RELIGIOUS TRUTH.
In this chapter I shall take up the subject of religion. That you
may understand your duties, it is important that you should first
understand your own character in the sight of God. I can, perhaps,
make this plain to you by the following illustration:
A few years since a ship sailed from England to explore the Northern
Ocean. As it was a voyage of no common danger to face the storms and
the tempests of those icy seas, a crew of experienced seamen was
obtained, and placed under the guidance of a commander of long-tried
skill. As the ship sailed from an English port, in pleasant weather
and with favorable breezes, all was harmony on board, and every man
was obedient to the lawful commander. As weeks passed away, and they
pressed forward on the wide waste of waters, there were occasional
acts of neglect of duty. Still the commander retained his authority.
No one ventured to refuse to be in subjection to him, But as the ship
advanced farther and farther into those unexplored regions, new toils
and dangers stared them in the face. The cold blasts of those wintry
regions chilled their limbs. Mountains of ice, dashed about by the
tempests, threatened destruction to the ship and to the crew. As far
as the eye could reach, a dreary view of chilling waves and of
floating ice warned them of dangers, from which no earthly power
could extricate them. The ship was far away from home, and in regions
which had been seldom, if ever, seen by mortal eyes. The boldest were
at times appalled by the dangers, both seen and unseen, which were
clustering around them. Under these circumstances the spirit of
revolt broke out among that ship's crew. They resolved that they
would no longer be in subjection to their commander. They rose
together in rebellion: deprived him of his authority, and took the
control of the ship into their own hands. They then placed their
captain in an open boat, and throwing in to him a few articles of
provision, they turned him adrift upon that wide and cheerless ocean,
and he never was heard of more. Appointing one of their number as
commander, they turned the ship in a different direction, and
regulated all their movements by their own pleasure. After this
revolt, things went on pretty much as before. They had deprived their
lawful commander of his authority and elevated another to occupy his
place. A stranger would, perhaps, have perceived no material
difference, after this change, in the conduct of the crew. The
preservation of their own lives rendered it necessary that the
established rules of naval discipline should be observed. By night
the watches were regularly set and relieved as before. The helmsman
performed his accustomed duty, and the sails were spread to the
winds, or furled in the tempest, as occasion required. But still they
were all guilty of mutiny. They had refused to submit to their lawful
commander. Consequently, by the laws of their country, they were all
condemned to be hung. The faithful discharge of the necessary duties
of each day after their revolt, did not in the least free them from
blame. The crime of which they were guilty, and for which they
deserved the severest punishment, was the refusal to submit to
authority.
Now, our situation is very similar to that of this rebellious crew.
The Bible tells us that we have said in our hearts that "we will not
have God to reign over us." Instead of living in entire obedience to
him, we have chosen to serve ourselves. The accusation which God has
against us, is not that we occasionally transgress his laws, but that
we refuse to regard him, at all times and under all circumstances, as
our ruler. Sometimes children think that if they do not tell lies,
and if they obey their parents, it is all that God requires of them.
This, however, is by no means the case. God requires of us not only
to do our duty to our parents, and to those around us, but also to
love him with our most ardent affection, and to endeavor at all times
to do that which will be pleasing to him. While the mutinous seamen
had command of the ship, they might have been kind to one another;
they might, with unwearied care and attention, have watched over the
sick. They might, with the utmost fidelity, have conformed to the
rules of naval discipline, seeing that every rope was properly
adjusted, and that cleanliness and order should pervade every
department. But notwithstanding all this, their guilt was
undiminished. They had refused obedience to their commander, and for
this they were exposed to the penalty of that law which doomed them
to death.
It is the same with us. We may be kind to one another; we may be
free from guile; we may be faithful in the discharge of the ordinary
duties of life; yet, if we are not in subjection to God, we are
justly exposed to the penalty of his law. What would have been
thought of one of those mutinous seamen, if, when brought before the
bar of his country, he had pleaded in his defence, that, after the
revolt, he had been faithful to his new commander? Would any person
have regarded that as an extenuation of his sin? No! He would at once
have been led to the scaffold. And the voice of an indignant public
would have said that he suffered justly for his crime.
Let us imagine one of the mutineers in a court of justice, and urging
the following excuses to the judge.
Judge.--You have been accused of mutiny, and are found guilty; and now
what have you to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced
against you?
Criminal.--To be sure I did help place the captain in the boat and
turn him adrift; but then I was no worse than the others. I did only
as the rest did.
Judge.--The fact that others were equally guilty, is no excuse for
you. You are to be judged by your own conduct.
Criminal.--Well, it is very unjust that I should be punished, for I
was one of the hardest-working men on board the ship. No one can say
that they ever saw me idle, or that I ever refused to perform any
duty, however dangerous.
Judge.--You are not on trial for idleness, but for refusing
obedience to your commander.
