VILE!

by Arthur W. Pink (1886-1952)

We are rather afraid that its title will deter some from reading this article: we hope it will not be so. True, it does not treat of a popular theme, nay, one which is now very rarely heard in the pulpit; nevertheless, it is a scriptural one.

Fallen man is "vile," so vile that it has been rightly said "he is half brute, half devil." Nor does such a description exceed the truth. Man is "born like a wild donkey's colt" (Job 11:12), and he is "taken captive by the devil at his will" (2 Tim. 2:26). Perhaps the reader is ready to reply, Ah, that is man in his unregenerate state, but it is far otherwise with the regenerate. From one viewpoint that is true; from another, it is not so. Did not the Psalmist acknowledge, "So foolish was I, and ignorant: I was as a beast before You!" (73:22) unteachable, intractable, kicking against God's providential dealings; not behaving like a man, much less like a saint! Again, did not Agur confess, "Surely I am more brutish than any man!" (Proverbs 30:2). True, we never hear such lamentations as these from those who claim to have received their "Pentecost" or "second blessing," nor from those who boast they are living "the victorious life." But to those who are painfully conscious of the "plague" of their own heart, such words may often describe their case.

Only recently we received a letter from a dear brother in Christ, saying, "the vanity and corruption that I find within, which refuses to be kept in subjection, is so strong at times that it makes me cry out—My wounds fester and are loathsome because of my sinful folly." Does the reader object against our appropriation of the Psalms and Proverbs, and say, We in this New Testament dispensation occupy much higher ground than those did. Probably you have often been told so by men, but are you sure of it from the Word of God? Listen, then, to the groan of an eminent Christian: "I am carnal, sold under sin!" (Romans 7:14). Do you never feel thus, my reader? Then we are sincerely sorry for you.

As to the other part of the description of fallen man, "half devil": did not Christ say to regenerate Peter, "Get behind Me, Satan: you are an offence unto Me" (Matt. 16:23)? And are there not times when writer and reader fully merit the same reproof? Speaking for myself, I bow my head with shame, and say, Alas there is. "Behold, I am vile" (Job 40:4). This was not said by Cain in a remorseful moment after his murder of Abel, nor by Judas after he had betrayed the Savior into the hands of His enemies; instead, it was the utterance of one of whom God said, "There is none like him in the earth, a perfect (sincere) and an upright man, one who fears God, and eschews evil" (Job 1:8). Was Job's language the effect of extreme melancholy, induced by his terrible afflictions? If not, was he justified in using such strong language of self-depreciation? If he was, are Christians today warranted in echoing the same?

In order to arrive at the correct answer to the above questions, let us ask another: when was it that Job said, "Behold, I am vile"? Was it when he first received tidings of his heavy losses? No, for then he exclaimed, "the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord" (1:21). Was it when his friends reasoned with and reproved him? No, for then he vindicated himself and boasted of his goodness. Then when was it that Job declared "Behold, I am vile"? It was when the Lord appeared to him and gave him a startling revelation of His own wondrous perfections! It was when he stood in the all-penetrating light of God's immaculate holiness and was made to realize something of His mighty power. Ah, when a soul is truly brought into the presence of the living God, boasting ceases, our loveliness is turned into corruption (Dan. 10:8), and we cry, "Woe is me! for I am undone!" (Isaiah 6:5).

When God makes to the soul a personal revelation of His wondrous perfections, that individual is effectually convinced of his own wretchedness. The more we are given to discern the ineffable glory of the Lord, the more will our self-complacency wither. It is in God's light, and in that only "we see light" (Psalm 36:9). When He shines into our understandings and hearts, and brings to light "the hidden things of darkness" (1 Cor. 4:5), we perceive the utter corruption of our nature, and are abominable in our own eyes. While we measure ourselves by our fellows, we shall, most likely, think more highly of ourselves than we ought to think (Romans 12:3); but when we measure ourselves by the holy requirements of God's nature, we cry I "am dust and ashes" (Gen. 18:27).

True repentance changes a man's opinion of himself. Is, then, a Christian today warranted in saying "Behold, I am vile"? Not as faith views himself united to the One who is "altogether lovely"; but as faith discerns, in the light of the Word, what he is by nature, what he is in and of himself, he may. Not that he is to hypocritically adopt such language in order to gain the reputation of great humility; nay, such an utterance is only to be found upon our lips as it is the feeling expression of our hearts: particularly is it to be owned before God, when we come to Him in contrition and in confession. Yet is it also to be acknowledged before the saints, even as the Apostle Paul cried publicly, "O wretched man that I am!" (Romans 7:24).

It is part of our testimony to own (before those who fear the Lord) what God has revealed to us. "Behold, I am vile!" Such is the candid and sorrowful confession of the writer.

1. I am vile in my imaginations. O what scum rises to the surface when lusts boil within me. What filthy pictures are visioned in "the chambers of my imagery" (Ezek. 8:12). What unlawful desires run riot within. Yes, even when engaged in meditating upon the holy things of God, the mind wanders and the fancy becomes engaged with what is foul and vile. How often does the writer have to acknowledge before God that "from the sole of the foot even unto the head there is no soundness" in him, "but wounds, and bruises, and putrefying sores" (Isaiah 1:6). Nightly does he avail himself of that Fountain which has been opened "for sin and for uncleanness" (Zech. 13:1). 
2. I am vile in my self-will. How fretful am I when God blows upon my plans and thwarts my desires. What surgings of rebellion within my wicked bosom, when God's providences displease. Instead of lying placidly as clay in the Potter's hand, how often do I act like the unruly colt, which rears and kicks, refusing to be held in with bit and bridle, determined to have my own way. Alas, alas, how very little have I learned of Him who was "meek and lowly in heart." Instead of "the flesh" in me being purified, it has putrefied; instead of its resistance to the spirit weakening, it appears to be stronger each year. O that I had the wings of a dove, that I could fly away from myself! 
3. I am vile in my religious pretenses. How often I am anxious to make "a fair show in the flesh" and be thought highly of by others. What hypocrisies have I been guilty of in seeking to gain a reputation for spirituality. How frequently have I conveyed false impressions to others, making them suppose it was far otherwise within me, than was actually the case. What pride and self-righteousness have swayed me. And of what insincerity have I, at times, been guilty of in the pulpit: praying to the ears of the congregation instead of to God, pretending to have liberty when my own spirit was bound, speaking of those things which I had not first felt and handled for myself. Much, very much cause has the writer to take the leper's place, cover his lips, and cry "Unclean, unclean!" 
4. I am vile in my unbelief. How often am I still filled with doubts and misgivings. How often do I lean unto my own understanding instead of upon the Lord. How often do I fail to expect from God (Mark 11:24) the things for which I ask Him. When the hour of testing comes, only too frequently are past deliverances forgotten. When troubles assail, instead of looking off unto the things unseen, I am occupied with the difficulties before me. Instead of remembering that with God all things are possible, I am ready to say, "Can God furnish a table in the wilderness?" (Psalm 78:19). True it is not always thus, for the Holy Spirit graciously keeps alive the faith which He has placed within; but when He ceases to work, and a trial is faced, how often did I give my Master occasion to say, "How is it that you have no faith?" (Mark 4:40). 

Reader, how closely does your experience correspond with the above? Is it true that, "As in water face answers to face, so the heart of man to man" (Proverbs 27:19)? Have we been describing some of the symptoms of your diseased heart? Have you ever owned before God, "Behold I am vile"? Do you bear witness to the humbling fact before your brethren and sisters in Christ? It is comparatively easy to utter such words, but do you feel them? Does the realization of this truth make you "blush" (Ezra 9:6) and groan in secret? Have you such a personal and painful sense of your vileness that, often, you feel thoroughly unfit to draw near unto a holy God? If so:

1. You have abundant cause to be thankful to God that His Holy Spirit has shown you something of your wretched self, that He has not kept you in ignorance of your woeful state, that He has not left you in that gross spiritual darkness that enshrouds millions of professing Christians. Ah my stricken Brother, if you are groaning over the ocean of corruption within, and feel utterly unworthy to take the sacred name of Christ upon your polluted lips, then you should be unfeignedly thankful that you belong not to that great multitude of self-complacent and self-righteous religionists of whom it is written, "They were not at all ashamed, neither could they blush: therefore shall they fall among them that fall: in the time of their visitation they shall be cast down" (Jer. 8:12). Much cause have you to praise the God of all grace that He anointed your sin-blinded eyes, and that now, in His sight, you are able to see a little of your hideous deformities, and cry "I am black!" (Song. 1:5). 
2. You have abundant cause to walk softly before God. Must not the realization of our vileness truly humble us before Him, make us smite upon our bosom, and cry "God be merciful to me, the sinner!" Yes, such a prayer is as suited to the maturest saint as it was when first convicted of his lost estate, for he is to continue as he began: Colossians 2:6, Revelation 2:5. But alas, how quickly does the apprehension of our vileness leave us! How frequently does pride again dominate us. For this reason we are bidden to "Look unto the rock whence you are hewn, and to the hole of the pit whence you are dug" (Isaiah 51:1). Beg God to daily show you your vileness that you may walk humbly before Him. 
3. You have abundant cause to marvel at the surpassing love of the Triune God toward you. That the Eternal Three should have set their heart upon such a wretch is indeed the wonder of all wonders. That God the Father should foreknow and foresee every sin of which you would be guilty in thought and word and deed, and yet have loved you "with an everlasting love" must indeed fill you with astonishment. That God the Son should have laid aside the robes of His glory and be made in the likeness of sin's flesh, in order to redeem one so foul and filthy as I, was truly a love "that passes knowledge!" That God the Holy Spirit should take up His residence and dwell in the heart of one so vile, only proves that where sin abounded grace did much more abound. "Unto Him who loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood, and has made us kings and priests unto God and His Father; to Him be glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen!" (Rev. 1:5, 6).

