Sinners

Keep Out of Temptation. — You may have heard the story — but it is so good it will bear repeating — of the lady who advertised for a coachman and was waited upon by three candidates for the situation. She put to the first one this question: “I want a really good coachman to drive my pair of horses, and, therefore, I ask you how near you can drive to danger and yet be safe?” “Well,” he said, “I could drive very near indeed; I could go within a foot of a precipice, without fear of any accident so long as I held the reins.” She dismissed him with the remark that he would not do. To the next one who came she put the same question, “How near could you drive to danger?” Being determined to get the place, he said, “I could drive within a hair’s breadth, and yet skilfully avoid any mishap.” “You will not do,” said she. When the third one came in, his mind was cast in another mold, so on the question being put to him, “How near could you drive to danger?” he said, “Madam, I never tried. It has always been a rule with me to drive as far from danger as I possibly can.” The lady engaged him at once. In like manner I believe that the man who is careful to run no risks and to refrain from all equivocal conduct, having the fear of God in his heart, is most to be relied upon. If you are really built upon the Rock of Ages, you may meet the question without dismay, “Will ye also go away?” and you can reply without presumption, “No, Lord, I cannot and I will not leave thee; for to whom should I go, Thou hast the words of eternal life.”

The Greatest Loss of AH. — You do not see the loveliness of Christ, yet “he is altogether lovely.” Now, I will not say one hard word, but I will tell you sorrowfully what pitiable creatures you are. I hear enchanting music, which seems more a thing of heaven than of earth: it is one of Handel’s half-inspired oratorios. Yonder sits a man, who says, “I hear nothing to commend.” He has not the power to perceive the linked sweetness, the delicious harmonies of sounds. Do you blame him? No, but you who have an ear for music, say, “How I pity him: he misses half the joy of life!” Here, again, is a glorious landscape, hills and valleys, and flowing rivers, expansive lakes and undulating meadows. I bring to the point of view a friend, whom I would gratify, and I say to him, “is not that a charming scene?” Turning his head to me, he says, “I see nothing.” I perceive that he cannot enjoy what is so delightful to me: he has some little sight, but he sees only what is very near, and he is blind to all beyond. Now, do I blame him? Or if he proceed to argue with me, and say, “You are very foolish to be so enthusiastic about a non existent landscape, it is merely your excitement,” shall I argue with him? Shall I be angry with him? No, but I shall shed a tear, and whisper to myself, “Great are the losses of the blind.” Now, you who have never heard music in the name of Jesus, you are to be greatly pitied, for your loss is heavy. You who never saw beauty in Jesus, and who never will forever, you need all our tears. It is hell enough not to love Christ! It is the lowest abyss of Tartarus, and its fiercest flame, not to be enamored of the Christ of God. There is no heaven that is more heaven than to love Christ and to be like him, and there is no hell that is more hell than to be unlike Christ and not to want to be like him, but even to be averse to the infinite perfections of the “altogether lovely.”

Too=late! — Have you never heard of the Indian in his boat upon one of the great rivers of America? Some how his moorings had broken and his canoe was in the power of the current. He was asleep, while his canoe was being borne rapidly along by the stream. He was sound asleep, and yet had good need to have been awake, for there was a tremendous cataract not far ahead. Persons on shore saw the canoe — saw that there was a man in it asleep; but their vigilance was of no use to the sleeper: it needed that he himself should be aware of his peril. The canoe quickened its pace, for the waters of the river grew more rapid as they approached the cataract; persons on shore began to cry out, and raise alarm on all sides, and at last the Indian was aroused. He started up, and began to use his paddle, but his strength was altogether insufficient for the struggle with the gigantic force of the waters around him. He was seen to spring upright in the boat and disappear — himself and the boat — in the fall. He had perished, for he woke too late! Some persons on their dy ing beds just wake up in time to see their danger, but not escape from it: they are carried right over the cataract of judgment and wrath.

