Woes to Come

‘• One woe is past; and behold, there come two woes more hereafter.’” — Revelation ix. 12.

WITH the particular context of this small sentence I have no intention to meddle this evening. I am not an interpreter of unfulfilled prophecy; I leave that for those who have time and talent for such researches. Doubtless these words were spoken of old by the angel that appeared to John the Divine. After he had lifted the curtain of futurity, and shown the terrible things that God would do in the earth, he explained to John: “One woe is past; and behold, there come two woes more hereafter.” To my own apprehension, while reading this in private, it seemed just such an utterance as the angel of God might address to the soul of the ungodly when he leaves the body. “Death is over,” saith the angel. “One woe is past; and, behold, there come two woes more hereafter.” Thou hast passed through the Jordan, but thou art to pass through two streams deeper still; thou hast passed through the woes of death, but behold there comes a judgment, and then comes a second death: “One woe is past; and, behold, there come two woes more hereafter.”

Very solemnly and earnestly, then, let me make a few observations concerning the woe that is supposed to be passed after the sinner is dead; after which I will briefly notice the two woes that are ‘to come hereafter.

The woe which is supposed to be passed is the woe of death. Death to the righteous has lost its sting, but to the wicked death has all its terrors. Its horrors are not diminished by anything that Christ hath done; yea, rather, death gathers more cause of dismay; for the very Cross itself may fill the obdurate heart with consternation. When the sinner dies impenitent, having rejected the mercy of Christ, death is woe indeed. Let me show you in what respect death is a woe to the ungodly. On the eve of dissolution the wicked man often has fierce temptations. Lying upon his dying bed he casts his eye back over the panorama of life, and remembers what he has been; he hears the church bell of every Sabbath ringing again; he thinks of the many times he has broken the Lord’s day. Lying there he remembers the many sermons he has heard, the many warnings he has had, and how they have all been forgotten. In these hours memory is very strong, — it has great power of vision, as with a lightning flash it brings before the dying man the starting point of his childhood; the earnest exhortations of a pious father in full many an instance ring their clear notes afresh in his ears; or he may remember how he was then carried in his arms up to the sanctuary, and how he was admonished not in riper age to forsake its hallowed floor. Anon turning upon his sick-bed, he seems to hear the sobbings of a fond mother as she was wont in days of yore to kneel by his bedside imploring God in earnest prayer, bedewed with tears, that her child might be saved. Memory brings back everything, but to him it is no blossom-spring of joy; far otherwise is it, for

“Remembrance wakes with all her busy train: Swells at his breast, and turns the past to pain.”

it tells him of all the sins he had committed; it reminds him of things which he had hoped were forgotten; it revokes sins of revelry, concerning which he had said, “Let these be forgotten and blotted out of the book of my remembrance forever.” He thinks of those moments when he had rebelled against his Maker, or even blasphemed his name; oh, God, what a woe this must be to a dying sinner simply to look back on all his sins I Memory is no liar. Glancing at the black catalogue, it seems to say — Look there, man, look at the mercy you have slighted, at the solemn warnings you have trampled under foot, at the opportunities you have needlessly wasted. As the wretched man lies there writhing in his pain, this is one of the worst woes that he feels. Memory sticks daggers into his conscience, crying all the while,” It shall be more tolerable for Sodom and

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Gomorrah in the day of judgment than for thee.” Death to the sinner is a woe again in another sense, — it warns him now that he has to leave all his earthly joys forever. Sinner, I see thee lying on thy bed, and thou art panting for thy breath; thy heaving lungs are struggling for air so that thou canst scarcely breathe. Come, take a last look at all thy joys, for thou shalt never know another; kiss thy harlot on the cheek, for all thy sins thou must now forsake forever: thou wouldst not give them up at the warning of the minister, and canst not shake them off now with all the convulsions of thy conscience. Come, rich man, lean upon thy hony arm, and look out of thy window upon thy broad acres, for thou shalt never see them again. Come, drunkard, drink, drink — for this is thy last draught; take a last farewell of all thy joys, thy festive pleasures, thy garish lusts, thy bewitching vanities, thy deceitful hopes; bid a last farewell, “a long farewell to all thy greatness,” for now thou goest into the land of contempt and misery, agony and death — yea, into a place of unutterable depths of agony. Well may it be said that death is a woe to the sinner. Death, again, is a woe to the ungodly man, if he be really awakened at the last hour — and many such there be — for conscience comes and tells the dying sinner that it is now all over with him forever; it is too late for him to be saved. One of my predecessors, Mr. Benjamin Keach, has left on record an account of a man that had been a trouble to his church, — for he had backslidden, — and his cries, shrieks, and tears, at the very prospect of death, were enough to make one’s hair turn white and stand upon end. That poor wretched man seems to have had a foretaste of perdition before he entered into its fire; and so it is ofttimes with the wicked: thou hast had thy harvest; thy summer is ended; but thou art not saved; thou hast been warned, but thou shalt not be warned again; the lips that said, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I w411 give you rest,” shall say, “Depart, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels;’’ and all the while conscience says this is just — I knew my duty and I did it not; I knew it was my duty to repent, but I steeled my heart against God, and I would not forsake my sins; I turned my back upon the cross to dance in a merry circle downwards to the pit. This shall make death woeful indeed, when it shall be hurled into the mind; thou knewest thy duty, but thou didst it not. “Woe unto thee, Capernaum, -^thou hast been exalted to heaven, but thou shalt be cast down to hell, for if the mighty works that have been done in thee had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes.” Death is a woe indeed. 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 mv 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, 1 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. And you, my hearers, if you die without faith in Christ, your death must be a woe as terrible as

ever filled the heart or blanched the cheek with terror. Yet this is only a small part of the sufferings. The man is dead; there lies his corpse; his friends say that it was a happy release for him from his pain; the spirit leaves the body, hoping, perhaps, that its pains are over, till coming into the confines of another world, it meets a commissioned angel with brandished sword, who cries, “One woe is passed; and, behold, there come two woes more hereafter.” Oh, how those dismal auguries must appal the hapless spirit, unclothed, bewildered! So does the angel proclaim it, as with a voice of thunder.” One woe is passed; and, behold, there come two woes more hereafter.”

Of ‘these two woes that loom in the future, I would now briefly but solemnly speak. The first woe of the man who dies in his sins is the woe of judgment; that is terrible indeed. What a dayshall that be — a day of wrath, a day of fire — when the last great assize shall be held! When a man is to be tried for his life, there must be a solemnity about every preparation — the seat of the judge, the muster of the jurors, the formalities of the court, and the opening of the books must be full of gloomy interest. Scarce can a prisoner stand in the docks to be tried for his life by his fellowman without trembling; at least, it is a wonder if it should be so. But conceive the great assize — the graves are opened! What horrors shall seize hold upon the wicked at that moment! Men and women start up from their tombs wrapped in their winding-sheets. The long buried dead stand upon the hillocks that were heaped over their graves; the sea gives up her mariners, the earth is filled with sinners; there is scarce a spot without a foot to tread upon it! What a solemn awe will rest upon every heart at that moment, “When every eye shall look up for his coming, who shall judge the world in righteousness, and his people with equity!” Sinner, I see thee there. Is this the judgment? I see you standing by the side of the righteous. I hear you imploringly call, “Hide me, cover me, embrace me, let me be seated with you.” But I hear the righteous answer, “It is too late; now your state is fixed.” And there you stand trembling with unutterable dismay. At last a piercing cry is heard, and, lo, a great white cloud, and on it is seated a throne; he is come — he whose head is white like snow, and his hair like pure wool — he comes, he comes,

“A sudden trembling shakes the ground;”

the earth shakes, the heavens are on fire, and the moon becomes a clot of blood, and there he sits; and now, poor sinner, I hear you cry, as you watch the face of him who sits upon the throne. Yes, ’tis he, the crucified Man of Nazareth. What means that shriek? There is the Christ whom I rejected; there is Jesus who was preached so earnestly to me on earth; there is the Saviour whom my mother loved; there is the Son of God in whom my father trusted; there is the King Eternal; he is come.