THE DOOMED CITY

by John MacDuff

"Ungrateful sinner! on your future rests
 A sadder heritage of guilt and shame,
 Who with abounding gospel mercies blest
 Dare spurn the Savior's grace and scorn His Name;
 Forget not, though His patience now endures,
 The heathen's hell will be a heaven to yours!"

"And you, Capernaum, will you be lifted up to the skies? No, you will go down to the depths. If the miracles that were performed in you had been performed in Sodom, it would have remained to this day. But I tell you, it will be more bearable for Sodom on the day of judgment than for you."—Matthew 11:23, 24

While following, in the preceding chapters, the Savior's footsteps on Gennesaret, with no name or spot, in all the favored region, have we been more familiar than with Capernaum. His ever memorable sojourn within its walls, is now, however, speedily to terminate. Along with other Hebrew Pilgrims, He is about to proceed to the City of solemnities (Jerusalem), in order to celebrate the feast of Tabernacles.

But before He leaves its gates, He must utter in its hearing a solemn warning—a dreadful denunciation, over unrequited love and guilty impenitence. He looks down the vista of ages to that solemn day when cities and their inhabitants shall throng the area of the Great Tribunal, and when He who holds the balances in His hand will deal out, with unerring equity, to each and all, their respective sentences.

It is not often that Jesus—the meek, and gentle, and tender Savior—speaks in accents of stern wrath and upbraiding; we may well believe He never uttered one needlessly harsh word. When we behold Him, therefore, as the Minister of Justice, standing with the flaming sword in His hand, proclaiming "terrible things in righteousness"—"he that has an ear to hear, let him hear!"

We have these three points brought before us for consideration in this solemn address of our Lord—

I. Capernaum's Privileges.
II. Capernaum's Neglect.
III. Capernaum's Doom.

I. Capernaum's PRIVILEGES

"And you, Capernaum, will you be lifted up to the skies?" We reject the interpretation put upon this clause by some of the older writers, that it has reference to the worldly prosperity of the city as the great seaport of Gennesaret; still more, another, that the allusion is to its elevated natural site. It is, undoubtedly, in a spiritual sense Christ speaks. His reference is to Capernaum's exaltation in unprecedented and unparalleled religious privilege.

Of all the cities in Palestine, none was in this respect more exalted (nay, so exalted) as this town of Galilee. Bethlehem was "exalted" as the scene of the Manger, and of the Seraphim who sang the advent-hymn of the Prince of Peace. Nazareth was "exalted" as the home of His youth: imagination loves to watch in this little city, nestling amid its picturesque hills, the unfoldings of that wondrous Humanity—to follow Him as He climbed in mysterious boyhood these sunny slopes, or toiled in the lowly workshop of His reputed father. Jerusalem was "exalted" as the scene of more thrilling and majestic events. It witnessed the awful termination of the drama of love and suffering—the Agony; the Cross; the Grave; the Resurrection.

But if we would select the most instructive chapter in the Great Biography—that which contains the most thorough manifestation of the life of Jesus, we must seek it in Capernaum—we must linger in its streets, or frequent the mountain slopes, which looked down on its busy waters. It is spoken of emphatically, with reference to Jesus, as "His own city," the place where He dwelt. For the three most eventful years of His life He made it His home. Either within or outside its gates, miracle followed miracle in rapid succession. Bodily disease; sickness; blindness; palsy; death itself—fled frightened at the presence of the Lord of life; while the very waves which washed its port had been made a pathway for a new display of Power, and murmured their tribute to His Divinity.

Nor was it the WORKS of Jesus alone which this favored city had witnessed. Hundreds on hundreds would echo the later verdict of the soldiers and officers, "Never man SPOKE like this man." The noblest of all His recorded discourses was uttered with Capernaum in view. The rocks, and ravines, and mountain summits around, had listened to Beatitudes of love and mercy for which the world had strained its listening ear for 4000 years. That noble series of Parables, explanatory of the nature of His kingdom, was spoken as He was moored in a fishing boat by its beach. If we cannot even now, read these truthful lessons and words of wisdom without profound emotion, what must it have been to have listened to them, in the living tones of that living voice, and to have gazed on the countenance of the Divine Speaker, "fairer than the children of men?"

And even mightier still than word or deed, sermon or miracle, was, (as we have just noted,) the holy LIFE of this adorable Philanthropist. What a matchless combination of power and gentleness—of majesty and humility! How unlike all human greatness—how unlike all human selfishness! a zeal that never flagged—a love that never faltered—a pity and compassion which sheltered the wretched, the worthless, the abandoned, and those "who had no helper." When His public work was done in the city, He was seen betaking Himself, amid falling twilight shadows, to some neighboring "mountain apart to pray;" or if bodily fatigue demanded rest, no sooner was the cry for support heard, than He was seen hurrying back from His solitude and mountain pillow to afford the needed help.

O favored Capernaum! honored for three long years as the abode of "God manifest in the flesh." How surpassing your privileges! What were the boasted glories of earth's proudest capitals, at that moment, in comparison with this town by the solitary lake of Northern Palestine? What was Rome, with her imperial eagles, looking down from her seven hills, exulting in the sovereignty of the world? What was Athens, or Alexandria, with their schools and systems—their sages and philosophers—looking down from their haughty pinnacles of intellectual triumph on the subject world of Mind? What were these in comparison with the honor enjoyed by that city, within whose honored walls dwelt the Prince of the Kings of the earth—"Christ, the Power of God, and the Wisdom of God?"

In its streets, or on its hill slopes, or amid the chimes of its waves, words of mighty import were first heard, which were destined yet to be borne where the Eagles of Rome had never penetrated. There a mighty balsam was distilled for the wounds of bleeding humanity, which the doctrines of Aristotle and Plato had failed, and ever should fail, to stanch: No wonder, then, that over this His adopted home, His heart should yearn with deepest emotion. His eye wanders first to the further towns, lining these same shores, and which were not unfamiliar with His voice and presence. As He gazes on them with tearful eye, thus He weaves His plaintive lament: "Woe to you, Chorazin! woe to you, Bethsaida! for if the mighty works which were done in you, had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes." But He has a deeper and sterner plaint reserved for another city—a more solemn and emphatic exclamation: "and you, Capernaum" (I turn now to you, the spot most favored of all, during my earthly pilgrimage), "and you, Capernaum, who are exalted to heaven!"

Is it a far-fetched comparison, if we see, in the privileges enjoyed by this city of Gennesaret, a reflection of our own? What the region around it proverbially once was among the Hebrews ("a region and shadow of death"), Britain was to the old world; a land of savage barbarism and debasing superstition. But to us, as to them, who once "sat in darkness," light has "sprung up." Cast your eye over the map of the habitable earth, and what the spot, what the nation in its two hemispheres so favored as ours? I speak not of our worldly prosperity—our national glory. I speak not of our enterprise—our science—our arts—our commerce—our institutions. Regarding all these in their place, we have reason for honest pride. But I speak of our spiritual privileges, which may well be prized as a Briton's noblest birthright—the security and conservator of all the rest.

Look to other countries, on which the Sun of heaven smiles more brightly and favorably than on our own, yet cursed and demoralized with horrid rites of impurity and blood—millions bowing to insensate blocks—yearning souls, feeling the void and worthlessness of their own barren systems, longing for some nobler panacea than superstition can give—ten thousand Ethiopians stretching out their unsupported hands to some better God than their idols of silver and gold.

Look at empires nearer home. The saddest of all sad features in many of the nations of Europe is, that God's own truth is not free—that a poor perishing sinner is not permitted to read with his own eyes that precious Word which was intended to be patent as the air of heaven!

Oh, is it no blessing to turn from this sickening tale of a benighted world and a benighted Christendom, and see our own land, with every fetter struck from the limb of thought and action, shining like a spiritual lighthouse—in the midst of the darkening waves? Is it no blessing that we can tell of peaceful Sabbaths, and holy ordinances, and unbound and unforbidden Bibles?—that free as the streams that leap from our mountain ravines are these precious waters of salvation?—that while myriads of heathens are passing into a dark eternity, or pining unsolaced in the bitterness of broken hearts; we can sit by the bedside of the sick, the forlorn, the bereft, the aged, the dying, and from the leaves of this Holy Book, light up the faded countenance with the smile of a foretasted Heaven?

May not He who uttered these words of profound solemnity in the hearing of Capernaum, well look down on this our favored country, and with solemn and significant emphasis echo the exclamation: "And YOU who are exalted to heaven!"

II. Consider Capernaum's NEGLECT. He "upbraided" this city, along with the others, "because it did not repent."

Now it is worthy of note that there is no special or atrocious sin laid to the charge of this lake-city. During all the period of our Savior's residence there, we read of no personal insult its inhabitants offered Him. Nazareth, the town of His childhood and youth, has covered, in this respect, its otherwise hallowed name and memories with everlasting reproach. The furious assault its citizens made on the guiltless and innocent Savior is stated as the reason for His leaving it and coming to dwell in Capernaum. But in His new home we have the record of no such ignominious persecution—no such outburst of personal animosity. On the contrary, He seems there to have been honored and respected. His influence was great; and the most blinded and obdurate could not shut their eyes to the fact that a Great Prophet had arisen in the midst of them. Representatives from all its diverse ranks and offices did him homage; Publicans from their Custom-house; Fishermen from their nets; Leaders of the Jewish synagogue; Officers in Caesar's ranks and drawing Caesar's pay—while the common people heard him gladly.