Hope for Sinners. — The sailors have been pumping the vessel, the leaks are gaining, she is going down, the captain is persuaded she must be a wreck. Depressed by such evil tidings, the men refuse to work; and since the boats are all stove in and they cannot make a raft, they sit down in despair. Presently the captain has better news for them. “She will float,” he says; “the wind is abating too, the pumps tell upon the water, the leak can be reached yet.” See how they work; with what cheery courage they toil on, because there is hope! Soul, there is hope! There is hope! THERE is HOPE! To the harlot, to the thief, to the drunkard.

The Sinner Seeing Double. — Do not, I pray you, play with time any longer. Say not “There is time enough;” for the wise man knows that time enough is little enough.

Be not like the foolish drunkard who, staggering home one night, saw his candle lit for him. “Two candles!” said he, for his drunkenness made him see double, “I will blow out one,” and as he blew it out, in a moment he was in the dark. Many a man sees double through the drunkenness of sin — he thinks that he has one life to sow his wild oats in, and then the last part of life in which to turn to God; so, like a fool, he blows out the only candle that he has, and in the dark he will have to lie down forever. Haste thee, traveller, thou hast but one sun, and when that sets, thou wilt never reach thy home. God help thee to make haste now! Deceiving One’s Own Soul. — Whenever you have heard an earnest, powerful sermon, you have gone home and labored to get rid of it. A tear has stolen down your cheek now and then, and you have despised yourself for it. “Oh!” you say, “it is not manly for me to think of these things.” There have been a few twitches at times which you could not help, but the moment after you have your heart like a flint, impenetrably hard and stony. Well, sir, I will give you a picture of yourself. There is a foolish farmer yonder in his house. It is the dead of night: the burglars are breaking in — men who will neither spare his life nor his treasure. There is a dog down below, chained in the yard; it barks and barks, and howls again. “I cannot be quiet,” says the farmer, “my dog makes too much noise.” Another howl, and yet another. He creeps out of bed, gets his loaded gun, opens the window, fires it, and kills the dog. “Ah! it is all right now,” he mutters; he goes to bed, lies down, and quietly rests. “No hurt will come,” he says, “now; for I have made that dog quiet.” Ah! but would that he could have listened to the warning of the faithful creature. Ere long he shall feel the knife, and rue his fatal folly. So you, when God is warning you — when your faithful conscience is doing- its best to save you — you try to kill your only friend, while Satan and Sin are stealing up to the bedside of your slothfulness, ready to destroy your soul forever. What should we think of the sailor at sea, who should seek to kill all the stormy petrels, that there might be an end to all storms? Would you not say, “Poor foolish man! why those birds are sent by a kind providence to warn him of the tempest. Why needs he injure them? They cause not the tumult; it is the raging sea.” So it is not your conscience that is guilty of the disturbance in your heart, it is your sin; and your conscience, acting true to its character, as God’s index in your soul, tells you that all is wrong. Oh, that ye would arise, and take the warning, and fly to Jesus while the hour of mercy lasts.

Heathen in Cities. — In London, the city missionaries will bear witness that while they can sometimes get at the wives, yet there are thousands of husbands, who are necessarily away at the time of the missionary’s visit, who have not a word of rebuke, or exhortation, or invitation, or encouragement ever sounding in their ears at all, from the day of their birth to the day of their death; and they might, for all practical purposes, as well have been born in the centre of Africa as in the city of London; for they are without God, without hope, — aliens from the commonwealth of Isreal; far off, not by wicked works only, but by dense ignorance of God.

A Hospital for Sinners. — 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.

Secret Sinners. — There is the table set for secret sinners, and here the old rule is observed. At that table, in a room well darkened, I see a young man sitting to-day, and Satan is the servitor, stepping in so noiselessly, that no one would hear him. He brings in the first cup — and 0 how sweet it is! It is the cup of secret sin. “Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.” How sweet that morsel, eaten all alone! Was there ever one that rolled so delicately under the tongue? That is the first; after that, he brings in an other — the wine of an unquiet conscience. The man’s eyes are opened. He says, “What have I done? What have I been doing? Ah,” cries this Achan, “the first cup you brought me, I saw sparkling in that a wedge of gold, and a goodly Babylonish garment; and I thought, ’ 0, I must have that; ’ but now my thought is, What shall I do to hide this, where shall I put it? I must dig. Ay, I must dig deep as hell before I shall hide it, for sure enough it will be discovered.”