“He comes, lie comes to judge the world!
Aloud the archangel cries;
And thunders roll from pole to pole,
And lightnings cleave the skies.”

Oh, what confused howling there will be, or rather what a chorus of anguish, when the wicked shall cry, •’ Rocks hide us, mountains on us fall! Hide us from the face of him who sitteth upon the throne, for the great day of his wrath is come, and who shall be able to stand!” And now your turn is come! You have stood there while one after another has received his doom. The book is opened, and oh, what will you say, when he shall begin to read your sins! Says he, on such a day thou didst break my laws. “Sinner,” said he, “I have wooed thee with love divine, and sent my minister to thee, and now I read thy sentence — depart from me. Your minister exhorted you to believe in Christ. Do you not remember that on a Sunday night my Spirit was upon your minister? He prayed you in my stead to be reconciled to God, but ye would have none of it. I called, and you refused; I stretched out my hand, and no man regarded; I will laugh at your calamity, and mock when your fear cometh.” I think I see your horror — no tongue can tell it forth; thy ribs are creaking; thy brain is reeling; thy heart is melting like wax in the midst of thy bowels, as he uttereth the sentence, “Depart, ye cursed, into everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels.” There is no appeal. You go away, you must sink into the pit which is bottomless for ever and ever. If any of you, my dear friends, suppose that I like to preach on this subject, I assure you that you misunderstand me. I love to speak of the everlasting love of God. I never feel so much at home as when I am speaking of the covenant of grace. Painful however, as the heavy tidings are, to deliver them to you is a part of my ministry. When they are laid upon my heart I cannot be so unfaithful to my soul as to withhold them. I know that in the last great day I must give an account; and if I warn you not, and ye perish, your blood will be required at my hands. My eyes overflow with tears when considering the manner in which I should address you, and when I stand face to face with you forewarning each unconverted man of his impending danger, I cannot hide my emotion. Baxter preached —

“As though he ne’er might preach again, A dying man to dying men.” My hearers, you read your Bibles, you are not infidels; I am telling you facts which you yourselves believe. I beseech you think of them: you don’t despise the Bible, but you neglect it. Oh, do not put these things away. I conjure you by the living God, the righteous Judge; not by the feeble words I speak, but by the Word of God. It is but a little while — a very little while with some of us — and this life must be over, and then shall the realities of eternity begin. Oh, my hearer, bethink thee thou must die, and thou must stand before the Judge. Thou must be in heaven or hell before many more years have run their rounds, and can you be angry with a fellow-creature for warning you — for speaking of these terrible things in love? Oh, I beseech you to flee from the wrath to come! Who can tell the terrors of the day of judgment? Who can describe the two woes to come when this life’s fitful fever is o’er? Yet certain it is that after the woe of judgment there comes the woe of hell. Oh, what a woe is that in which all the woes of the lost are condensed! Can you bear to see a fellow-creature in pain? The faceache or the toothache draws forth my sympathies. We cannot bear to see a fellow-creature in agony. But how shall I attempt to describe the pains of hell? You cannot feel them here, bless God for it. There is no pain on earth strong enough to be compared with the pains of hell. Napoleon — a man who had perhaps the hardest of all hearts — one day rode across the battlefield; his horse trod upon a poor wounded man just ready to die, and the poor man rose up, and cried, “Oh,” at which Napoleon shrieked too, and cried, “Oh God, what pains a man may suffer.” Could you and I put our ear to the grating of the world of spirits for a moment or two we should say, “Oh God, what pains a man may suffer!” You cannot compare the pains of this life with the agonies to be endured hereafter. Could all the misery that ever startled the keepers of our hospitals be conceived, it could not convey the least idea of the pains of the spirits that are doomed to dwell in eternal fire and everlasting burning. The woe, however, will act its terrible part on the soul. The memory aghast, — hope and fear, thoughts and imaginations, conscience and judgment, all will be racked, every one be stretched on a bed of fire, every nerve strained to its utmost, every vein made a road for the hot feet of pain to travel on. Jesus Christ, the most loving of all preachers, preached the most terribly of hell. He calls it a pit without a bottom. He spoke of it as a place “Where their worm dieth not, and their fire is not quenched.” Imagine not, therefore, that I can speak too seriously of, or portray too vividly, the doom of the ungodly;

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but I dread the subject, and 1 feel it a relief to leave it.

Oh, sinners! in a little while, unless you repent, ye will know more of hell than the strongest imagination could paint, or the most powerful orator could describe. There is but a little between you and death, and then there shall be but a little between you and that place of torment. Many of you are hanging over the mouth of hell by a solitary plank, and that plank is rotten! 0 think, when you come into the place of torment, what will you say then as you lie in the mighty heat? You will cry, ‘* Oh, God, was I foolish enough for a little merriment, or a little worldly gain, or a little praise of wicked men, to be lost forever? Was 1 fool enough to bring myself here for ever and ever? “Do, I beseech you, stop and think of it. Picture yourself in it, and what you will think of it when you are cast there. Before the” one woe” comes upon thee stop, so that the “two woes” may never be thine, if perad venture thou may est be saved from the wrath to come. Could I speak with more tender, thrilling persuasiveness I would. But the text itself rings with shriller notes than any words of comment 1 can utter; “One woe is past; and, behold, there come two woes more hereafter.” Will not an angel’s voice persuade you to seek the Lord with all your hearts? What arguments, then, shall I use V The argument of love! Sinner, my heart yearns over thee. What would I give to see you saved? 1 have sometimes felt as if I could be cut in pieces, if you might be saved by my martyrdom. Oh, souls, you little know how the godly pray over you! There are some of us who cannot sleep by night for thinking of you. We should be praying for mercy for ourselves, but our voice is checked, and we begin to pray for you; and shall our voice be heard in vain? Think again, I beseech you, of One who feels for you more than we do, Jesus, he who wept over Jerusalem. When he beheld the city, wherefore did he weep? Because he knew that they would not be saved. Thank God there are not many in this assembly who are not converted, if you are what you profess to be; and yet there are some, I think. I hear him lift up his sweet voice and say, “Why will ye die, oh, house of Israel? “Sinner, will you reject your mercies? Will you shut the gate of mercy on yourselves, and unbolt the bars of despair that you may enter into the dungeon of woe, and be fastened there forever? I think I hear him take that solemn oath again,” As 1 live, saith the Lord, I have no pleasure in the death of a sinner, but rather that he turn unto me.” Then I see him stretch out his arms, and I hear him cry, with the tears running down his blessed cheeks, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and 1 will give you rest.” “Whosoever Cometh unto me, 1 will in no wise cast out.’* And as you turn away and reject him, I see him coming to you, and crying, “Sinner, come!” and even to-night, though he is not visible to your mortal eyes, you may hear him crying, Come —

“From the Mount of Calvary,
Where the Saviour deigned to die,
What melodious sounds I hear,
Bursting on my ravished ear!
Love’s redeeming work is done,
Come and welcome, sinner, come.”

If that argument of love does not move you, what response will you give to the argument of fear?

*’ If your ears refuse

The language of his grace, Your hearts grow hard, like stubborn Jews,

That unbelieving race,
The Lord in vengeance dress’ d.
Will lift his hand and swear.
Ye that despise my promised rest
Shall have no portion there.”

Reject Christ, and your damnation is doubly sure; refuse the gospel, and destruction is your certain and most righteous doom.

“How they deserve the deepest hell
That slight the joys above!
What chains of vengeance must they feel
Who slight the bands of love!”