Criminal.--I was a very moral man. No one ever heard me use a profane
word; and in my conduct and actions, I was civil to all my shipmates.
Judge.--You are not accused of profanity, or of impoliteness. The
charge for which you are arraigned, is that you have rebelled
against lawful authority. Of this you have been proved to be guilty;
and for this I must now proceed to pass the penalty of the law.
Criminal.--But, may it please your honor, I was a very benevolent man.
One night one of my shipmates was sick, and I watched all the night
long at his hammock. And after we placed the captain in the boat, and
cut him adrift, I threw in a bag of biscuit, that he might have some
food.
Judge.--If your benevolence had shown itself in defending your
commander, and in obedience to his authority, you might now be
rewarded; but you are guilty of mutiny, and must be hung.
Criminal.--There was no man on board the ship more useful than I was.
And after we had turned the captain adrift, we must all have perished
if it had not been for me, for no one else understood navigation. I
have a good education, and did everything I could to instruct my
shipmates, and to make them skilful seamen.
Judge.--You are then the most guilty of the whole rebellious crew. You
knew your duty better than the rest, and are more inexcusable in not
being faithful. It appears by your own confession, that your
education was good; that your influence was extensive; and that you
had been taught those duties which man owes his fellow man. This does
not extenuate, but increases your guilt. Many of your shipmates were
ignorant, and were confirmed in their rebellion by your example. They
had never been taught those moral and social duties which had been
impressed upon your mind. That you could have been so ungrateful, so
treacherous, so cruel as to engage in this revolt, justly exposes you
to the severest penalty of the law. I therefore proceed to pronounce
upon you the sentence which your crimes deserve. You will be led from
this place to the deepest and strongest dungeon of the prison; there
to be confined till you are led to the gallows, and there to be hung
by the neck till you are dead; and may God have mercy upon your soul.
Now, who would not declare that this sentence is just? And who does
not see the absurdity of the excuses which the guilty man offered?
So it is with you, my young reader. It is your duty, at all times, to
be obedient to God. The charge which God brings against us, is, that
we have refused to obey him. For this we deserve that penalty which
God has threatened against rebellion. If we love our parents ever so
ardently, it will not save us, unless we also love God. If we are
ever so kind to those around us, it will not secure God's
approbation, unless we are also obedient to him. If our conduct is so
correct that no one can accuse us of what is called an immoral act,
it will be of no avail, unless we are also living with faith in the
promises of God, and with persevering efforts to do his will. And we
shall be as foolish as was the guilty mutineer, if we expect that any
such excuses will save us from the penalty of his law.
We cannot, by any fidelity in the discharge of the common duties of
life, atone for the neglect to love and serve our Maker. We have
broken away from his authority. We follow our own inclinations, and
are obedient to the directions of others, rather than to those of
our Maker. The fact is, that the duties we owe God and our fellow men
are not to be separated. God expects the child in the morning to
acknowledge his dependence upon his Maker, and to pray for assistance
to do that which is right, during all the hours of the day. And he
expects you, when the evening comes, to thank him for all his
goodness, and solemnly to promise, all your days, to be obedient to
his authority. You must not only love your parents, but you must also
love your God. You must try to have your words and your thoughts
pure, and all your conduct holy. Now, when you look back upon your
past lives, and when you examine your present feelings, do you not
see that you have not obeyed God in all your ways? Not only have you
had wicked thoughts, and at times been disobedient to your parents,
but you have not made it the great object of your life to serve your
Maker.
God now desires to have you obedient to him. He loves you, and wishes
to see you happy. He has for this purpose sent his Son into the world
to die for your sins, and to lead you to piety and peace. The Savior
now asks you to repent of sin and love him, that, when you die, you
may be received to heaven, and be happy for ever. You perhaps
remember the passage of Scripture found in Rev. 3:2, "Behold, I
stand at the door, and knock; if any man hear my voice, and open the
door, I will come in to him, and sup with him, and he with me." By
this he expresses his desire that we should receive him to our
hearts.
One of the most affecting scenes described by the pen of the most
eloquent of writers, is, that of an aged father driven from his home
by ungrateful and hard-hearted children. The broken-hearted man is
represented as standing by the door of his own house, in a dark and
tempestuous night, with his gray locks streaming in the wind, and his
head unprotected to the fury of the storm. There he stands, drenched
with the rain, and shivering with the cold. But the door is barred,
and the shutters are closed. His daughters hear the trembling voice of
their aged parent, but refuse him admission. Their flinty hearts
remain unmoved. The darkness increases; the tempest rages; the rain
falls in torrents, and the wind howls most fearfully. The voice of
their father grows feebler and feebler, as the storm spends its fury
upon him. But nothing can touch the sympathies of his unnatural
children. They will not open the door to him. At last, grief, and the
pangs of disappointed hope, break the father's heart. He looks at the
black and lowering clouds above him, and, in the phrensy of his
distracted mind, invites the increasing fury of the storm. And still
those wretched children refuse to receive him to their fireside, but
leave him to wander in the darkness and the cold.