The grim governor of the feast is bringing in a massive bowl, filled with a black mixture. The secret sinner drinks, and is confounded; he fears his sin will find him out. He has no peace, no happiness, he is full of uneasy fear; he is afraid that he shall be detected. He dreams at night that there is some one after him; there is a voice whispering in his ear, and telling him, “I know all about it; I will tell it.” He thinks, perhaps, that the sin which he has committed in secret will break out to his friends; the father will know it, the mother will know it. Ay, it may be even the physician will tell the tale, and blab out the wretched secret. For such a man there is no rest. He is always in dread of arrest.

A Houseless Soul. — Have you ever seen a poor girl at midnight sitting down on a doorstep crying? Somebody passes by, and says, “Why do you sit here? ““I have no house, sir. I have no home.” “Where is your fa ther?” “My father’s dead, sir.” “Where is your mother?” “I have no mother, sir.” “Have you no friends?” “No friends at all.” Have you no house?” “No; I have none. I am houseless.” And she shivers in the chill air, and gathers her poor ragged shawl around her, and cries again, “I have no house — I have no home.” Would you not pity her? Would you blame her for her tears? Ah! there are some of you that have houseless souls here this morning. It is something to have a houseless body; but to think of a houseless soul! Methinks I see you in eternity sitting on the door-step of heaven. An angel says, “What! have you no house to live in?” “No house,” says the poor soul. “Hare you no father?” “No; God is not my father; and there is none beside him.” “Have you no mother?” “No; the church is not my mother; I never sought her ways, nor loved Jesus. I have neither father nor mother.” “Have you no house, then?” “No; I am a houseless soul.”

Transient Feeling. — I know there are some of you that can scarcely keep your seats at the thought of your iniquities; and you have almost vowed, some of you, that this day you will seek God, and the first thing you will do, will be to climb to your chamber, and shut the door, and seek the Lord. Ah, but I remember a story of one, who remarked to a minister, what a wonderful thing it was to see so many people weeping. “Nay,” said he, “I will tell you something more wonderful still, that so many will forget all they wept about when they get outside the door.” And you will do this. Still, when you have done it, you will recollect that you have not been without the strivings of God’s Spirit.

True Religion Only Safeguard of Character. — A great number of those who perish were once just the very peo ple whom, if natural disposition had any thing to do with it, we should have expected to see in heaven. Why, there is one here who in his youth was a child of many follies. Often did his mother weep over him, and cry and groan over her son’s wanderings; for what with a fierce high spirit that could brook neither bit nor bridle, what with perpetual rebellions and ebullitions of hot anger, she said, “My son, my son, what wilt thou be in thy riper years? Surely thou wilt dash in pieces law and order, and be a disgrace to thy father’s name.” He grew up; in youth he was wild and wanton, but, wonder of wonders, on a sudden he became a new man, changed, altogether changed; no more like what he was before than angels are like lost spirits. He sat at her feet, he cheered her heart, and the lost, fiery one became gentle, mild, humble as a little child, and obedient to God’s commandments. You say, wonder of wonders! But there is another here. He was a fair youth: when but a child he talked of Jesus; often when his mother had him on her knee he asked her questions about heaven; he was a prodigy, a wonder of piety in his youth. As he grew up, the tear rolled down his cheek under any sermon; he could scarcely bear to hear of death without a sigh; sometimes his mother caught him, as she thought, in prayer alone. And what is he now? He has just this very morning come from sin; he has become the debauched desperate villain, has gone far into all manner of wickedness and lust, and sin, and has become more damnably corrupt than other men could have made him; only his own evil spirit, once confined, has now developed itself; he has learned to play the lion in his manhood, as once he played the fox in his youth. The Point of View. — Some men seem to be born with two characters. I remarked when in the library at Trinity College, Cambridge, a very fine statue of Lord Byron. The librarian said to me, “Stand here, sir.” I looked, and I said, “what a fine intellectual countenance! What a grand genius he was! “” Come here,” he said, “to the other side.” Ah! what a demon! There stands the man that could defy the deity.” He seemed to have such a scowl and such a dreadful leer in his face; even as Milton would have painted Satan when he said — “Better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven.” I turned away and said to the librarian, “Do you think the artist designed this?” “Yes,” he said, “he wished to picture the two characters — the great, the grand, the almost superhuman genius that he possessed, and yet the enormous mass of sin that was in his soul.”