But what of all this? While there were some (we may hope many) happy exceptions, with the vast multitude there was continued  indifference, cold and cheerless neglect; with many more, daring irreligion, and the indulgence of those unblushing vices which, imported from the Roman capital, had been propagated by an abandoned Court. They heard His words, but they practiced them not. They owned him as a Heaven-sent Teacher, but they refused to regulate their lives by His lofty instructions.

In the neighboring city of Tiberias, that imperial Court of Herod was located. This unhappy sovereign was himself the type of hundreds whom the Redeemer had doubtless now in His eye. Herod vaunted no infidelity. On the contrary, he had been the personal friend of John the Baptist. He admired the great preacher's unworldly spirit—his deep and singular earnestness—the novelty and impressiveness of his themes! He invited him to his palace. He listened to his faithful, soul-stirring words—and yet all the while that palace was the scene of shameless profligacy. Herod—this sermon-lover, this Religionist, who could hear the holiest of mere men preach the doctrine of Repentance—was reveling in guilty defiance of the laws of God and man. Patiently he heard John so long as he kept on the great general theme—so long as he allowed him to remain undisturbed in his own wickedness. But when he became a 'Nathan' to him—when the faithful, fearless Forerunner hurled the bolt of rebuke at the soul of his imperial master, and dragged to light his secret lusts, he could tolerate him no longer. Herodias is retained, and John is sent to exile.

So it was with many in Capernaum. They could follow Jesus to the heights of the Mount, and listen to His beatitudes. They could stand for hours on the white sands of the lake as He spoke to them from Simon's vessel all the words of the kingdom; but when He urged the necessity of a daily self-denial—a daily bearing of the cross—they were immediately offended. "This is a hard saying," they said, "who can bear it?" "From that hour they walked no more with Him." This was their condemnation that light (the great Light of Life) came to their city, but they loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.

Has Capernaum in this respect no parallel and counterpart in modern times? Alas! alas! Is it not to be feared that now, as then, men are content with having "a name to live," who are spiritually dead. There are thousands who come to our churches, who hear the preacher, who assent to the message, but go back from listening to the tremendous themes of  Death, Judgment, and Eternity, to plunge deep as ever into engrossing worldliness and sin. The preacher may be heard—his words may fall like lulling music on the ear, but the gates of the soul are firmly locked and barred against admission—the Baptist may thunder his rebukes, but some Herodias, some heart-sin and life-sin, will, in spite of them, be retained and caressed.

Are there none now reading these words, whom the Savior would begin (as He did with Capernaum) to "upbraid," because they have repented not? When His scrutinizing eye looks down, Sabbath after Sabbath, upon listening audiences throughout our land, all apparently solemn, sincere, outwardly devout, does He not discern, lurking underneath this fair external guise, the signs and symptoms of loathsomeness and decay; like the pure virgin snow covering the charred and blackened ruin, or the emerald sod muffling the volcano. Ah! sermons will not save us—church-going will not save us—orthodoxy in creed and party will not save us. Repent! Repent! is the sharp, shrill call of the Gospel-trumpet. There must be a change of heart—a change of life—a crucifixion of sin—and with full purpose of heart, a cleaving unto the Lord who died for us.

Like Capernaum in our privileges, let us see to it that we be not like Capernaum in our guilt. Better that we had been born among a Pagan-horde—better that we had been kneeling before shapeless idols, votaries of dumb clay, or worshipers of the Great Spirit of the fire or the mountain, than knowing a Savior, and yet rejecting Him—the freeborn citizens of a Christian land, and yet the enslaved possessors of Heathen hearts!

III. We are called to ponder Capernaum's DOOM. "And you, Capernaum, shall be brought down to hell."

That this refers to no mere temporal judgment, is plain from what is immediately added—"It shall be more tolerable," says our Lord, "for the land of Sodom in the day of judgment than for you." Sodom was already destroyed. It was the future judgment of both, therefore, at the great day, to which the reference is made.

No doubt this future and final retribution has had its significant foreshadowing in a temporal overthrow; for nothing in all Palestine (no, not the dilapidated walls of Jerusalem itself) is more striking, than the contrast between Gennesaret as it was, so busy a scene of traffic and life, with what it is now, a spectacle of loneliness and desolation. The very site of the ruins of Capernaum, and its sister towns, is matter of dispute. Jordan, as he rolls past, hurrying his waters to the Asphalt Lake (the Dead Sea), carries the tidings to its submerged cities, that that once "Sea of Life," has become a "Sea of Death," like itself.

But as we have said, we must seek for the full meaning of our Lord's words, not in the grey moldering heaps which strew the shores of that now silent lake, but in a more terrible scene, when from beneath these crumbling stones, buried thousands shall rise at the last summons! It is a solemn and dreadful picture here brought before us. The Angels of Judgment are commissioned to announce them with their trumpets, and to gather in before the tribunal, not solitary individuals, but congregated masses; City is brought to confront City; Capital to confront Capital!

Capernaum is seen to rise from its shroud of ruins! It is the old earthly home of Jesus that is now conducted to the bar of judgement. Let the Witnesses be summoned! Three solemn years, like three venerable forms, come forth from the ancient past. They testify how its streets had been trodden by the footsteps, its shores had echoed to the voice, its arraigned thousands had gazed on the mighty works of Him, who, once the  Savior, is now the Judge!

Nor are there lacking individual witnesses to substantiate this testimony. Hear their evidence. One has to aver: 'I was stretched on a couch of sickness "ready to die." He came, and by a word healed me.'

Another—'The foulest of diseases (leprosy) had, from infancy, tortured my frame, banished me from my fellows. He gave the mandate. Returning health thrilled through my veins, and those that had before fled frightened from my presence, beheld in me also a new trophy of His divinity.'

Another has to tell—'My son was trembling on the verge of the grave—a look and a word restored him.' Another—'My only daughter was hushed in that sleep from which human power can effect no awaking. The King of Terrors had torn her from our side. But the Lord of Life entered our dwelling, rolled back the gates of death, and gave us back our loved and lost!'

Material Nature can even be summoned to add weighty testimony. The mountains whose verdant slopes so often listened to His voice—the midnight solitudes which heard His prayers for the impenitent—the grassy meadows where He fed the hungry and compassionated the fainting multitude—the white sands that bore His footsteps—the very waves that rocked themselves asleep at His omnipotent "peace, be still." There is a tongue in every one of them to attest the privileges of the ungrateful city.

And now appears a stranger and more impressive Witness. It is a witness called from the depths of a tremendous sepulcher. Calcified rocks with their riven fronts have borne for ages the significant epitaph of an unexampled overthrow; temple and tower emerge from these abysmal deeps—the hum of a vast City breaks on the ear! It is SODOM, the doomed capital of the Patriarchal age—The "City of the PLAIN" confronts the City of the northern SEA! "Exceedingly wicked sinners against the Lord," what have you to plead?

'Had we enjoyed,' is the reply, 'the privileges of Capernaum, we would have repented long ago, in sackcloth and ashes. Had that voice of majesty and love sounded in our streets as it did in theirs, we "would have remained until this day"—the brimstone cloud would have dissolved—the bolts of living fire would have been undischarged—smiling plains and vineyards would have been where for ages sullen death-waters have rolled—we might have lifted up our faces unabashed in this hour of judgment. Lord! Great Judge! to us much was not given—forbid that from us much should be required!'

What does the Righteous Lord say? 'SODOM! Justice demands retribution for your crimes—your guilt was not without its aggravations—you were not left unsupported and unwarned; the voice and the prayers of the Father of the Faithful ascended for you—a Righteous man testified in your midst from day to day against your unlawful deeds—yet you would not listen; the doom of Earth must be confirmed now! City, you were filthy, be  filthy still!'

But YOU, Capernaum! the same Justice demands that far different be YOUR doom! The guilt of Sodom was guilt contracted in the thick darkness of the old world—a few broken beams only struggled through the mists of early day!

But YOU, Capernaum! what city of earth so favored? Your hills were the first gilded by the beams of the Sun of Righteousness—your waters were the first to sparkle under His radiance. It was no earthly prophet or messenger that came and tarried within your walls, summoning you to repentance! Oh, mightier than all preceding Witnesses, your JUDGE Himself must now take the place of deposition, and testify against you! I warned you!—I counseled you!—I lifted up my voice in your streets! Never did I break the bruised reed, or quench the smoking flax!—I sought to bring forth judgment to victory. But my pleadings of love fell powerless on impenitent souls. You knew Your Lord's will, and did not do it! You were exalted to heaven with privileges—be thrust down to hell for the misimprovement of them! 'Truly I say to you, It is more tolerable for the land of Sodom in this the day of judgment than for you!'

It is the same principle which will regulate the procedure in the Final Day with reference to US. The same great law of unerring equity will be rigidly adhered to—"From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded."

