “0 God, I will not die, there is no mercy for me.” He begged of us to pray for him, and yet he knew that our prayers were of no avail. “I have had my seasons,” said he, “but I can’t repent; I shall die in a short time, and I shall soon be in hell.” “Water,” said he, “give me water.” Yet again he cried, “0, God, I cannot die, I will not die,” and this was a prelude to his departure, for he shortly afterwards expired in desperate agony. Death is indeed a woe to such a man as that.