Three Fools. — I will show you three fools. One is yonder soldier, who has been wounded on the field of battle, grievously wounded, well nigh unto death; the surgeon is by his side, and the soldier asks him a question. Listen, and judge of his folly. What question does he ask* Does he raise his eyes with eager anxiety and inquire if the wound be mortal, if the practitioner’s skill can suggest the means of healing, or if the remedies are within reach and the medicine at hand? No, nothing of the sort; strange to tell, he asks, “Can you inform me with what sword I was wounded, and by what Russian I have been thus grievously mauled? I want,” he adds, “to learn every minute particular respecting the origin of my wound.” The man is delirious or his head is affected. Surely such questions at such a time are proof enough that he is bereft of his senses.

There is another fool. The storm is raging, the ship is flying impetuous before the gale, the dark scud moves swiftly over head, the masts are creaking, the sails are rent to rags, and still the gathering tempest grows more fierce. Where is the captain? Is he busily engaged on the deck, is he manfully facing the danger, and skillfully suggesting means to avert it? No, sir, he has retired to his cabin, and there with studious thoughts and crazy fancies he is speculating on the place where this storm took its rise. “It is mysterious, this wind; no one ever yet,” he says, “has been able to discover it.” And, so reckless of the vessel, the lives of the passengers, and his own life, he is careful only to solve his curious questions. The man is mad, sir; take the rudder from his hand; he is clean gone mad! If he should ever run on shore, shut him up as a hopeless lunatic.

The third fool I shall doubtless find among yourselves. You are sick and wounded with sin, you are in the storm and hurricane of Almighty vengeance, and yet the question which you would ask of me, this morning, would be, “Sir, what is the origin of evil?” You are mad, sir, spiritually mad.

Serving Against Light. — The late lamented murder of Williams at Erromanga, was brought about by the evil doings of a trader who had gone to the island, and who was also the son of a missionary. He had become reckless in his habits, and treated the islanders with such barbarity and cruelty, that they revenged his conduct upon the next white man who put his foot on their shore; and the beloved Williams, one of the last of the martyrs, died a victim of the guilt of those who had gone before him. The worst of men are those who, having much light, still run astray.

The Lost. — Now I will tell you the people whom Christ will save — they are those who are lost to themselves. Just imagine a ship at sea passing through a storm: the ship leaks, and the captain tells the passengers he fears they are lost. If they are far away from shore, and have sprung a leak, they pump with all their might as long as they have any strength remaining; they seek to keep down the devouring element; they still think that they are not quite lost while they have the power to use the pumps. At last they see the ship cannot be saved; they give it up for lost, and leap into the boats. The boats are floating for many a day, full of men who have but little food to eat, “They are lost,” we say, “lost out at sea.” But they do not think so; they still cherish a hope that perhaps some stray ship may pass that way and pick them up. There is a ship in the horizon; they strain their eyes to look at her; they lift each other up; they wave a flag; they rend their garments to make some thing which shall attract attention; but she passed away; black night comes, and they are forgotten. At length the very last mouthful of food has been consumed; strength fails them, and they lay down their oars in the boat, and lay themselves down to die. You can imagine then how well they understand the awful meaning of the term — “lost.” As long as they had any strength left they felt they were not lost; as long as they could see a sail they felt there was yet hope; while there was yet a mouldy biscuit left, or a drop of water, they did not give up all for lost. Now the biscuit is gone, and the water is gone; now strength is departed, and the oar lies still: they lie down to die by each other’s side, mere skeletons; things that should have been dead days ago, if they had died when all enjoyment of life had ceased. Now they know, I say, what it is to be lost, and across the shoreless waters they seem to hear their death-knell pealing forth that awful word, Lost! lost! lost! Now, in a spiritual sense, these are the people Christ came to save.