Is there one among us who has trampled on unnumbered privileges—the lessons of early piety—followed by a manhood of daring ungodliness, or with whom solemn providential warnings have been guiltily neglected and scorned? What shall the Great Judge say on that Day of just retribution? 'Guilty one! Your doom admits of no mitigation! There is everything to aggravate and nothing to extenuate. I made for years your soul a very Capernaum. I lingered in it, with My footsteps of mercy plying you with every motive and every argument to induce you to hear My voice, and turn at My reproof. I spoke to you in prosperity—by the full cup; but you drank it unacknowledged. I spoke to you in adversity—by desolate hearts and swept chambers; but you received the chastisement in sullen fretfulness, and rushed only deeper into worldliness and sin. See that Outcast by your side! If the mighty works had been done in his case that were done in yours, it might have been far otherwise with him. If he had had your mother's prayers—your paternal counsels—your pastor's warnings—your solemn afflictions, he might have been clothed before now in the sackcloth of repentance. But no penitential tear stole down your cheek—My grace has been resisted—My spirit grieved—My love mocked and scorned. Truly I say to you, it shall be more tolerable for miserable thousands throughout eternity than for you!'

We are obviously taught by all this, that there are to be gradations in future punishment—aggravations of guilt and degrees of suffering. Of what these are to consist, we cannot tell; doubtless among them will be the gnawing rebukes and accusations of memory and conscience, over abused privileges—the bewailing of opportunities and mercies madly thrown away by us.

In that impressive parable of our blessed Lord, describing the condition and experience of the lost, one of the saddest elements in the woe of Dives is unfolded in the reply of Father Abraham—a reply whose echoes will circulate gloomily through the domains of despair—"Son, REMEMBER!" Capernaum, remember! you were the honored home of a Savior you guiltily rejected. Sinner, remember! how that Savior stood and knocked day by day, week by week, at the gates of your soul—remember! How you grieved and scorned Him—remember! that parental prayer, that funeral, that sermon, that lifetime of privilege!

Even on earth, how often do we see how memory and conscience together can light up a hell in embryo! Not far indeed from Capernaum, there was an illustration of this in the case of the imperial tyrant, to whom we have previously alluded. Herod had guiltily connived at the murder of the most innocent of men, and most devoted of ministers. The base deed is consummated. But no sooner is it so, than conscience is roused to its work of retributive vengeance; the image of the slaughtered prophet haunts his thoughts by day, and scares him in dreams by night—Herod the king, soon heard about Jesus, because people everywhere were talking about him. Some were saying, "This must be John the Baptist come back to life again. That is why he can do such miracles." Others thought Jesus was the ancient prophet Elijah. Still others thought he was a prophet like the other great prophets of the past. When Herod heard about Jesus, he said, "John, the man I beheaded, has come back from the dead!"

It is John reanimated to inflict merited retribution on his old destroyer! the stern preacher has come from Sheol! he has been sent from the spirit-world as a minister of vengeance! Conscience sees the grim spectral shadow flit ominously before him, like the fabled ghosts of the murdered—all his power cannot bribe it—all his courage cannot charm it away!

Yes; this is but a foreshadowing of what will terribly aggravate the sufferings and upbraidings of the lost; some foul deed that  murdered (worse than the body) the soul of a fellow-creature, will fasten upon the transgressor like the sting of the scorpion, and give him no rest day nor night. The terrible imagery will track his footsteps, and traverse, with terrifying form, his path.

I was a traitor to my child, will be the harrowing thought of one; he might have been in glory but for me! I laid snares for  the innocent, will be the self-reproach of another. I sowed the seeds of vice in virtuous hearts; they are now piteously upbraiding me as the author of all their misery! I was the Pastor of a Flock, is the torturing anguish of a third; but I deceived them with a name to live, I neglected to tell them of their danger, and urge them to accept the great remedy, and the voice of my people's blood is crying out against me! We had that Savior in our offer, will be the wild cry of thousands more, but we rejected His love and spurned His grace.

Ah, it is this last which was the crime of the Capernaum sinner, (misimproved privileges), and we fear no guilt will be more general, no reflections more harrowing, than those arising from its consciousness. Yes; be assured nothing will be half so terrible as to be confronted with the charge of abused responsibilities. If he be without sail and rudder, the castaway on the raft could not be blamed for inability to buffet the storm, reach the haven, and save his owner's cargo; but a heavy responsibility would rest on the pilot, who, with fully equipped vessel, a bright sky above, a favoring breeze, and a safe navigation, permitted her to run aground, or be dashed on the rocks.

Not only, in the case of abused privileges, is the responsibility greater, but the ruin is swifter and surer! The very possession of privileges, if these are unimproved, will only lead to a greater hardness and impenitency of heart. The sun, and dews, and rains of heaven, which warm and moisten, and fructify the living blade, or plant, or tree, accelerate the decay and rottenness of the dead one. As by  familiarity with sin, its native odiousness is worn away—the first shudder of tender conscience is followed by a duller sense of its turpitude, then the swift downward descent to perdition. So by familiarity with the gospel, the urgency and impressiveness of its messages are diminished; just as the Alpine shepherd can, through habit, sleep undisturbed at the base of the roaring cataract, or the soldier can hear without wincing the thunder of the cannon.

God keep us from the sin and danger of being preachers and hearers, and not doers—having the head enlightened and the soul unsaved—our privileges only forging the heavier fetter, and feeding and fanning the hotter flame!

Awake, my Brother, before it is too late, from your sleep of indifference. God calls on all men, everywhere, to repent. Yours may, until now, have been the guilt of Capernaum; yours its heavy responsibilities; but the Savior has not yet stood at the gates of your heart to utter the last malediction; announcing that you are, through impenitence, finally given over to judicial blindness! While Capernaum still enjoyed the Lord's presence, for the vilest sinner within its walls there was mercy! We entreat you, by the great Day of Judgment—that Day in which  Sodom and Capernaum and we shall together meet—to remain no longer as you are.

Do not go down to the grave, with your souls unsaved! Jesus is still lingering on your thresholds. It was the wondrous record of three years of miraculous works and cures in the Galilean city—"He healed them ALL;" and He is still the Physician who heals ALL diseases! Soon it will be too late to rush to His feet; He will have bidden an eternal farewell to the souls that have rejected Him, or death may have put his impressive seal on their hopes of pardon. A few more faint "pulses of quivering light," and your earthly sun will have set forever! The past may be a sad one—you cannot recall it—you cannot revoke or cancel it—it has winged its flight before you to meet you at the Judgment. But the future is yours, and God helping you, the dark and cloudy day may yet have its golden sunset! Up, and with the earnestness of men resolve to flee sin and cleave to the Lord, that that dreadful hour may never arrive, in which your own knell shall thus be rung—"If you, even YOU had known in this your day, the things that belong to your peace, but now they are forever hidden from your eyes."

Can I close these solemn thoughts without a word of incentive and encouragement to God's own people? The text tells us that there are to be different degrees of punishment in a state of woe; but there are other passages in abundance, which teach us the cheering corresponding truth, that there are to be different degrees of bliss in a future heaven. One star is to differ from another star in glory. There are to be rulers over five, and rulers over ten cities—those who are to be in the outskirts of glory, and those basking in the sunlight of the Eternal Throne!—Is this no call on us to be up and doing?—not to be content with the circumference, but to seek nearness to the glorious center—not only to have crowns shining as the brightness of the firmament, but to have a tiara of stars in that crown? It is the degree of holiness now that will decide the degree of happiness then—the transactions of time will regulate the awards of eternity.

And as we have seen that memory will increase and aggravate the wretchedness of the lost, so will the same purified ennobled power intensify the bliss of the saved. Ah! with what joy will they re-traverse life, mark every successfully resisted temptation—every  triumph over base passion and sordid self—every sacrifice made for the glory of God and the good of man—every affliction they have meekly borne—every cross they have submissively carried—every  kindly unostentatious deed, done from motives of love and gratitude to the Savior. Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling. The Christian life is action; it is not theory—it is not dreamy thought—sickly sentimentalism. The formula of the great Judge's sentence on the last day to the Righteous is (not "well thought," or "well purposed," but)—"well DONE;" to the Wicked—"Inasmuch as you DID it not."

Fellow sinners, washed by the same blood—fellow pilgrims, traveling to the same eternity—fellow prisoners, who are so soon to stand at the same Great Judgement—are we ready to meet the summons which may sooner than we think startle us in the midst of our neglected privileges?—"Go! Give an account of your stewardship!"

The Bruised Reed and the Flickering Candle

by John MacDuff

"Comfort, comfort My people!" says your God. Isaiah 40:1 

"A bruised reed he will not break, and a flickering candle he will not snuff out!" Isaiah 42:3 

No verse in this beautiful chapter, nor in this "Book of Comfort," is more comforting than this. God has His strong ones in His Church — His oaks of Bashan and cedars of Lebanon; noble forest trees, spreading far and wide their branches of faith and love and holiness — those who are deeply rooted in the truth, able to wrestle with fierce tempests of unbelief, and to grapple with temptations  in their sterner forms.

But He has His weaklings and His saplings  also — those that require to be tenderly shielded from the blast, and who are liable, from constitutional temperament, to become the prey of doubts and fears, to which the others are total strangers. Sensitive in times of trial, irresolute in times of difficulty and danger,  unstable in times of severe temptation; or it may be in perpetual disquietude and alarm about their spiritual safety. To such, the loving ways and dealings of the Savior are thus unfolded, "A bruised reed shall He not break, and the flickering candle shall He not snuff out." Let us proceed to note the beauty and significance of the twofold figure.

(1.) The bruised reed. The reed, or "calamus," is a plant with hollow stem, which grew principally by the side of lakes or rivers. Those who have been in Palestine are familiar with it in the tangled thickets which still line the shores of the ancient lake Gennesaret, or, above all, in the dense thicket fringing the banks of the Jordan. The plant might well be taken as an emblem of whatever was weak, fragile, brittle. The foot of the wild beast which made its lair in the jungle — trampled it to pieces. Its slender stalk bent or snapped under the weight of the bird that sought to make it a perch. The wind and hail-storm shivered its delicate tubes, or laid them prostrate on the ground.

