The slave who digs in the mine or labors at the oar can rejoice at the prospect of laying down his burden together with his life; but to the slave of guilt there arises no hope from death. On the contrary, he is obliged to look forward with constant terror to this most certain of all events, as the conclusion of all his hopes, and the commencement of his greatest miseries.
Every burning tear, every harrowing fear, every festering grief, every corroding care, every shooting pain, every piercing remorse; the sighs and moans of lazar-houses reeking with putrefaction and death; the shrieks and wails and clanking chains in hospitals swarming with maniacs; and the curses and blasphemies of dungeons where guilt rots and raves—these, all these, are but feeble reverberations of those dismal truths, "Sin reigns unto death." "Death hath passed upon all men, for that all have sinned."
That is the bitterest of all,—to wear the yoke of our own wrong-doing.
And O when the whirlwind of passion is raging,
When sin in our hearts its wild warfare is waging,
Then send down Thy grace, Thy redeemed to cherish;
Rebuke the destroyer; "Save, Lord, or we perish."
Multitudes are lost by cherishing some secret sin, that is not only hidden from others, but, from want of searching their own hearts, even from themselves.
The essence of all wickedness is a forsaking of God.