The Sinner’s Emancipation. — In the bad old times in the south a free negro was forced to carry his papers about with him, but in that blessed day when the Jubilee trumpet sounded, and every African throughout the States was free, I can hardly imagine some little squire or country judge saying to the emancipated negro, “Sam, I will make out papers for you, and for your consolation I will put my name ‘Jeremiah Stiggins ’ at the bottom.” Why, the emancipated negro would have said, “I have seen the proclamation which has the name Abraham Lincoln, the President of the United States, at its foot, and I do not care a button for your name or anybody else’s.” Having believed in the Lord Jesus, I have salvation upon the authority of the Word of God, and on the Holy Ghost’s authority I know that there is therefore now no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus, and therefore I would not thank an angel for his oath if he tendered it in confirmation.

God’s Message Through Mothers. — The first messenger that some of us had was that fond woman, upon whose breast in infancy we hung. We should never breathe the word “mother” without grateful emotions. How can we forget that tearful eye when she warned us to escape from the wrath to come? We thought her lips right eloquent; others might not think so, but they cer tainly were eloquent to us. How can we ever forget when she bowed her knee, and with her arms about our neck, prayed for us: “Oh! that my son might live be fore Thee.” Nor can her frown be effaced from our memory, that solemn, loving frown when she rebuked our budding iniquities; and her smiles have never faded from our recollection, the beaming of her countenance when she rejoiced to see some good thing in us toward the Lord God of Israel. Mothers often become potent messengers from God, and I think each Christian mother should ask herself in secret whether the Lord hath not a message to give through her to her sons and to her daughters. And did you despise that messenger? Had you the hardihood to reject God when he spoke in this way, when he selected one so near and so dear, who could speak so well, and could talk to that tender instinct, which respects and hallows a mother’s love?

Be Sure of the Foundation. — Certain parts of the South of France are marvellously like Palestine, and perhaps at the present moment they are more like what the Holy Land was in Christ’s day than the Holy Land now is. When I reached Cannes last year I found that there had been a flood in the town. This flood did not come by reason of a river being swollen, but through a deluge of rain. A waterspout seems to have burst upon the hill-side, tearing up earth, and rocks, and stones, and then huriying down to the sea. It rushed across the railway station and poured down the street which led to it, drowning several persons in its progress. When I was there a large hotel — I should think five stories high — was shored up with timber, and was evidently doomed; for when this stream rushed down the narrow street it undermined the lower courses of the building, and as there were no foundations at all able to bear such a test the whole erection was rendered unsafe. The Savior had some such case in his mind’s eye. A torrent of water would come tearing down the side of the mountain, and if a house was built on the mere earth, it would be carried away directly, but if it were fastened into the rock so that it became part and parcel of it, then the flood might rush all around it, but it would not shake the walls. Beloved builder of a house for your soul, your house is so situated that one of these days there must come great pressure upon it. “How do you know?” Well, I know that the house wherein my soul lives is pitched just where winds blow, and waves rise, and storms beat. Where is yours? Do you live in a snug corner? Yes, but one of these times you will find that the snug corner will be no more shielded than the open riverside; for God so orders providence that every man has his test sooner or later. It may be that you think yourself past temptation, but the idea is a delusion, as time will show. Perhaps from the very fact that you seem quite out of the way, a peculiar temptation may befall you. Therefore, I do pray you, because of the exposed condition of your life’s building, build upon a good foundation.

Foolish Objections. — You see a man put into the condemned cell at Newgate, and you go in and tell him that Her Majesty presents him with a free pardon. I warrant you he will not put his hand to his brow, and say, “Well, but I think there is this or that objection to my accepting it.” “No,” thinks he, “if there is any objeetion, let those find it out that like; it is no business of mine.” And so with the soul that is bidden to come to Christ; I say, let it come, objections or no objections, and if there be objections, let somebody else find them out, but as for thee, poor sinner, don’t cover thy face from Jesus, but come as thou art, just as thou art, and say, “Here I am, my Savior: if thou canst save — and I believe thou canst — save me. At any rate, if I perish, I will perish trusting in thee.”

Christ Drawing the Sinner. — There are times with men, before conversion, when a sort of softness steals over them, when they feel as if they could not hold out much longer against appeals so reasonable and so gracious. A mother’s prayers come up, perhaps her dying words are heard again; or the death of a little child touches the parent’s heart as nothing else has done. The man is under holy influences, he knows not how; there are angels in the air around him, tho there are devils in the heart within him. The man cannot be at peace in sin; he is restless till he finds rest in Jesus. It is the Lord drawing all the while: and after the Lord has appeared to us we see it to be so.