"A reed shaken by the wind," was the metaphor employed by One, whose eyes, in haunts most loved and frequented by Him — had ofttimes gazed on this significant emblem of human weakness and instability.

Once broken, it was rendered of no use. Other stems which had been bent by the hurricane might, by careful nursing and tending, be recovered; but the reed, once shattered, became worthless. In a preceding chapter (Isaiah 36:6) it is thus spoken of as an emblem of tottering, fragile Egypt, "Lo you trust in the staff of this broken reed — on Egypt, whereon, if a man leans — it will go into his hand and pierce it!"

Some have considered that a reference is made, in the present passage, to the reeds which the shepherds of old used in their rustic pipes on the hills of Canaan. One of these reeds — bruised, split, or broken, would make the whole instrument discordant. We may imagine David playing on such an instrument in the valleys of Bethlehem, before he got his golden harp on Mount Zion. He would probably fashion that mountain-pipe with his own hands — plucking the reeds from some watercourse among the hills of Judah as he was watching his father's sheep, and using it as an accompaniment to "the Lord's song." But if one of the tubes had received an injury, what would he do? He would never think of repairing it; but taking the instrument to pieces, he would throw the mutilated and bruised reed away, and meander down to the ample reed-forest in the valley, to insert a new one.

'Not such' says Christ, 'are my dealings with any of my people, who may be broken with convictions of sin, and wounded in conscience — I will not break the bruised reed!' Or rather, as that negative assertion is the Hebrew way of conveying a strong affirmative — it is equivalent to saying, that He will bind up  the broken heart, that He will cement the splintered stem of the hanging bulrush, endowing it with new life and strength and vigor, causing it to "spring up among the grass, as willows by the watercourses" — that He will pardon, pity, comfort, relieve!

Look at that same sweet Psalmist of Israel: who was more a "bruised reed" than he? God had inspired his soul — made it a many-stringed instrument in discoursing His praise; but now it lies a broken mutilated thing, with the stain of crimson guilt upon it — tuneless and silent. "I kept silence," says he, "my bones waxed old through my roaring all the day long. For day and night Your hand was heavy upon me, my moisture is turned into the drought of summer." Does God desert him? does He cast the reed away, and seek to replace the void by another, worthier and better? Does He mock the cry of penitential sorrow, as through anguished tears that stricken one thus implored forgiveness, "Have mercy upon me, O God — according to Your loving-kindness! According to the multitude of Your tender mercy — blot out my transgression!"

No! Hear him detail his own experience,"I acknowledged my sin unto You, and my iniquity have I not hid; I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord — and You forgave the iniquity of my sin." And then he takes up the retuned instrument, and sings for the encouragement of others, "For this shall everyone that is godly pray unto You in a time when You may be found."

In the case of some aromatic plants — it is when bruised they give forth the sweetest fragrance. So, it is often the soul, crushed with a sense of sin — which sends forth the sweetest aroma of humility, gratitude, and love. "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."

(2.) The flickering candle. But, not only is it predicted of this coming Savior, that "the bruised reed He shall not break," it is added, "The wick (flickering candle) he will not snuff out." We may be warranted perhaps in taking this second metaphor to apply, not so much to those who are haunted with the remembrance of any special or presumptuous sin — as to those who gradually, perhaps almost imperceptibly, have suffered declension in spiritual things — who are mourning the general languor of their spiritual life, the deterioration or decay of their Christian graces. They hear others spoken of as being "strong in faith" — but their faith is not entitled to the name. They hear of others spoken of as ardent in love — but they cannot mock so noble and heavenly a grace by identifying it with their own. They read, in the case of others, of glowing ecstasies and holy experiences — but they are strangers to all such. If they have the  retrospect of better times — now at all events, they can only tell of declension and backsliding. If they can revert to hallowed hours, which still linger, like a strain of far off music, in their memories — these have now only left behind them an aching void and gloomy silence.

Like Samson they go forth — but it is with shorn locks, weak and powerless. Like the children of Israel once "carrying bows" — they have now "turned faint in the day of battle." Once under the palm-groves of Elim, and drinking its refreshing wells — they are now dwelling in the dark tents of Kedar. The joy of their piety is departed; and if they were asked for some image to describe their feelings, they would point to the flickering candle, smouldering and no more — "the glimmering wick of faith," as Jerome calls it — the reeking smoke already rising, as if premonitory of its entire extinction.

Such a flickering candle was the once hero-hearted Prophet Elijah, seated amid the crude rocks of Horeb; away from duty — morbid, sullen, panic-stricken — forgetful of the encouragements of mount Carmel and the miracles of brook Cherith — indulging in the ungrateful soliloquy, "It is enough, take away my life!" God has forgotten me! Does the Great Being he thus unworthily distrusted, accept him at his word? Does He crush the feeble spark, or leave the desert whirlwind to blow out the flickering, expiring flame? No! "What are you doing here, Elijah?" "Arise; go anoint Jehu, go anoint Hazael; go back to duty; I will yet make you a burning and a shining light in Israel."

Such a flickering candle (to take a New Testament example), was the cowardly Apostle Peter, as he is seen skulking with uneasy step, in a momentous hour, within the vestibule of the high-priest's palace. Peter, indeed, was an illustration of the bruised reed and flickering candle in one. In his case, too, it was not the gradual wasting and expiring of the flame — but rather its threatened swift extinction — about to be quenched in sudden darkness. It is a terrible collapse of loud profession and parade of courage! He has deserted his Master in the hour He most needed his sympathy and presence and loyal fidelity. The proud vessel of yesterday, bounding with full sail under favoring breezes — lies today, seemingly an abandoned, dismantled hulk on the rocks! But is that vessel hopelessly to be broken up, and its fragments scattered over the trough of the ocean? Is there no  tide of love that will once more set it floating on the waters? Is that flickering candle to burn itself out in darkness and despair? Has the vital spark really fled and left nothing save the sickening fumes — the memories of apostasy, the breach of plighted faith and sworn discipleship — with the deep aggravation of oaths and curses? Are there no words of forgiving tenderness that are yet to fan the "flickering candle" into its old flame, transform weakness — into strength; cowardice — into heroic devotion?

Yes! "Go your way, tell His disciples — and Peter," was the message of personal kindness and mercy. 'Go and tell the most traitorous of these disciples — the candle that has burnt most feebly, that I am to come again and fan it into deathless consecration!' And so it was.

When the faithless disciple  and the faithful Master confronted one another, face to face, at the Lake of Tiberias, and when the fire of coals was kindled on the shore (fit emblem of the better rekindling of apparently smothered and extinguished life and love), see how the tenderest of rebukes ever uttered to the erring — brought tears to the eye — and burning confessions, thrice repeated, to the lip. The slumbering ashes of an unquenched and unquenchable devotion awoke. The flickering candle burst into a fervent flame; and from the path of duty and of suffering which he manfully trod in response to the call "Follow Me," there was, from that day onwards, no deflection!

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever; and for all who feel, in their own case, the accuracy of the figure "flickering candle," He has words of encouragement and heart-cheer. Listen to the voice which addressed Peter by the lake-side of Gennesaret, as it was heard, yet a few years later, from the Throne of Glory, admonishing one of the Asiatic churches and its individual members.

That church had become lukewarm, backsliding, lethargic, apostate. It is described, not by His inspired servant — but by His own lips of Omniscience — (seen by Him who walks in the midst of the golden candlesticks, and "whose eyes are as a flame of fire") — as having "a name that you live and are dead" (Revelation 3:1). What is His verdict and deliverance on those thus trembling on the verge of a confirmed apostasy — apparently dead while they live? Is it, 'Bury the dead out of my sight! Cast the bruised reed away! Quench and extinguish that flickering candle, which is only rising like defiled incense from my holy altar, and polluting my holy courts!' No! "Be watchful, and strengthen the things which remain, which are ready to die" (verse 2).

BACKSLIDER! whatever may have been the cause of present alienation from the "God of your life" — do not surrender yourself to an unwarranted despondency. The cry of the truant wanderer from the fold, as it mourns its estrangement and longs for return — will not be unheard by the Shepherd of souls. The wail of the disconsolate spouse, rising as it does from the depths of a yet devoted heart, will not fail to reach the ear of the loved and lost One she seeks: "Tell me, O You whom my soul loves, where You feed, where You make Your flock to rest at noon? For why should I be as one who turns aside by the flocks of Your companions?" (Song of Solomon 1:7).

No, He will not reject your faith because it is weak, nor your love because it is feeble. He will not despise the day of small things. Even to the Philadelphian Church, which had only a little strength, there was set before it "an open door which no man could shut" (Revelation 3:8). There is life in the weak ant — as well as in the lordly lion. There is life in the tiny moss or spire of grass — as well as in the giant tree. There is life in the helpless infant — as well as in the full grown man. So, both "little faith" as well as "great faith" indicate the existence of spiritual life; and once the spiritual life has commenced — it can never die. He who has begun the good work will carry it on — that life is "hid with Christ in God."

Unlike the candle of the wicked — who can put out the candle of the godly? Not God, for He has justified His people. Not Christ, for He has died for His people. Not the Holy Spirit, for He seals His people the day of everlasting redemption. Not death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers; for none shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord!

Yes, and if we were to ascend amid the throng of the upper sanctuary, we would see, among glorified lamps set in that heavenly Temple, those who were once "flickering candles," feeble sparks — but who now, purified from the smoke and dross of earthly corruption, are shining "like the brightness of the heavens, and those who lead many to righteousness, like the stars for ever and ever!"