Oh, if you reject Christ when he comes to you in love, then you will find that he knows how to smite as well as to woo. His love is great, but spurn him and his jealousy is as cruel as the grave. Should you set your love on the prince of this world, and reject the Prince of Life, he will say: They despised me when I courted them with my kindness; now shall they taste the resentment of incensed love, and feel the pangs of outraged mercy. Oh, what a dreadful thing is the wrath of the Lamb! My hearer, if thou hast one desire towards Christ, do not be cast down; Christ never was belli iid-hand with thee. Thou art saved if thou art willing to be saved. Do not think hard thoughts of my loving Master; believe that he is able to save thee; believe more than that, believe that he has saved thee. Cast thyself at the foot of the cross; have done with questionings and complainings. Though thou dost feel so vile and wicked, come as a humble suppliant to him who is alone able to save. Smite on thy breast and pray, ‘* God be merciful to me a sinner.” May many, very many of you seek the Lord with broken hearts, and so shall you find him and be found of him, for none shall ever seek him in vain.

Now therefore come, and let us fall unto the host of the Syrians: if tJiey save us alive, we shall live; and if they kill us, we shall but die.’’’ — II Kings vii. 4.

OUTSIDE of the gates of Samaria you might have seen sundry temporary sheds or huts, hastily built, but suffered to endure till they were thoroughly decayed, in the last extremity of filth, and never visited by any except by those unhappy persons who were doomed to reside in them. In one of these huts are four miserable beings, gaunt, and lean, and thin, with that sharpness of eye and visage which is ever the effect of protracted hunger. These are lepers, loathsome by disease, and emaciated by privation. They cannot sleep, though it is past the dead of night. The sentinel on the walls has just proclaimed midnight. Wakened from their little slumber, they find it impossible to return to it again, for the pangs of hunger prevent. They hold as it were a miniature council of war, and the wiser among them propounds, with the unanimous assent of the rest, an alternative. “Why stay we here to die? If we go into the city, even should we be suffered to remain, yet famine has arisen to so great a pitcb that we must perish there; while if we sit here it is quite certain that we shall pine away; let us fall unto the camp of the Syrians.” There is a little hope to cheer them or a fell despair to drive them as they resolve to sally forth from their wretched quarters. The Syrians, maybe they thought, are dainty men of war, and they will push us away with their sword-points, and soon end our miseries. Perhaps, in their estimate, death by sword was preferable to death by famine. At any rate, in any case, say they, we can but die. Let us take the desperate alternative. Let us select that which, though it require the greatest boldness, has yet some lingering chance of success. They all listen; they assent; they arise. They perceive a streak of dawn upon the sky; they find their way to the Syrian camp; the men have fled: they enter a tent and feast; having satisfied themselves they grow dainty and they select the most luscious viands from the tables: nay, they have now time for thinking of enriching themselves, and they take, first, this golden and then that silver ornament, and they hide these away. But the thought strikes them, “Here we have bread and corn in abundance. This is a season of common distress. What though the people of Samaria forgot us, and thrust us out of the city, it were an unworthy requital even for the lepers to forget their fellow-men. Let us go back and tell of our discovery, that the poor besieged city may be relieved.” They do so. Good tidings give great joy to those who tell as well as those who hear. The famished crowds pour out of Samaria, and, according to the word of the man of God they are filled with bread to the full. Thus you have the narrative before you. Let us base upon it a sort of argument which we hope may be found useful to many inquiring souls here present. Some of you have an alternative not dissimilar to that we have described. May they be enabled to follow the instinct of self-preservation, and imitate these poor lepers in their actions; and afterwards may it be your joyful privilege to deliver to others a message as cheering as that which these lepers carried.

I. Some of you have an alternative presented to your consciences. Time was when you were careless about eternal things. That time has passed. You can look back but a few weeks and remember when the Sabbath was to you a day of revelry, when the house of God was utterly neglected, when the Bible was a book which you would not have read if you had not been flogged to it, and when prayer was a duty which you utterly despised. But now your conscience has been somewhat awakened. Though not thoroughly, still partially, roused up, you begin to perceive that the Scripture is true, that we have gone astray like lost sheep, that our iniquities do prevail against us, and that our righteousnesses are filthy rags. You have heard the gospel preached, I do not know where — you may have heard it in the cathedral, or you may have heard it in the theater; we bless God most heartily if you have heard it anywhere. But having listened to that Word, Satan has interposed, and he has said to you, ‘* Christ will not receive such sinners as you are; the grace of God was not intended for men who have degraded themselves as you have; there may be hope for other men, but there is none for you; the gate of mercy for you is fast closed and sealed, and it has been said of you, ‘He that is filthy, let him be filthy still; he has disobeyed his God, let him receive his penalty.’ “Well, now, you perceive that you are in just this particular state, that you have a choice of two things before you; you can sit still, but then you must perish; you can go to Christ, and your fears tell you that you will perish then. This, however, at any rate, your conscience may say to you, “You can but die, whereas if you go not to Christ you must die.” Even should you believe in him you think you might, after all, perish; but if you do not believe in him then there is no hope. Should you repair now to him in prayer your fears tell you that he may repel you, that he may say, “Get you gone! You that once cursed me, what right have you to expect my favor? You who have scorned my grace a hundred times, and defied my law, what do you here on your knees seeking my mercy? Begone, thou ungrateful wretch, and perish in thy sins.” But still there is this presented to your mind,- that if you perish there you do but perish.

for it is quite certain that you must perish where you are. Well, come, let me try and work out this question for you. Sitting down by your side, as one of the leprous men with his fellow, let us talk this question over. Now, you know, my brother and my friend, that should you die as you are it is absolutely certain that you must perish. Do not listen to what the Evil One now says, “Perhaps it is not true; ye shall not surely die.” You know, every one of you, that the Bible is the Book of God. If there be a man here who doubts its being God’s Word, I will not even except him; I can hardly believe the honesty of his doubts when the truth of Scripture is being so perpetually confirmed by all the discoveries that are made by those who travel in the land which gave it birth. I do not believe him to be honest in this age. Infidelity may have been honest once, but in this age of light I believe it is an imposture. You believe — you must believe — even if you reject the Word of God, you must believe that God is just. If there be a God he must punish men for sin. How can there exist a moral government if sin shall go unpunished, if virtue and vice shall bring the same end to men? Conscience, fallen though it be, and no longer like God’s candle in the soul, yet hath some twinkling sparks left which do assure men that God must punish sin. Now, supposing that you do receive the Word of God as being true, you know that the unregenerate can never see the face of God; that the unwashed — those who have never been cleansed from sin — can never stand before the Holy One, for there shall by no means enter into heaven anything that defileth. About your future fate there is no question. There is not the shadow of a doubt that if you live and die in the state in which you are now, the flame must be your everlasting portion. On the other hand, look at the other side of the alternative. There is, at least, some hope; even your poor, trembling heart admits that there is some hope — that if you seek mercy you may obtain it. I know that there is not only hope, but certainty, v Jesus casts out none that come to him, and he is willing to receive the vilest of the vile. But I put the question now as your unbelief puts it; it is not even to you an absolute certainty that Christ will reject you — is it? It is not quite certain that if you pray to him he will refuse to hear your prayer. It is not quite certain that if at this very hour the tear of penitence should stream down your cheeks, God would, nevertheless, refuse to forgive you. At least, it does not admit of positive proof that if you were to trust the blood of Christ you would perish. Mark, now, I am only putting it as you put it. So far from putting it so myself, were I speaking as I feel, I would affirm in God’s name again, and again, and again, that if you come to him through Christ he will in nowise cast you out. But put it in your way, and even then does it not seem to be the wisest thing to say, —

If I perish I will pray,

And perish only there “?