The Hypocrite. — Look at the hypocrite: he is afraid of being found out. He has to do everything most primly and demurely, lest he should be suspected. If you paint your face, you must take care neither to cry nor lough, lest you crack the enamel. If you wear shoddy clothing, you must not run or jump, for your garments might split. Accidents must be guarded against when you deal with shams. A hypocrite will censure you very severely for having smiled just now; and he will condemn me outright for being so wicked as to make you smile on a Sunday. Poor soul, he must keep up his propriety, for it is all he has. In these times of bad trade many who are ready to fail are afraid to lower their expenditure for fear their poverty should be suspected, and eo they keep up a good appearance to stave off bankruptcy as long as they may. If they were solvent they would not be so fearful. If your conscience condemn you not, then you enjoy a blessed ease of spirit, because the truth is in you.

A Note of Warning. — A buoy off the Mumbles in South Wales bears a bell which is meant to warn mariners of a dangerous rock. This bell is quiet enough in ordinary weather; but when the winds are out, and the great waves rush in towards the shore, its solemn tones are heard for miles around as it swings to and fro in the hands of the sea. I believe there are true men who are silent when everything is calm, who will be forced to speak when the wild winds are out. Permit me to assure you that a storm is raging now, and it is growing worse and worse. If I rightly read the signs of the times, it is meet that every bell should ring out its warning note lest souls be lost upon the rocks of error.

The Sinner’s Down Hill. — In the town where I was brought up there is a very steep hill. You could scarcely get out of the town without going down a hill, but one is specially precipitous, and I remember once hearing a cry in the streets, for a huge wagon had rolled over the horses that were going down the hill with it. The load had crushed the creatures that were supposed to draw it. There comes a time with a man when it is not so much he that consumes the drink as the drink that consumes him; he is drowned in his cups, sucked down by that which he himself sucked in. A man was voracious, perhaps, in food, and at last his gluttony swallowed him; at one grim morsel he went down the throat of the old dragon of selfish greed. Or the man was lustful, and at last his vice devoured him. It is an awful thing when it is not the man that follows the

devil, but the devil that drives the man before him as iho he were his laden ass. The man’s worst self, that had been kept in the rear and put under restraint, at last gets up and comes to the front, and the better self, if ever he had such, is dragged on an unwilling captive at the chariot wheels of its destroyer.

The Folly of the Caviller. — To be always using the sieve but never to be using the mill is starving work: to be al ways searching after adulterations, but never to drink of the genuine milk, is a foolish habit. Caviling is a curse, and carping is a crime. Escape from it while yet it is but as a cord of vanity, lest it come to be a cart-rope which shall bind you fast.

Ingratitude of the Sinner. — The Lord saith, “Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth: I have nourished and brought up children, and they have rebelled against me. The ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master’s crib: but these my creatures do not know, my favored ones do not consider.” Why, you have no such forbearance with others as God has had with you. You would not keep a dog if it never followed at your heel, but snarled at you: you would not even keep a potter’s vessel if it held no water, and was of no service to you; you would break it in pieces, and throw it on the dunghill. As for yourself, you are fearfully and wonderfully made, both as to your body and as to your soul, and yet you have been of no service to your Maker, nor even thought of being of service to him. Still, he has spared you all these years, and it has never occurred to you that there has been any wonderful forbearance in it. Assuredly, O man, thou despisest the long-suffering of thy God.

The Foolish Builder. — The foolish builder had nothing to resist outward circumstances. On summer days his house was a favorite resort, and was considered to be quite as good as his neighbor’s in all respects. Frequently he rubbed his hands and said, “I do not see but what my house is quite as good as his, and perhaps a little bet ter: the fact is, I had a few pounds to spare which I did not bury in the ground as he did, and with it I have bought many a little ornament, so that rny habitation has a finer look than his building.” So it seemed; but when the torrent came raging down the mountain side, his building, having nothing wherewith to resist the violence of the flood, fell down at once, and not a trace of it remained, when the storm had ceased. Thus do men fail because they offer no resistance to forces which drive them into sin; the great current of evil finds in them victims, and not opponents.