"When anxiety was great within me — Your comfort gave me renewed hope and cheer!" Psalm 94:19

Comfort for the Desponding

by C.H. Spurgeon

A sermon delivered on Sabbath Morning, November 25, 1855 at New Park Street Chapel, Southwark.

"Oh that I were as in months past."—Job 29:2

FOR THE MOST part the gracious Shepherd leads his people beside the still waters, and makes them to lie down in green pastures; but at times they wander through a wilderness, where there is no water, and they find no city to dwell in. Hungry and thirsty, their soul fainteth within them, and they cry unto the Lord in their trouble. Though many of his people live in almost constant joy, and find that religion's ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace, yet there are many who pass through fire and through water: men do ride over their heads,—they endure all manner of trouble and sorrow. The duty of the minister is to preach to different characters. Sometimes we admonish the confident, lest they should become presumptuous; oftentimes we stir up the slumbering, lest they should sleep the sleep of death. Frequently we comfort the desponding, and this is our duty this morning—or if not to comfort them, yet to give them some exhortation which may by God's help be the means of bringing them out of the sad condition into which they have fallen, so that they may not be obliged to cry out for ever—"Oh that I were as in months past!"

At once to the subject. A complaint; its cause and cure; and then close up with an exhortation to stir up your pure minds, if you are in such a position.

I. First, there is a COMPLAINT. How many a Christian looks on the past with pleasure, on the future with dread, and on the present with sorrow! There are many who look back upon the days that they have passed in the fear of the Lord as being the sweetest and the best they have ever had, but as to the present, it is clad in a sable garb of gloom and dreariness. They could wish for their young days over again, that they might live near to Jesus, for now they feel that they have wandered from him, or that he has hidden his face from them, and they cry out, "Oh that I were as in months past!"

1. Let us take distinct cases one by one. The first is the case of a man who has lost the brightness of his evidences, and is crying out, "Oh that I were as in months past!" Hear his soliloquy:—"Oh that my past days could be recalled! Then I had no doubt of my salvation. If any man had asked for the reason of the hope that was in me, I could have answered with meekness and with fear. No doubt distressed me, no fear harassed me; I could say with Paul, 'I know whom I have believed,' and with Job, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth;'

'My steady soul did fear no more
 Than solid rocks when billows roar.'

 I felt myself to be standing on the rock Christ Jesus. I said—

'Let cares like a wild deluge come,
 And storms of sorrow fall;
 Sure I shall safely reach my home,
 My God, my heaven, my all'

But ah! how changed it is now! Where there was no cloud it; all cloud; where I could read my 'my title clear,' I tremble to read my damnation quite as clearly. I hoped that I trusted in Christ, but now the dark thought rises up, that I was a hypocrite, and had deceived myself and others. The most I can attain to, is—Methinks I will hope in him still; and if I may not be refreshed with the light of his countenance, still in the shadow of his wings will I trust.' I feel that if I depart from him there is no other Saviour; but oh! what thick darkness surrounds me! Like Paul of old, there have been days and nights wherein neither sun, nor moon nor stars have appeared. I have lost my roll in the Arbour of Ease; I cannot now take it out of my breast, and read it to console me on my journey; but I fear that when I get to the end of the way they will deny me entrance, because I came not in by the door to receive his grace and know his love, but have been deceived, have taken carnal fancies for the workings of the Spirit, and have imputed what was but natural conviction to the work of God the Holy Ghost."

This is one phase, and a very common one. You will meet many who are crying out like that—"Oh that I were as in months past!"

2. Another phase of this great complaint, which it also very frequently assumes, is one under which we are lamenting—not so much because our evidences are withered as because we do not enjoy a perpetual peace of mind as to other matters. "Oh "says one, "Oh that I were as in months past; for then whatever troubles and trials came upon me, were less than nothing. I had learned to sing—

'Father, I wait thy daily will;
 Thou shalt divide my portion still;
 Give me on earth what seems thee best,
 Till death and heaven reveal the rest.'

 I felt that I could give up everything to him; that if he had taken away every mercy I could have said—

'Yea, if thou take them all away,
 Yet will I not repine;
 Before they were possessed by me,
 They were entirely thine.'

I knew no fear for the future. Like a child on its mother's breast I slept securely; I said, 'Jehovah-jireh, my God will provide,' I put my business into his hands; I went to my daily labor; like the little bird that waketh up in the morning, and knoweth not where its breakfast is to come from, but sitteth on the spray, singing—

'Mortal, cease from toil and sorrow
 God provideth for the morrow;'

so was I. I could have trusted Him with my very life, with wife, with children, with everything, I could give all into his hands, and say each morning, 'Lord, I have not a will of my own, or if I have one, still, thy will be done; thy wish shall be my wish; thy desire shall be my desire.' But 'oh that I were as in months past!' How changed am I now! I begin fretting about my business; and if I lose now but a live pound note, I am worried incessantly, whereas, if it were a thousand before, I could have thanked the God who took it away as easily as I could the God that gave it to me. How the least thing disturbs me. The least shadow of a doubt as to some calamity that may befall me, rests on my soul like a thick cloud. I am perpetually self-willed, desiring always to have just what I wish. I cannot say I can resign all into his hands; there is a certain something I could not give up. Twined round my heart there is an evil plant called self-love. It has twisted its roots within the very nerves and sinews of my soul. There is something I love above my God. I cannot give up all now; but 'oh that I were as in months past!' For then my mercies were real mercies, because they were God's mercies. "Oh," says he, "'that I were as in months past!' I should not have had to bear such trouble as I have now, for though the burden might have pressed heavily, I would have cast it on the Lord. Oh! that I knew the heavenly science of taking the burdens off my own shoulders, and laying them on the Rock that supports them all! Oh! if I knew how to pour out my griefs and sorrows as I once did! I have been a fool, an arrant fool, a very fool, that I should have run away from that sweet confidence I once had in the Saviour! I used then to go to his ear, and tell him all my griefs.

'My sorrows and my griefs I poured
 Into the bosom of my God;
 He helped me in the trying hour,
 He helped me bear the heavy load.'

 But now, I foolishly carry them myself, and bear them in my own breast, Ah!

'What peaceful hours I then enjoyed!'

Would that they would return to me."

3. Another individual perhaps is speaking thus concerning his enjoyment in the house of God and the means of grace. "Oh," says one, "in months past, when I went up to the house of God, how sweetly did I hear! Why, I sat with my ears open, to catch the words, as if it were an angel speaking; and when I listened, how at times did the tears come rolling down my cheeks! and how did my eyes flash, when some brilliant utterance, full of joy to the Christian, aroused my soul! Oh! how did I awake on the Sabbath morning, and sing,

'Welcome, sweet day of rest,
 That saw the Lord arise;
 Welcome to this reviving breast,
 And these rejoicing eyes!'

And when they sang in the house of God, whose voice was so fond as mine. When I retired from worship, it was with a light tread; I went to tell my friends and my neighbors what glorious news I had heard in the sanctuary. Those were sweet Sabbaths; and when the prayer-meetings came round, how was I found in my places and the prayers were prayers indeed to my spirit; whoever I heard preach, provided it was the gospel, how did my soul feed and fatten under it! for I sat at a very banquet of joy. When I read the Scriptures they were always illuminated, and glory did gild the sacred page, whenever I turned it over. When I bent my knee in prayer, I could pour my soul out before God, and I loved the exercise; I felt that I could not be happy unless I spent my time upon my knees; I loved my God, and my God loved me; but oh! how changed now! 'Oh that I were as in months past!' I go up to God's house; it is the same voice that speaks, the same man I love so much, still addresses me; but I have no tears to shed now; my heart has become hardened even under his ministry; I have few emotions of joy; I enter the house of God as a boy goes to school, without much love to it, and I go away without having my soul stirred. When I kneel down in secret prayer, the wheels are taken off my chariot, and it drags very heavily; when I strive to sing, all I can say is, 'I would but cannot'; 'Oh that I were as in months past!' when the candle of the Lord shone round about me!"

I trust there are not many of you who can join in this; for I know ye love to come up to the house of God. I love to preach to a people who feel the word, who give signs of assent to it—men and women who can afford a tear now and then in a sermon—people whose blood seems to boil within them when they hear the gospel. I don't think you understand much of the phase I am describing; but still you may understand a little of it. The word may not be quite so sweet and pleasant to you as it used to be; and then you may cry out—"Oh that I were as in months past!"

4. But I will tell you one point which perhaps may escape you. There are some of us who lament extremely that our conscience is not as tender as it used to be; and therefore doth our soul cry in bitterness, "Oh that I were as in months past!" "When first I knew the Lord," you say, "I was almost afraid to put one foot before another, lest I should go astray; I always looked before I leaped; if there were a suspicion of sin about anything, I faithfully avoided it; it there were the slightest trace of the trail of the serpent on it, I turned from it at once; people called me a Puritan; I watched everything; I was afraid to speak, and some practices that were really allowable I utterly condemned; my conscience was so tender, I was like a sensitive plant; if touched by the hand of sin, my leaves curled up in a moment; I could not bear to be touched I was so tender, I was all over wounds, and if any one brushed against me I cried out. I was afraid to do anything, lest I should sin against God. If I heard an oath, my bones shook within me; if I saw a man break the Sabbath, I trembled and was afraid; wherever I went, the least whisper of sin startled me; it was like the voice of a demon when I heard a temptation, and I said with violence, 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' I could not endure sin; I ran away from it as from a serpent; I could not taste a drop of it; but 'Oh that I were as in months past.' It is true, I have not forsaken his ways; I have not quite forgotten his law; it is true, I have not disgraced my character, I have not openly sinned before men, and none but God knoweth my sin; but oh! my conscience is not what it once was. It did thunder once, but it does not now. O conscience! conscience! thou art gone too much to sleep, I have drugged thee with laudanum, and thou art slumbering when thou oughtest to be speaking! Thou art a watchman; but thou dost not tell the hours of the night as thou once didst. O conscience! sometimes I heard thy rattle in my ears, and it startled me, now thou sleepest, and I go on to sin. It is but a little I have done; still, that little shows the way. Straws tell which way the wind doth blow; and I feel that my having committed one little sin, evidences in what way my soul is inclined. Oh! that I had a tender conscience again! Oh! that I had not this rhinoceros conscience, which is covered over with tough hide, through which the bullets of the law cannot pierce! Oh! that I had a conscience such as I used to have! ' Oh that I were as in months past!'"