Look at the question for a moment in another light. It is certain that if you perish as you now are, you will perish without pity and without mercy. The law under which you are convicted knows nothing about forgiveness. Condemned already because you are under the law, the law provides no sacrifice for sin. If “they who sinned under Moses’ law perished without mercy, of how much sorer punishment” — that is an awful passage — -’’ of how much sorer punishment shall he be thought worthy who hath trodden under foot the Son of God? “If you perish without seeking mercy at the hand of Christ, there must be no mercy for you; but rigorous, unabated, absolute justice must be your portion. But now, do you not feel that even if you could perish after coming to God through Christ, yet you would not perish without having some ray of pity? Would there not be at least this consolation for you — “I did what God counseled me; I did come to him and ask for mercy; I did plead the precious blood of Christ, and yet he rejected me,” and do you not think that this would be a balm to you? But if you perish now you will have ringing in your ears forever — “You heard, of Christ, but you believed not on him; you lived in the light of the gospel, but you shut your eyes to it; Christ was preached in your streets, and you refused him; you would have none of his warnings, but you put your fingers in your ears and ran on to destruction.” Should you perish seeking mercy, you would be able to say, “1 did seek; I did knock; I did pray; J did trust; I did try; I did yield my heart to God; and yet I perished.” And oh! soul, if such a perishing were possible, though we are sure it is not, yet it were preferable to perishing without excuse, and without the shadow of extenuation. For your own sake, then, I say, choose that alternative, and let me now take hold of your hand and lead you to him who, with arms outstretched, hangs upon his cross, that he may give pardon to the guilty, life to the dead, and salvation to the lost.

Yet further, you ought to remember that all those who have continued in a state of nature have, without exception, perished. Not one, mark, not one, however high in station, however excellent in morality, however profound in learning, however lofty in fame, has ever been able to pass the threshold of heaven except through the atoning blood and meritorious righteousness of the Lord Jesus Christ. In the black list of the unregenerate there is no exception to their condemnation. But take the other side, and at least we can assure you from our own case that there are exceptions to the rule that any should perish who put their trust in Christ. Even supposing that some perish who put their trust in him, which is not true, yet there are some who do not. Certainly there are some who in this life receive the pardon of their sins, and know it, and who in death are cheered with the prospect of a glorious immortality. Why think, Saul was led to repentance, and yet he says he was the chief of sinners. Others in this day, who had no more right to mercy than you have now, sought and found it, and there are hundreds in this congregation, ay, and thousands too, who, if this were the proper season, could at a signal rise and say, “This poor man cried and the Lord heard him, and delivered him from all his fears.” Well, then, if God has to your knowledge saved some who have come to him through Christ — mark, I say he saves all — then, at any rate, as there is no exception to the other rule, and there are some to this, it were wisest and best for you to adopt the language of that hymn —

I’ll to the gracious King approach,
Whose scepter mercy gives;
Perhaps he may command my touch,
And then the suppliant lives.

•’Perhaps he may admit my plea
Perhaps may hear my prayer;
But if I perish I will pray,
And perish only there.

I can but peri h if I go;
I am resolved to try:
For if I stay away I know
I must forever die.

“But, should I die with mercy sought,
When I the King have tried,
That were to die, delightful thought!
As never sinner died!”

Nay, my friend, not one ever died thus. You would be the first that perished after that manner. Oh! take this alternative, and as the Holy Ghost has quickened you and made you feel your need of a Saviour, I pray that the same blessed Spirit 4> may lead you to plunge into the stream, siuk or swim — that, whether you perish or are saved, you may come and say, “Thy wounds, 0 Jesus, shall be my hiding-place: thy blood shall be my washing; thy righteousness shall be my clothing; thou, and thou alone, shalt be my all in all.”

II. We pass on to notice that the cogitation of these men ended in action. I wish the like were true of all of you. How many resolves have been strangled in this house of prayer! How many good thoughts have been murdered in those pews! Look, see, can you not find their blood upon your own skirts? Many a time that tear which betokens the first rising emotion has been wiped away, and the emotion with it. May it not be so to-night, but oh! may God grant that, like the lepers, we may put into action that which we shall think over, and accomplish that which, by the help of God the Holy Spirit, we shall be enabled to resolve upon.

Undoubtedly the action of the lepers was hold. Cowardice would have sat still. Cowardice would have said, “Well, it is true we shall perish if we sit here, but still we will not go just yet; we are very hungry, but we may bear it another hour,” and thus only an extreme pinch would have driven

THE SINNER’S ONLY ALTERNATIVE. Ill

them out. The thought of the sword, and that sensation which the mind can sometimes give to the body when it imagines the keen edge of the cold steel as it shall pierce the flesh, might have kept them sitting still. But no. They said, “We will risk it. It is a desperate case. We will cast all upon this one deed; for better or for worse, for life or for death, we will go at once into the camp.” So said and so done. Now, it seems a very bold thing to you, my unknown but trembling hearer, to think of going to Christ by faith. “Why,” say you, “I have not the impudence to do it: look at what I have been.” Perhaps some of you can speak of immoralities, others of you can speak of the gospel despised, of light abused, and of privileges neglected, a neglect which has rendered your guilt the more heinous, though outwardly it may have sheltered you from reproach; and you say, “No, I cannot; I have not the face to go to Christ; I am too black, too filthy, too naked; I cannot cover my sores; I cannot hide the foul leprosy which is starting from my gaunt face, and gleaming in livid whiteness from my brow. I could not go; I dare not go.” Well, do you recollect that hymn of Hart’s that we sometimes sing ? —

“Venture on him, venture wholly;
Let no other trust intrude;

None but Jesus
Can do helpless sinners good.”

Oh! venture on him! Though it seems impossible, yet God hath said it, and God can do impossibilities. Oh! thou blackest of the black, thou vilest of the vile, trust him to pardon thee, and he can doit. It surpasses thy faith, does it? Man, ’tis God that promiseth: judge him not according to thyself; measure not his ability with thy line; fathom not the depths of his grace with a shortlined plummet. Believe him, honor him by believing that even such an one as thou art may find pardon, and may find it now. I recollect John Bunyan, in his “Grace Abounding,” says there were times when his sins seemed so great, and his horror of them so terrible, that he felt he must go to Christ; “and,” saith he, “though 1 sometimes used to think of Christ as of one who stood with a pike in his hand to push me back, yet my terrible necessities sometimes came upon me with such force that I would fain have run even upon the very pikes sooner than endure my sin.” Sinner, run on the pikes, and thou wilt find that there is no sword or pike in Christ’s hands, but when thou thinkest that thou art about to run upon the halberts he will at once receive thee, press thee to his bosom, and say, “I have blotted out thy sins like a cloud, and like a thick cloud thine iniquities.” Oh! sinner, if thou thinkest my Master to be a hard Master, if thou thinkest it too bold a thing to come to him, thou dost not know him. I once thought him to be such an one as myself For years I thus slandered him, till my heart was driven to despair and my soul chose strangling rather than life. I said it could not be that Christ could ever forgive such an one as I; I wrote bitter things against him, as well as against myself, till at last, when I could not help it, when I could stand it no longer, with the rope about my neck as if prepared to receive my doom, I came into his presence, and I dared to look at him, and oh, that one look! My soul at this hour renews its transports at the remembrance of the change that came over my spirit the moment it learned to believe in Jesus! ‘Twas gone; the burden of a life was gone; five years of agony were forgotten as a small moment, and my soul could say, “I’m forgiven; I’m forgiven.” Then I could shout with joy unspeakable, because the love of God was shed abroad in my heart Oh! that I could but be the means — God only can do it; we can do nothing of ourselves — oh, that he would but make me the means of bringing one soul to try my Master! I am sure you would find him so good that you would say, “The half has ne’er been told.” I have never been able to tell the thousandth part of his love. 1 have tried to tell of his mercy, but oh, I have made a poor daub where there should have been a fine picture of a Prince, who has every virtue in his face, and love streaming from his eyes of compassion. Soul, lost soul, try him. Troubled soul, risk all to-night. Do a bold thing, and put thy trust in him. Like the woman who stole a cure, so do thou come behind him and touch the hem of his garment. As the dog under the table, without license, eats the crumbs, so do you. Though you think it is against the law and against license, dare to believe. Dare to trust him. He will be better than thy faith, and thou shalt find that thou dost not trust without a warrant.