The Sinner’s Refuge. — A man has by accident killed his fellow-man. The next of kin to the murdered man will be sure to kill the man-slayer out of revenge, if he can get at him. Therefore the poor homicide takes flight as quickly as he can towards the city of refuge. How his heart beats, how his footsteps bound, how he flies with all his might. There is a handpost with the word “Refuge “upon it, and on he continues his way. But, presently, while he is running, he turns his head, and finds that the avenger of blood is after him. He sees that he is gaining upon him, he feels that he will probably over take him. Oh! how he picks his steps lest he should trip against a stone, how he skims the ground, swift as a doe. He runs until he can see the city gates. “That is the fair CITY OF REFUGE,” saith he. But, he does not rest then, for a sight of the city will not secure him, so he quickens his speed, as if he would outstrip the wind, till he shoots through the archway, and he is in the broad street of the city. Now he stops. Now he breathes. Now he wipes the hot sweat from his brow. a Now I am safe,” saith he, “for no avenger of blood dares cross that threshold; he that once escapes here is delivered.”

So with the sinner when sin pursues him, when he discovers that he has offended God. He hears the furious coursers of divine vengeance coming on swiftly behind him, and his conscience flies, and his soul speeds towards the cross. He gets a little hope. He hears of a Savior; but that is not enough. He will never rest, he will never say he is at peace, until he has passed the gate of faith, and can say, “Now I do believe that Jesus died for me.”

The Sinner’s Folly. — What shall it profit any man what fortune soever he may have amassed, if he lose his soul? Think ye that riches possessed in this world will procure any respect in the nether rgions? I have heard that in the old Fleet Prison the swell who was put in jail for ten thousand pounds thought himself a gentleman in comparison with those common fellows who were put in for some paltry debt of twenty or five-and-twenty pounds. There are no such distinctions in hell. You who can boast your talents of gold and talents of silver, if ye are cast away, shall be as complete wrecks as those who never had doit or stiver, but lived and died in privation and poverty.

The Folly of Sinners. — A man has fallen overboard from a ship, and when he is drowning, some sailor throws him a rope, and there it is. Well, he says, in the first place, “I do not like that rope; I don’t think that rope was made at the best manufactory; there is some tar on it too, I do not like it; and in the next place, I do not like that sailor that threw the rope over, I am sure he is not a kind-hearted man, I do not like the look of him at all;” and then comes a gurgle and a groan, and down he is in the bottom of the sea; and when he was drowned, they said, that it served him right, if he would not lay hold of the rope, but would be making such foolish and absurd objections, when it was a matter of life and death. Then on his own head be his blood.

The Doom of the Impenitent. — In rain did Noah warn them that the waters would surely come; he seemed unto them as one that mocked, and they laughed at him. Even so, when I preached of the resurrection to you this morn ing, some of you may have mocked, and thought that I was but pursuing a wild reverie of imagination. Ah! but how different was their tune, when the rains fell, when “the fountains of the great deep were broken up!” They doubtless changed their notes, when the clouds began to empty themselves in fury, when the very earth did crack, and its bowels were dissolved, and the mighty fluid gushed up to devour them all. Did they think Noah was a fool, when the last man stood on the last mountain-top, and cried in vain for help? I saw some time ago, a master-picture, which I think time will never erase from my memory. It was a picture of a man who had been climbing up to the top of the last mountain, and the floods were coming around him. He had his old father on his back; his wife was clasping him round his waist, and he had one arm round her; she held one child at her breast, and with her other hand she grasped another. In the picture was represented one child just letting go, the wife dropping, and the father clinging to a tree on the top of the hill; the branches were breaking, and it was being torn up by the roots. Such a scene of agony I never saw depicted before; yet such a scene was likely enough to have been real when the waters entirely covered the earth. They had climbed up to the top of the last hill; and now they sank. They had climbed up to the top of the last hill; and now they sank. False hopes gave place to fell despair. And so it will be with you, ye careless ones, unless ye take shelter in the ark.