5. One more form of this sad condition. There are some of us, dearly beloved, who have not as much zeal for the glory of God and the salvation of men as we used to have. Months ago, if we saw a soul going to destruction, our eyes were filled with tears in a moment; if we did but see a man inclined to sin, we rushed before him with tears in our eyes, and wished to sacrifice ourselves to save him; we could not walk the street, but we must be giving somebody a tract, or reproving some one; we thought we must be for ever speaking of the Lord Jesus; if there were any good to be done, we were always first and foremost in it: we desired by all means to save some, and we did think at that time that we could give up ourselves to death, if we might but snatch a soul from hell. So deep, so ardent was our love to our fellowmen, that for the love we bore Christ's name, we would have been content to be scoffed at, hissed at, and persecuted by the whole world, if we might have done any good in it. Our soul was burning with intense longing for souls, and we considered all things else to be mean and worthless; but ah! now souls may be damned, and there is not a tear; sinners may sink into the scalding pit of hell, and not a groan; thousands may be swept away each day, and sink into bottomless woe, and yet not an emotion. We can preach without tears; we can pray for them without our hearts. We can speak to them without feeling their necessities; we pass by the haunts of infamy—we wish the inmates better, and that is all. Even our compassion has died out. Once we stood near the brink of hell, and we thought each day that we heard the yellings and howlings of the doomed spirits ringing in our ears; and then we said, "O God, help me to save my fellow-men from going down to the pit! "But now we forget it all. We have little love to men, we have not half the zeal and energy we once had. Oh! if that be your state, dearly beloved; if you can join in that, as your poor minister, alas! can do in some measure, then may we well say, "Oh that I were as in months past!"

II. But now we are about to take these different characters, and tell you the CAUSE AND CURE.

1. One of the causes of this mournful state of things is defect in prayer; and of course the cure lies somewhere next door to the cause. You are saying, "Oh that I were as in months past!" Come, my brother; we are going into the very root of the matter. One reason why it is not with you as in months past is this: you do not pray as you once did. Nothing brings such leanness into a man's soul as want of prayer. It is well said that a neglected closet is the birth-place of all evil. All good is born in the closet, all good springeth from it; there the Christian getteth it; but if he neglecteth his closet, then all evil comes of it. No man can progress in grace if he forsakes his closet. I care not how strong he may be in faith. It is said that fat men may for a time live on the flesh they have acquired; but there is not a Christian so full of flesh that he can live on old grace. If he waxes fat he kicks, but he cannot live upon his fat. Those who are strong and mighty in themselves cannot exist without prayer. If a man should have the spiritual might of fifty of God's choicest Christians in himself, he must die, if he did not continue to plow. My brother, cannot you look back and say, "Three or four months ago my prayers were more regular, more constant, more earnest than they are now; but now they are feeble, they are not sincere, they are not fervent, they are not earnest? "O brother, do not ask anybody what is the cause of your grief; it is as plain as possible; you need not ask a question about it. There is the cause; and where is the remedy? Why, in more prayer, beloved. It was little prayer that brought you down; it is great prayer that will lift you up. It was lack of prayer that brought you into poverty, it must be increase of prayer that will bring you into riches again. Where no oxen are the crib is clean. There is nothing for men to eat where there are no oxen to plough; and where there are no prayers to plough the soil, you have little to feed upon. We must be more earnest in prayer. Oh! beloved, might not the beam out of the wall cry against us? Our dusty closets might bear witness to our neglect of secret devotion; and that is the reason why it is not with us as in months past. My friends: if you were to compare the Christian to a steam-engine, you must make his prayers, fed by the Holy Spirit, to be the very fire which sustains his motion. Prayer is God's chosen vehicle of grace, and he is unwise who neglects it. Let me be doubly serious on this matter, and let me give a home-thrust to some. Dear friend, do you mean what you say, and do you believe what you say—that neglect of prayer will bring your soul into a most hazardous condition? If so, I will say no more to thee; for thou wilt easily guess the remedy for thy lamentable cry, "Oh that I were as in months past!" A certain merchant wishes that he were as rich as he used to be:—he was wont to send his ships over to the gold country, to bring him home cargoes of gold, but ne'er a ship has been out of port lately, and therefore can he wonder that he has had no cargo of gold? So when a man prayeth he sends a ship to heaven, and it comes back laden with gold; but if he leaves off supplication, then his ship is weather-bound and stays at home, and no wonder he cometh to be a poor man.

2. Perhaps, again, you are saying, "Oh that I were as in months past!" not so much from your own fault as from the fault of your minister. There is such a thing, my dear friends, as our getting into a terribly bad condition through the ministry that we attend. Can it be expected that men should grow in grace when they are never watered with the streams that make glad the city of our God? Can they be supposed to wax strong in the Lord Jesus, when they do not feed on spiritual food? We know some who grumble, Sabbath after Sabbath, and say they cannot hear such and such a minister. Why don't you buy an ear-trumpet then? Ah! but I mean, that I can't hear him to my soul's profit. Then do not go to hear him, if you have tried for a long while and don't get any profit. I always think that a man who grumbles as he goes out of chapel ought not to be pitied, but whipped, for he can stay away if he likes, and go where he will be pleased. There are plenty of places where the sheep may feed in their own manner; and every one is bound to go where he gets the pasture most suited to his soul; but you are not bound to run away directly your minister dies, as many of you did before you came here. You should not run away from the ship directly the storm comes, and the captain is gone, and you find her not exactly sea-worthy; stand by her, begin caulking her, God will send you a captain, there will be fine weather by-and-bye, and all will be right; but very frequently a bad minister starves God's people into walking skeletons, so that you can tell all their bones; and who wonders that they starve out their minister, when they get no food and no nutriment from his ministrations. This is a second reason why men frequently cry out, "Oh that I were as in months past!"

3. But there is a better reason still, that will come more home to some of you. It is not so much the badness of the food, as the seldomness that you come to eat it. You know, my dear friends, we find every now and then that there is a man who came twice a day to the house of God on the Sabbath. On the Monday night he was busy at work; but his apron was rolled up, and if he could not be present all the while, he would come in at the end. On the Thursday evening he would, if possible, come to the sanctuary, to hear a sermon from some gospel minister, and would sit up late at night and get up early in the morning, to make up the time he had spent in these religious exercises; but by-and-bye he thought, "I am too hard-worked; this is tiring; it is too far to walk." And so he gives up first one service, and then another, and then begins to cry out, "Oh that I were as in months past!" Why, brethren you need not wonder at it. The man does not eat so much as he used to do. Little and often is the way children should be fed, though I have given you a great deal this morning. Still, little and often is a very good rule. I do think, when people give up week-day services, unless it is utterly impracticable for them to attend them, farewell to religion. "Farewell to practical godliness," says Whitfield, "when men do not worship God on the week-day!" Week-day services are frequently the cream of all. God giveth his people pails full of milk on the Sabbath, but he often skims off the cream for the week-day. If they stay away, is it wonderful that they have to say, "Oh, that I were as in months past!" I do not blame you, beloved; I only wish to "stir up your pure minds by way of remembrance." A very plain fellow that is—is he not? Yes, he always tells you what he means, and always intends to do so. Stand to your colors, my men! Keep close to the standard if you would win the battle! And when there seems to be the slightest defection, it is simply our duty to exhort you, lest by any measure ye depart from the soundness of your faith.

4. But frequently this complaint arises from idolatry. Many have given their hearts to something else save God, and have set their affections upon the things of earth, instead of the things in heaven. It is hard to love the world and love Christ, it is impossible: that is more; but it is hard not to love the creature; it is hard not to give yourself to earth; I had almost said, it is impossible not to do that; it is difficult, and only God can enable us; he alone can keep us with our hearts fully set on him; but mark whenever we make a golden calf to worship sooner or latter it will come to this,—we shall get our golden calf ground up and put into our water for us to drink, and then we shall have to say, "He hath made me drunken with wormwood." Never a man makes an idol for himself to worship but it tumbles down on him and breaks some of his bones. There was ne'er a man yet who departed to broken cisterns to find water, but instead thereof he found loathsome creatures therein, and was bitterly deceived. God will have his people live on him, and on none else, and if they live on anything else but him he will take care to give them of the waters of Mara, to embitter their drink, and drive them to the Rock of purest streams. Oh, beloved, let us take care that our hearts are wholly his, only Christ's, solely Christ's! If they are so, we shall not have to cry out, "Oh that I were as in months past!"