But while these lepers did a bold thing, I pass on to notice thai they did it unanimously. It is not said that three of them went, but that the other said, “No, I will not go yet.” It does not say that two said, “When we have a more convenient season we will go.” It was a mercy for them that they were all hungry, for if they had not been they would not have gone. It was probably, a great mercy for them that they were all lepers, or else they would not have been decided, and would never have dared to go. AYhat a mercy it is for ‘you, sinner, to know that you are a sinner! What a blessing it is that you have not yet got that mortification of the conscience which is premonitory of eternal death! You do feel; you feel now, as if you were shut out. Oh! I thank God for it; because now that you seem to be shut out of Israel, it may be you will begin to go to Israel’s Christ, and find mercy and help, and hope in him. Ah I you will not all go to him to-night. Would to God that ye might! Out of this congregation there will come under our notice, perhaps (our faith is in God that it shall be so), some dozen, or some score, who will say, “That night I went to Christ; I dared not go before, but that night I said ‘I’ll venture on him; I’ll trust him.’” “But what are they among so many?” While we bless God that we have so many seals to our ministry, what a sorrowful reflection it is that such multitudes come into this house who go out unsaved! Oh, there are many of you who can say, “The harvest is past, and the summer is ended, and we are not saved.” It is not because there is no gospel preached. “Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why, then, is not the health of the daughter of thy people recovered? saith the Lord. No, no; we sow much, but we reap little, compared with what our hearts desire. Where stands there the man or the woman here who intends to sit down and die? Well, if you do choose it, choose it deliberately. I would have you to-night, if God shall help you, make some choice. I know you will not make the right one unless he chooses for you; but if you yourself make the wrong choice, do it deliberately, and solemnly. Say to-night — man, I wish you would say it if you mean it, for then I hope you would soon reverse it — say, “I mean to take the pleasures of this world; I mean from this time forward, to live without God and without Christ.” Mark, you may as well add, “I mean to die and be damned,” for that must go with it. Take the whole, if you dare take any part, let your damnation warrant be signed and sealed. “No,” say you, “God forbid, not so, not so.” Why not? had you not better make that league with death, and that covenant with hell, than be as some of you are, indifferent and careless? This is the fault, the folly, the infatuation of our church-goers, and of our chapel-goers. When we once get the outside world in to hear a sermon they listen with attention. If they are impressed, it often happens that the impression is saving. It is far otherwise with you who are used to sermons, who go from place to place to listen to this man and to that, till full often you come to think that preaching is a Sunday diversion intended to amuse you! How often you come to hear us as you would go to see an actor, that you may spend your time, and be able, when the question is asked, “Have you heard Mr. So-and-so?” to say, “Yes, 1 heard him on such an occasion!” Sirs, do you think we preach for your entertainment, or to court your criticism upon our talents? Oh! you do not know us if you think thus lightly of our sincerity. Is it such a fine thing to make a display of ourselves before you? Is it so flattering to our vanity that we should have your eyes fixed on us? God knoweth I would sooner break stones on

the road than be a minister if it were not for the hope of winning souls. I know of no life that has more trouble in it: I know of no calling in the world that brings more awful despondency of spirit upon any man’s mind than my ministry does on me. May God deliver me from the oppressive weight if he does not win souls by the eff’ectual working. I would renounce my charge, for all the profit it brings me in, and all the honor it ever gives me. It were not worth the labor of thinking or the languor of talking if sinners were not saved, and souls reclairaed, and God glorified. Oh! I do pray you, sirs, shake off this indifference. If you mean to engage in Satan’s service be prepared to take his pay; if you take his pleasures make up your minds to let him have the reversionary interest in your soul. Look forward to making your bed in hell; be ready to lie down in everlasting torments; or else, 1 adjure you by the laws of God, before whom I stand, embrace that other alternative, and fly to him who will in no wise cast you out.

Bear with me while I remind you again that the action of the lepers was also instantaneous. They said, “We will go,” and at once they went. Many say, “I go, sir,” but they go not. We can all of us remember times before our conversion to God when we have been impressed under solemn sermons, and some of you can recollect how you have made haste home, and have gone upstairs, and have shut the door and prayed; but idle conversation dissipated the serious impression. And how many more there are who, while their hearts have been searched under the Word, have said, “Please God to spare me another day, I’ll think over those things.” But where are you now? There is a gray-headed man over there. Just let him sharpen his memory, and recall the story of the past a little. When he was a little boy his mother had hopes of him, and when he was but a lad he was looked upon by all who knew him as being a Timothy; and now he is an old Demas with his silver hairs, and perhaps with the silver coins which he got by forsaking God and loving this present world, for the root of the matter was not in him. Venerable man, in thy hoary age recall that vow of thy ruddy youth, that vow registered in heaven, that vow which thou hast so deliberately broken. There are men here, too, in the high tide of business, who, when they were more tender of heart and less hardened by the deceitfulness of riches or the chills of misfortune, resolved and re-resolved to change their course, yet are they still the same. If you would put down your resolves in your pocket-books, and keep the old ones, so that you could look back with bitter stings of repentance you might then say, “This vow was made in the strength of the flesh, and therefore it has been broken, but its sin rests upon my soul.” These famished lepers went instantly. There is no being saved except it be done at once. We must go to Christ, not with hesitant misgiving or protracted resolving but with instantaneous submission. As justification by faith is an instantaneous gift, so the faith that saves is doubtless an instantaneous act. Believe in Christ; trust Christ, and oh! do it now. That done, thou art saved. The lepers went instantly, and they found satisfaction instantly. God grant that you may go instantly too. In one word, a positive plea for present pardon will procure you perfect peace.

Oh how well they loere all of them retoarded for what they did. Not one of them perished. They were all saved; not one came back empty-handed; they were all enriched. Nor shall one of you — my

life for yours — not one of you seeking mercy

through Christ shall be refused it. You shall all be

blessed, all adopted, all saved, who are by th.

Spirit of God led to put your trust in Christ at

this welcome moment.

III. These lepers no sooner found what was good

for themselves than they straightway went off to

tell it to others. And if you have found Christ,

after you are sure you have received him, and

have rejoiced in him for a little season, and fed

upon him, and enriched yourselves by him as your

hidden treasure, it behoves you to go and tell to

others of his grace, and your joy. This gospel is

not to be stifled. ‘* Oh! but I cannot preach,” say

you. Try, brother 1” But 1 have not the gift of

utterance,” you say again, “I have tried.” Write

a letter, brother! speak a word for Christ anyhow.

“Tell it, unto sinners tell,
That you are saved from death and hell.”

Why, I cannot make out how some people keep the secret. I cannot easily keep any secret to myself, especially if it be a benefit for anybody to know it, and I am sure I cannpt keep this one. No sooner does that secret get into the soul of a man that it wants to burn its way out. You recollect John Bunyan says he wanted to tell the very crows on the plowed land about it. And I think it will be the same with you. If you have got the secret into your heart, you will want to tell it to your fellow-workman. Perhaps you are employed behind the counter, then surely you will want to be telling it in the evening, after the shop is shut, to some that are in the common room with you. If you are a husband, you will never be content till you have told it to your wife and family; and if you are a mother, I am sure you will be eager to make it known to your children. It is a great and holy lire, that will burn and not smoulder. There was a spark once that got into the stubble, and the Angel of Discretion was there, and he said, “Spark, lie still, lie still, lie still; if you begin to consume, the next, and then the next, will get alight, and perhaps the whole threshing-floor will be in a blaze, and then the homestead, and then the village.” But preach as he might, the fire would burn, and the Angel of Discretion had well-nigh burned his wings before he had turned to flee. And so there be some in our churches who are very angels of prudence. “Young men,” say they, “don’t speak too soon; don’t attempt to do it till you are duly qualified.” My dear sirs, if God has communicated to any man the secret of salvation by grace he cannot help telling it; and if the Lord has touched a man’s tongue with a live coal, he will burn as well as the coal. If the new life has been given to him, it must find its way out, and be the means of conveying that life to others. What a mass of men there are constantly attending this tabernacle! I suppose -two-thirds of this general congregation consist of men. What a noble staff of men we have, then, who, if converted themselves, might be apostles of Christ to the church and to the world! Sirs, do you know Christ, and have you held your tongues? Take care that before .the great tribunal you are not charged with the ruin of your fellow-men! You /young men of ability, trained in our grammar- ( schools, and educated in our colleges, it is too often a lamentable fact that if you join the church you .feel as if you had only to give it your name, but ‘not your abilities. If a man joins a rifle corps he attends drill, and throws himself into it, and endeavors to promote the interests of the corps; but if he joins the church, it is as much as you can, do to get him to drill once a-year, and he seems to have nothing to do except to “stand at ease.” Oh, i sirs, when you join the church I hope you give us yourselves. If you do not, I pray you withhold your names. Up! up! in the name of God, up and at the evils of the times! Up, and tell to starving London what the lepers told to starving Samaria — that there is bread to be had. Do you say, •’ I am a sinner myself” V Your leprous lips will not spoil the message if you have but tasted and handled this truth. Do you say, “I am unworthy “? Ah! but he who took away your un worthiness took away the disability which that unworthiness involved. You are not worthy to be called God’s son by nature, but by grace you may be worthy to be his ambassador. My poor friend over there, you often weep because you cannot do more for Christ. Take courage; do all you can. If you cannot speak to thousands, be content to speak to one; and if you cannot bring hundreds to Christ, be satisfied if now and then you can lead a mourner to him.

My dear hearers (and especially you, the members of this church), if you have obtained mercy, I beseech you in the bowels of Christ, by the compassionate heart of your dying Kedeemer, by that hope which you have that he will shortly come, be ye instant in season and out of season; preach the truth and teach it, knowing that your labor shall not be in vain in the Lord. Oh, that at the dav of Christ many sheaves may be brought into the eternal garner through your being stirred up to labor by the ministry in this house of prayer. — To thee, unpardoned soul, I have spoken at length, and God knows how truly from my heart. This last word in thine ear ere thou passest those curtains to go down yonder steps — it may be that there is a solemn spot in this house of prayer to-night. I am told that just under the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral there is the mark of a workman’s hammer, and it is said that years ago one who was engaged in the roof fell down and there met his death. It is the place where a soul departed, where a man died. I do not know where it is, but it may be that there is a solemn spot here to-night where a soul will be lost forever. Maybe the moment has come when the wax upon the soul’s death-warrant shall grow cold, when it shall say in its heart, “I will have none of these things,” and when

God shall say, “Thou shalt have none of them; 1 will let thee alone; thy conscience shall never be troubled again; thou shalt go through life in peace, thou shalt go to thy death with carelessness; only in hell shalt thou ever open thine eyes.” God grant that it be not so, but I feel as if it would be so with some of you, unless sovereign and irresistible grace should decide otherwise, and then, to-night, there will be a spot in this house of prayer where a soul will be born to God. What man is he that just now gives his heart to Christ? Are there none of you? Must I go back to my Master with no joyful tidings? Is there no heart here that says: —

“I’ll go to Jesus, though my sins
Have like a mountain rose;
I know his courts, I’ll enter in
Whatever may oppose?”

Are there none? Great God, looking down from heaven! Are all hearts hard? Are there none that will come? Perhaps it is so, for we are feeble. Oh, Spirit of God, come down now; now, in this solemn moment, now, break the heart with thy hammer; now cut and wound by thy sword; now heal and bind up with thy holy ointments, now, at this solemn moment. I say no more, but may it be so, and with him I leave it. Amen.

**Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by? behold, and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow, which is done unto me, wherewith the Lord hath afflicted me in the day of his fierce anger, — Lamentations!. 12.

THIS was the lamentation of Jeremiah. As he saw the desolation of the beloved city, as he marked the cruelties inflicted by the invaders upon Jewish youth, and children, and maidens, and as he foresaw the long years of bitterness reserved for the captives in Babylon, he felt as if he were a peer in the realm of misery — indeed peerless. He stands foremost, a very emperor of grief, a king of sighs and tears. “Behold and see,” saith he, “if there were ever sorrow like unto my sorrow, which is done unto me.”

But may there not have been griefs as great as those of Jeremiah? Is the language that flows from his lips strictly accurate? Like most of the periods which flow from abundant grief, is there not some exaggeration here? If we take the words out of the mouth of Jeremiah, and put them into the mouth of Jesus; if we suppose them to be spoken by him as, hanging on the cross, he did bear the wrath of God for ns, then is th€ e no hyperbole, no exaggeration. The words may be read as they stand, and stand as we read them, and their fullest weight shall not outweigh the truth. This evening two things challenge our attention — an earnest expostulation — ‘*Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by?” — and a solemn question — “Behold, and see, was there ever sorrow like unto my sorrow, which is done unto me?”

I. First, AN EARNEST EXPOSTULATION.

The Son of God has become incarnate. He became man out of love to men; but men loved him not, and though in him was every perfection, they hunted and hounded him to death. The story is told four times over by inspired authority in this Book, but the mass of mankind feel no concern in it. I come here to-night, and I say to many of you — Does not the story of Jesus at all interest you? You heard it read just now; did it fall flat and stale upon your ears? Did you say to yourselves, “It is dry work to listen to that; there is nothing there to strike the attention; if I had taken up a newspaper and had read of some recent murder my wits would have been all awakened, but in the hearing of this death of Christ I feel not at all stirred.” Well, then, I ask you. Why is this? Why is it so? If there is anything in all the world that ought to interest a man it is the death of Christ. Yet do I find men, learned men, spending year after year in sorting out butterflies, beetles, and gnats, or in making out the various orders of shells, or in digging into the earth and seeking to discover what strange creatures once floundered through the boundless mire, or swam in the vast seas; I find men occupied with things of no sort of practical moment, and which to me do not seem so wonderfully enchanting; yet the story of God himself, who deigned to become a man, and as a man suffered, and bled, and died, is thought to be too small a trifle for intelligent minds to dwell upon it. O reason! where art thou gone? 0 judgment! whither art thou fled? Men-spend their strength on trifles, but on God incarnate they turn their backs.