5. We scarcely need, however, detail any more reasons. We will add but one more and that is the most common one of all. We have, perhaps, become self-confident and self-righteous. If so, that is a reason why it is not with us as in months past. Ah! my friends, that old rascal self-righteousness, you will never get rid of him as long as you live. The devil was well pictured under the form of a serpent because a serpent can creep in anywhere, though the smallest crevice. Self-righteousness is a serpent; for it will enter anywhere. If you try to serve your God, "What a fine fellow you are," says the devil. "Ah! don't you serve your God well! You are always preaching. You are a noble fellow." If you go to a prayer meeting, God gives you a little gift, and you are able to pour out your heart. Presently there is a pat on the back from Satan. "Did not you pray sweetly? I know the brethren will love you; you are growing in grace very much." If a temptation comes, and you are able to resist it, "Ah!" says he at once, "you are a true soldier of the cross; look at the enemy you have knocked down; you will have a bright crown by-and-bye; you are a brave fellow!" You go on trusting God implicitly; Satan then says, your faith is very strong: no trial can overcome you: there is a weak brother, he is not half as strong as you are!" Away you go, and scold your weak brother, because he is not as big as you, and all the while Satan is cheering you up, and saying, "What a mighty warrior you are! so faithful—always trusting in God, you have not any self-righteousness." The minister preaches to the Pharisee: but the Pharisee is not fifty-ninth cousin to you; you are not at all self-righteous in your own opinion, and all the while you are the most self-righteous creature in existence. Ah! beloved, just when we think ourselves humble we are sure to be proud; and when we are groaning over our pride we are generally the most humble. You may just read your own estimate backwards. Just when we imagine we are the worst, we are often the best, and when we conceive ourselves the best, we are often the worst. It is that vile self-righteousness who creeps into our souls, and makes us murmur, "Oh that I were as in months past!" Your candle has got the snuff of self-righteousness upon it; you want to have that taken away, and then you will burn all right. You are soaring too high; you require something that will bring you down again to the feet of the Saviour, as a poor lost and guilty sinner—nothing at all; then you will not cry any longer. "Oh that I were as in months past!"

III. And now, the closing up is to be an EXHORTATION. An exhortation, first of all, to consolation, One is saying, "Oh! I shall never be in a more happy state than I now am in, I have lost the light of his countenance; he hath clean gone away from me, and I shall perish." You remember in John Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," the description of the man shut up in the iron cage. One says to him, "Wilt thou never come out of this cage?" "No, never." "Art thou condemned for ever?" "Yes, I am." "Why was this?" "Why I grieved the Spirit, and he is gone; I once thought I loved him, but I have treated him lightly and he has departed. I went from the paths of righteousness, and now I am locked up here, and cannot get out." Yes, but John Bunyan does not tell you that the man never did get out? There have been some in that iron cage that have come out. There may be one here this morning, who has been for a long while sitting in that iron cage, rattling the bars, trying to break them, trying to file them through with his own little might and strength. Oh! dear friend, you will never file through the iron bars of that terrible cage; you will never escape by yourself. What must you do? You must begin to sing like the bird in the cage does; then the kind master will come and let you out. Cry to him to deliver you; and though you cry and shout, and he shutteth out your prayer, he will hear you by-and-bye; and like Jonah you shall exclaim in days to come, "Out of the belly of hell I cried unto the Lord, and he heard me." You will find the roll under the settle, although you have dropped it down the Hill of Difficulty; and when thou hast it thou will put it in thy bosom again, and hold it all the more tightly, because thou hast lost it for a little season.

"Return, O wanderer, return,
 And seek an injured Father's face;
 Those warm desires that in thee burn
 Were kindled by reclaiming grace."

And now another exhortation, not so much to console you as to stir you up more and more to seek to be what you ought to be. O Christian men and women, my brethren and sisters in the faith of Jesus Christ! How many there are of you who are content just to be saved, and merely to enter heaven. How many do we find who are saying "Oh! if I can but just get in at the door—if I can simply be a child of God!" and they carry out their desires literally, for they are as little Christian as possible. They would have moderation in religion! But what is moderation in religion? It is a lie; it is a farce. Doth a wife ask her husband to be moderately loving? Doth a parent expect his child to be moderately obedient? Do you seek to have your servants moderately honest? No! Then how can you talk about being moderately religious? To be moderately religious is to be irreligious. To have a religion that does not enter into the very heart and influence the life, is virtually to have no religion at all. I tremble sometimes, when I think of some of you who are mere professors. Ye are content ye whitewashed sepulchres; because ye are beautifully whitened ye rest satisfied, without looking at the charnel-house beneath. How many of you make clean the outside of the cup and platter; and because the church can lay nothing to your charge, and the world cannot accuse you, you think the outside of the cup will be sufficient. Take heed! take heed! The judge will look at the inside of the cup and platter one day; and if it be full of wickedness he will break that platter, and the fragments shall for ever be cast about in the pit of torment. Oh! may God give you to be real Christians! Waxen-winged professors! ye can fly very well here; but when like Icarus, ye fly upwards, the mighty sun of Jesus shall melt your wings, and ye shall fall into the pit of destruction. Ah! gilded Christians, beautifully painted, varnished, polished, what will ye do when ye shall be found at last to have been worthless metal? When the wood, hay, and stubble shall be buried and consumed, what will ye do if ye are not the genuine coin of heaven, if ye have not been molten in the furnace, if ye have not been minted from on high? If ye are not real gold, how shall ye stand the fire in that "great and terrible day of the Lord?" Ah! and there are some of you who can stand the fire, I trust. You are the children of God, but, beloved, do I charge you wrongfully when I say, that many of us know that we are the children of God, but we are content to be as little dwarf children, we are always crying out, "Oh that I were as in months past!" That is a mark of dwarfishness. If we are to do great things in the world we must not often utter this cry, We must often be singing

"I the chief of sinners am; but Jesus died for me;"

and with cheerful countenance we must be able to say that we "know whom we have believed." Do you wish to be useful? Do you desire to honor your Master? Do you long to carry a heavy crown to heaven, that you may put it on the Saviour's head? If you do—and I know you do—then seek above all things that your soul may prosper and be in health—that your inner-man may not be simply in a living state, but that you may be a tree planted by the rivers of water, bringing forth your fruit in your season, your leaf never withering, and whatsoever you do prospering. Ah! do you want to go to heaven, and wear a starless crown there—a crown that shall be a real crown, but that shall have no star upon it, because no soul has been saved by you? Do you wish to sit in heaven with a dress of Christ's on, but without one single jewel that God has given you for your wages here below? Ah! no; methinks you wish to go to heaven in full dress, and to enter into the fullness of the joy of the Lord. Five talents well improved, five cities; and let no man be satisfied with his one talent merely, but let him seek to put it out at interest; "for unto him that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance."

And finally, to many of you what I have preached about has no interest whatever. Perhaps you may say, "'Oh that I were as in months past!' for then I was quite well and a jolly fellow was I. Then I could drink with the deepest drinker anywhere. Then I could run merrily into sin, but I cannot now. I have hurt my body. I have injured my mind. It is not with me as it used to be, I have spent all my money. I wish I were as I used to be!" Ah! poor sinner, thou hast good reason to say, "Oh that I were as in months past!" But wait four or five months, and then you will say it more emphatically, and think even to day better than that day; and the further you go on, the more you will wish to go back again; for the path to hell is down, down, down, down—always down—and you will be always saying, "Oh that I were as in months past!" Thou wilt look back to the time when a mother's prayer blessed thee, and a father's reproof warned thee—when thou wentest to a Sabbath-school, and sattest upon thy mother's knee, to hear her tell thee of a Saviour; and the longer the retrospect of goodness, the more that goodness will pain you. Ah I my friends, ye have need to go back, some of you. Remember how far ye have fallen—how much ye have departed; but oh! ye need not turn back! Instead of looking back and crying, "Oh that I were as in months past!" say something different. Say, "Oh that I were a new man in Christ Jesus—"It would not do for you to begin again in your present state; you would soon be as bad as you now are; but say, "Oh that I were a new man in Christ Jesus; oh that I might begin a new life!" Some of you would like to begin a new life—some of you reprobates, who have gone far away! Well, poor mortal, thou mayest. "How?" savest thou. Why, if thou art a new man in Christ Jesus thou wilt begin again. A Christian is as much a new man as if he had been no man at all before; the old creature is dethroned, he is a new creature, born again, and starting on a new existence. Poor soul! God can make thee a new man. God the Holy Spirit can build a new house out of thee, with neither stick nor stone of the old man in it, and he can give thee a new heart, a new spirit, new pleasures new happiness, new prospects, and at last give thee a new heaven. "But," says one "I feel that I want these things; but may I have them?" Guess whether you may have them, when I tell you—"This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners." It does not say it is worthy of some acceptation, but it is worthy of all the acceptation you will ever give it. If you now say, "Jesus came into the world so save sinners, I believe he did! I know he did; he came to save me," you will find it "worthy of all acceptation." You say still, "But will he save me?" I will give you another passage: "Whosoever cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out." Ah! but I do not know whether I may come! "Whosoever," it saith. "Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out." "Whosoever will, let him come," it is written. Dost thou will? I only speak to such as will, who know their need of a Saviour. Dost thou will? Then God the Holy Spirit says, "Whosoever will let him come, and take the water of life freely."

The feeble, the guilty, the weak, the forlorn,
 In coming to Jesus shall not meet with scorn;
 But he will receive them, and bless them, and save
 From death and destruction, from hell and the grave.

 and he will lift them up to his kingdom of glory. God so grant it; for his name sake.

Outlasting the Gay Revolution: Michael Brown’s New Book (Plus Some Fun I...

Election and Depravity (Paul Washer)

Man's Problem is That God is Good - Paul Washer