It is strange that even the sufferings of Christ should not attract the attention of men, for generally, if we hear any sad story of the misfortunes of our fellow-creatures, we are interested. The newspaper is accounted more tha*n usually interesting which contains full particulars of shipwrecks, the blowing down of houses, murders, shootings, killings, and I do not know what. Everybody has felt that he could read such a paper as that because it concerned his fellow-men — what they had lost and what they had suffered. Every one stops to hear the tale of the ancient mariner; even the wedding guest is held while he with the earnest eye tells how he suffered on the wide, deep, stagnant sea. And yet this story of a man who came to our earth with no motive but love, and lived here to do nothing but good, and yet was so despised and rejected as to be nailed to a cross, and there made to die in the midst of jeers, and sneers, and pains, and agonies unknown, this does not interest men! I marvel, and yet I marvel not, at the strange indifference of tkis age to the wonders of Calvary. How is it earth does not stretch out her hands and say, “Come and tell us of the God that loved us, and came down to our low estate, and suffered for us men and for our salvation “? How is it that the crowds of this great city do not come and besiege our houses and say — “Tell us yet again this strange, mysterious story of the sufferings of the perfect Son of God “? It ought to interest us, if nothing more. Is it nothing to you, however? Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by? And should it not be more than interesting? Should it not exdte our admiration? You cannot read of a man sacrificing himself for the good of his fellow-creatures without feeling at once that you wish you had known that fine fellow, and you feel instinctively that you would do anything in the world to serve him if he still lives, or to help relatives left behind if he has died in a brave attempt. Who does not esteem, though you never knew him, the good man at Bethnal Green, who perished some time ago in the explosion at the firework manufactory? He rushed in to seek to rescue others, and was found at last a handful of ashes; bewailed by a weeping wife •! One felt at once, “There is a man there who had a soul beating beneath his ribs!” But is no admiration to be given to the Son of God, who left a throne of glory without bound, and came here below to poverty, to shame, to a life of contempt and toil, ind then gave himself up voluntarily to a death which never could have been inflicted upon him if he had not given himself up to die? Jesus Christ had no motive in suffering but the good of men. Nothing selfish ever crossed his soul. Oh, men and brethren, it was pity that ruled his heart, pity and only pity; and while we set up our statues in reverence of men who have loved their fellow-men, and speak of such and such a man as “a great philanthropist,” is it nothing to you that Jesus should die for men? shall this greatest of all philanthropists, this first the chiefest of lovers of the race of men, be altogether forgotten? I would admire him if he had not saved me. If I had no share in his blood I think I should love him. The life of Christ enchants me; the death of Christ binds me to his cross. Even were I never washed in his blood, and were myself cast away into hell, if that were posvsible, I still feel I must admire him for his love to others. Yea, and I must adore him, too, for his Godlike character, his superhuman love in suffering for the sons of men. But why, why is it that such a Christ, so lovely and so admirable, is forgotten by the most of mankind, and it is nothing to them?

Now, my dear hearers, there are some of you to whom I might put this question very closely. You have heard about Jesus very often. This pulpit is always ringing with his name. And you have admired what Jesus did; I know you have, and if” any spoke ill of him, you would be very grieved, and you would be among the first to defend his name; and yet — and yet — is that all? Are you always going to be interested, and to admire, and are you never going further? Is it, after all, to come to this, that it is nothing to you that Jesus should die? Have you no interest in that death, no part, no lot in the salvation which that death brings to the sons of men? I am afraid with some of you it will be so all your days. How many years have I preached to some of you? And if those past years have not brought you to Christ, is there any reason to believe that more years to come will do it? Nay, I fear that with some of you the harvest is past, and the summer is ended, and you are not saved. There was a time when this voice did seem to cut into your sohl, and the truth that was uttered awakened your conscience, but it is all nothing to you now. You could go to sleep under the sound of it, and your soul does sleep under the sense of it. What, will you abandon hope? Have you resolved to be lost, with the light of life beaming before you? Have you determined that you will never look to him who is lifted up to save you from the serpent’s bite? Shall Christ, the water of life, never be tasted by your lips? Do you elect to perish of thirst? Shall this bread of life be never eaten? Do you choose rather to starve than to come to him? No, you tell me you hope it will be otherwise one of these days. Ah! but I have no hope of you for any day but to-day, and I wish you to know that procrastination is of all things fatal. I would sooner that you resolved to be damned than that you only said, “To-morrow, to-morrow,” for if to-day you resolved upon your ruin, you might be startled at the resolution, and you might be led to see your folly and awakened to amend your steps, but if you always say “To-morrow, to-morrow,” it will be the will-o’-the-wisp that will tempt you into the fatal morass, where souls have been lost by tens of thousands, as yours will be.

Oh! wherefore should I have to be always coming on the same errand into this pulpit to say over and over and over again to you that Jesus died, and that if you trust him you shall live? Why should it need to be repeated thus? Great God of patience, such a story as this ought to be accepted of the heart at once. If thou bearest with men who reject it, we may well bear with them too; but oh! we pray thee let them not go too far with thy long-suffering, nor venture too much upon thy patience, lest thou lift thy hand and swear in thy wrath that they shall not enter into thy rest, because th.^.y had the gospel, but they counted not themselves to be worthy of it.

One thing 1 would say to you, to all of you to whom it seems as yet to be nothing that Jesus should die, I can assure you that personally to me it is something that he should die. It is more than something; it is everything, and I will tell you why. It is much to me that Jesus died, for I knew I slew him. I sang those verses just now, and I sang them with some bitterness of soul. I was forced to feel:

*’’Tis I have thus ungrateful been.”

If it were not that I had sinned, as one of the race, there had been no need for Christ to die, but as it was sin that pierced and nailed him, I had a share in his death. But then I knew another thing, that by that death I am delivered from the very guilt that put him to death. I have looked to him, and I am forgiven. Fleming tells us in a book of his that a great culprit had been condemned to be hanged at Ayr. He had been a very great offender, but, while he lay in prison, God granted him repentance, and he was heard to say continually as they took him to the scaffold, “Oh! but he’s a great forgiver! Oh! but he’s a great forgiver! “and I have often felt as if I could stand and cry, yea, even dance and say it,” Oh, but he’s a great forgiver! Oh! but he’s a great forgiver! “My innumerable sins confessed to him, were blotted out each one, and peace and joy bestowed where all was fear and trembling before. Now, there are hundreds in this house that could say the same. If I were to ask it, and this were the proper time, there are thousands here who could rise and say,” I too can say that it is much to me that Jesus died, for though I slew him, yet by his death I live, and by the blood which I drew from his veins, I have been washed and made white.” Well, if it is so much to us, we do sincerely wish, oh,. unconverted ones! that Christ were as much to you, for we do think he ought to be; we do desire that he should be; we pray that he may be, and we tremble, even to horror, lest after all he should not be; for if Christ be nothing to you, it will be a hard dying for you, a wretched exit, the bed shall be of iron, and the pillow shall be cold as ice; and it will be hard passing into a disembodied state; it will be heart-rending to come before God; it will be grim and doleful for you at the again-rising, in the day of the resurrection, when the trumpet sounds, and the sepulchres are burst open, and your body linked to your soul again, shall stand before the flaming throne of Christ. It will be appalling for you, more terrible than tongue can tell, throughout eternity! An eternity without Christ! An eternity without Christ! “Nothing to you, nothing to you,” you say now, but how will it be when conscience shall remind you in eternity, “You heard of Christ, but you’said he was nothing to you; you listened to earnest admonitions, but you said they were nothing to you.” How will this stir the fire? How will this fan the flame? How will this prick your conscience and vex your spirit, that Jesus died, and inestimable mercies dropped from the cross, pardons sealed with blood were distributed freely upon Calvary and broken hearts were healed, and sins were forgiven, and the dead were raised, and the lost were saved; but it was all nothing to yon, nothing to you. Oh! before death comes — and he is on his way to some here present, on his way to meet them soon — before death comes on the pale horse with hell following at his heels, I beseech you, as you love your souls, look to the Crucified, and be not satisfied till you can say, “He is everything to me; I slew him, but he saved me; I look to him, and I live.”

May God bless this admonition, and my heart shall be glad indeed if he will but do it. Oh, how little can I do for you unconverted ones, how little can I do for you! When I sometimes get a shake of the hands from some of you, and you say, “Well I have been hearing you for years, sir, but I am not converted,” I look hopefully upon you, but I cannot help when I get away, reproaching myself in part and saying, “Have I preached to these people as 1 ought to do?” You cause me to wake up at night to weep for you, and to ask myself again and again, “What more can I say? How shall I put it? With what force and power can I deliver it, if perhaps I may reach their hearts “? Oh, I trust you may yet be brought, and God shall be praised and glorified world without end!

II. Now let us change to a second point — a

SOLEMN QUESTION.

The Lord Jesus Christ may be represented here as bidding men see if there be any sorrow like unto his sorrow, which is done unto him. Truly the sufferings of Jesus toere altogether unique; they stand alone. History or poetry can find no parallel.

There were never any sufferings which could match his, and never was such an illustrious sufferer put to such boundless shame. He was the eye of heaven, the very sun and star of the bright world. It was the seraph’s bliss to do him homage. *. King of kings and Lord of lords was he, and the government was upon his shoulders, and his name was called Wonderful, the Counselor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace. All the hallelujahs of eternity rolled up at his august feet. But he was despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised and we esteemed him not. They spat into his face; they plucked off his hair; they blindfolded him; they smote him with their fists; they gave him a felon’s death, and then stood by and mocked his prayers, and made jests about his groans and pangs. Never was one so high brought so low. “Behold, and see if ever there were sorrow like unto my sorrow, which is done unto me.” Never one so innocent, never one so falsely accused. He had done no evil; he was no rival of Cassar. He said his kingdom was not of this world. Instead of doing evil he had done boundless good. His meat and drink were to do God’s will. His delight was to help the poor, to feed the hungry, to heal the sick. He was all gentleness, all goodness, and generous beyond degree. From both his hands he scattered bounties lavishly amongst the graceless sons of men, and yet they said he was guilty of sedition and blasphemy. He seditious! He a blasphemer! Lying could go no further; suborned witnesses could not be made to agree. The lie was too massive even for those to compass who were willing to have compassed it. Oh! was ever grief like his! exonerated yet condemned! adjudged to be without fault, yet delivered up to his direst foes! treated as a felon, put to death as a traitor; immolated on a gibbet which bore triple testimony to his innocence by its inscription. The tragic drama never reached a plot so deep. The majestic odes of prophecy never told a fact more clearly. He suffered, the just for the unjust, for he did no sin, neither was deceit found in his lips!

In our Saviour’s death there were aggravations of an extraordinary kind. Before he actually came to die, that dreadful night in Gethsemane had broken his already emaciated frame. There he sweat, as it were, great drops of blood falling to the ground. In two or three cases other persons have sweat drops of blood, but they invariably died. Our Saviour did this, and yet lived. Oh, how was the bitterness of his soul expressed in that awful overflow which fell upon the soil of that garden! Then remember, he was led, deserted by his friends, without any comfort from his God, to be tried by Herod, by Pilate, by Caiaphas; to be scourged, beaten, probably several times, with rods and scourges. God forsook him. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me” — was his cry in the very depth of his agony. With none to pity, no one to administer comfort, forsaken utterly, our Saviour died, with accessories of sorrow that were to be found in no other decease than that which was accomplished at Jerusalem.

Still, the singularity of his death lies in another respect. There was never sorrow like unto the sorrow which was done unto Christ, because all his sorrow luas home for others. Whatever you and I may suifer we deserve it, and directly or indirectly, we may trace it to the fact that we are sinners. But he was spotless, innocent, and pure. In him was no sin, and neither suffering nor death could lawfully have been exacted of him had he not been made the substitute for his people. Behold, and see if there was ever sorrow like unto his sorrow. He bears the sin of many; he is numbered with the transgressors. He stands vicariously to endure tormenting griefs which never could have fallen to his lot had it not been that he was a surety, and stood in his people’s stead.

Now, I want your close attention for one minute. Question — What was it that Christ, as substitute, had to endure? Answer — Although it may not have been precisely what we have to endure, it must have been something equivalent thereto. And what ought any one sinner to have suffered? Interminable misery in hell. What, then, must have been the pangs which in Christ’s case were accepted as an equivalent for the countless agonies of one sinner? Howbeit Christ died, not for one sinner, but for tens of thousands, for multitudes whom no man can number. Think, then, my brethren, what must have been the crushing blows which Jehovah laid on him when those strokes were inflicted to satisfy divine justice for the sins, the crimes, the transgressions of ten thousand times ten thousand of those for whom he suffered. Of course, it were not possible for him to have endured such penance, even for one soul of man, if he had not been God. His Godhead gave him an infinite capacity, and infused a boundless degree of compensation into all the pangs he bore. You have no more idea of what Christ suffered in his soul than you have, when you take up in a shell a drop of sea- water, power to guess from that the area of the entire boundless, bottomless ocean. What Christ suffered is utterly inconceivable. We are not at liberty to think of him as dying as another dies. His was a vast soul, so great a soul that it seemed to have all souls within it, and it had the capacity for suffering what all souls might bear, and the whole of the vast nature which God had given, that wondrous nature which he himself also essentially possessed, was put forth to make an atonement for human sin. “Behold, and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow, which is done unto me.”

It is time to pause a little. Instead of talking any more, let us sit down in meditation at the foot of the cross, and look up. ‘Tis the King; ’tis the King, but he is crowned with thorns. It is the Prince of glory, but he is stripped naked to his shame. It is the Ancient of eternal days, but he bows his head to die. He is God all sufficient, yet he cries, “I thirst.” He is the angels’ darling, but he is despised and rejected of men. He filleth the courts above with honor; his presence gilds heaven with light, yet there upon the cross he is covered with shame and shrouded in darkness. Hushed are the songs, the anthems, and choruses of celestial choirs; and all the music that greets his ears is that of his own sighs, and cries, and groans. Was ever grief like thine? Needless question; needless question; all but shameful question; for were all griefs that ever were felt condensed into one, they were no more worthy to be compared therewith than the glow-v/orm’s tiny lamp with the ever-blazing sun.

What then, beloved, what then? If Christ be thus alone in suifering, what then? Why, let him stand in our love. High, high, set up Christ high in your heart. Now, brethren and sisters, you have many objects of your affection, but oh, lift up my Lord, your soul’s Bridegroom, your spirit’s well-beloved! Come now, if you have thought well of him, think better of him. If you have loved him, oh, love him more. Now, ask to have your heart inflamed, as with coals of juniper which have a vehement heat, and let that heart be all his own. Oh! let there be no such love as your love to Christ. Let it pass the love of women. Let it go beyond a mothers love, a brother’s afi’ection, a father’s tenderness. Love him; you cannot match his love to you; seek at last to let your little stream run side by side of the mighty river.

If Christ be thus alone in suffering, brethren, let us seek to make him, if we can, alone in our service. It is not much we do for Christ comnared with what we should. Some have learned to give their time, their labor, and their substance in larger measure than most people care to do. But yet what is our giving, be it ne’er so costly, for such an one as he is? We only give what we can spare; how few of us ever pinch ourselves for him. He smarted for us, and gave up even his very garments for us, but we do not come to that. In the olden times they did, and saints, and martyrs, and Christian missionaries made sacrifice of all, and counted it no sacrifice, out of love to him. I wish we had more Marys who would break the alabaster box of precious ointment upon his dear head. Oh! for a little extravagance of love, a little fanaticism of affection for him, for he deserves ten thousand times more than the most enthusiastic devotees ever dream of rendering.

If he be thus, brethren, so far beyond all others in his sorrow, let him also be first and foremost in our praise. If ye have poetic minds, weave no garlands except for his dear brow. If ye be men of eloquence, speak no glowing periods except to his honor. If ye be men of wit and scholarship, oh seek to lay your classic attainments at the foot of his cross! Come hither with all your talents, and yield them to him who bought you with his

Mood. Come hither, ye with much and ye with little; come ye with hearts so warm whom he loved so well; give some lively expression to your gratitude.

“Dear suffering Lamb! thy bleeding wounds,
With cords of love divine,
Have drawn our willing hearts to thee,
And linked our life with thine.

“Our longing eyes would fain behold
Thy bright and blessed brow,
Once wrung with bitterest anguish, wear
Its crown of glory now.”

But, oh! are there any of you here who still think nothing of Christ, who pass by unheeding, to whom his sorrows are of no account? Ye will think differently another day: for “every eye shall see him; they also that pierced him, and all nations shall wail because of him.” Did ye but know the meaning of this — “Surely he hath born our griefs and carried our sorrows,” your interest would be aroused, you would turn straightway, and look at him, and look to him, as a friend, as your friend, as the best friend a sinner can see or know. Oh that his sorrows might awaken your sympathies!

“Come, blessed Lord, thy grace impart.
To warm each cold, each stolid heart,
Till all its powers and passions move
In melting grief and ardent love.”