The representation of this scene, as described by the pen of
Shakspeare, has brought tears into millions of eyes. The tragedy of
King Lear and his wretched daughters is known throughout the civilized
world. What heart is not indignant at such treatment? Who does not
abhor the conduct of these unnatural children?
Our blessed Savior represents himself as taking a similar attitude
before the hearts of his children. He has presented himself at the
door of your heart, and can you refuse him admission? "Behold," says
he, "I stand at the door and knock." But we, with a hardness of heart
which has triumphed over greater blessings, and is consequently more
inexcusable than that of the daughters of King Lear, refuse to love
him, and to receive him as our friend. He entreats admission. He asks
to enter and be with you and you with him, that you may be happy. And
there he has stood for days, and months, and years, and you receive
him not. Could we see our own conduct in the light in which we behold
the conduct of others, we should be confounded with the sense of our
guilt.
Is there a child who reads this book, who has not at times felt the
importance of loving the Savior? When you felt these serious
impressions, Christ was pleading for admission to your heart. You
have, perhaps, been sick, and feared that you were about to die.
And, oh, how ardently did you then wish that the Savior were your
friend! Perhaps you have seen a brother or a sister die: you wept
over your companion, as her cheek daily grew more pale, and she drew
nearer and nearer to death. And when she ceased to breathe, and her
limbs were cold and lifeless, you wept as though your heart would
break. And when you saw her placed in the coffin and carried to the
grave, how earnestly did you desire to be prepared to die yourself!
Oh, how did the world seem then to you! This was the way the Savior
took to reach your heart. When on earth, he said, "Suffer little
children to come unto me, and forbid them not." And now he endeavors,
in many ways, to induce you to turn to him. Sometimes he makes you
happy, that his goodness may excite your love. When he sees that in
happiness you are most prone to forget him, he sends sorrow and
trouble, under which your spirits sink, and this world appears
gloomy, and you are led to look forward to a happier one to come. And
does it not seem very ungrateful that you should resist all this
kindness and care, and continue to refuse to submit yourself to him?
You think the daughters of King Lear were very cruel. Indeed they
were; but not so cruel as you. Their father had been kind to them,
but not so kind as your Savior has been to you. He stood long at the
door and knocked, but not so long as the Savior has stood at the door
of your heart. It is in vain that we look to find an instance of
ingratitude equal to that manifested by the sinner who rejects the
Savior. And it is, indeed, melancholy to think, that any child could
be so hard-hearted.
It is strange that any person can resist the love which God has
manifested for us. He has sent angels with messages of mercy, and
invitations to his home in heaven. He sent his Son to die that we
might be saved from everlasting sorrow. He has provided a world of
beauty and of glory, far surpassing any thing we can conceive, to
which he invites us, and where he will make us happy for ever. And we
are informed that all the angels in heaven are so much interested in
our welfare, that "there is joy in the presence of the angels of God
over one sinner that repenteth." It is indeed wonderful that the holy
and happy angels above should feel so deep an interest in our
concerns. But, oh, how surpassingly strange it is, that we feel so
little for ourselves!
It is kind in God that he will not let the wicked enter heaven. He
loves his holy children there too well, to allow the wicked to enter
and trouble them, and destroy their peace. There was a little girl
once, who had a party of her companions to spend the evening with
her. They were all playing very happily in the parlor, when a drunken
man happened to go by. As he heard their voices, he came staggering
up to the door, and tried to get in. All the girls were very much
frightened, for fear the degraded wretch would get into the parlor.
But the gentleman of the house told them not to be frightened. He
assured them that the man should not come in, and though it was a
cold winter's night, he went out and drove him away. Now, was not
this gentleman kind thus to protect these children?
Suppose a wicked man, or a lost spirit, should go to the gates of
heaven and try to enter there. Do you suppose that God would let him
in? Would not God be as kind to the angels as an earthly father to
his earthly children? Every angel in heaven would cry to God for
protection, if they should see the wicked approaching that happy
world. And God shows his love, by declaring that the wicked shall
never enter there.
"Those holy gates for ever bar
Pollution, sin and shame;
None shall obtain admittance there,
But followers of the Lamb."
It is not because God is unkind and cruel that he shuts up the wicked
in the world of wo. He does this because he loves his children, and,
like a kind father, determines to protect them from oppression and
sorrow. The bright wings of the angel glitter in the heavenly world.
Pure joy glows in the bosoms of the blest. Love unites them all, as
they swell their songs, and take their flight. In their home, the
wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are for ever at rest.
A few years since, there was a certain family which was united and
happy. The father and mother looked upon the children who surrounded
their fireside, and beheld them all virtuous in their conduct, and
affectionate towards one another. Their evening sports went on
harmoniously, and those children were preparing, in their beloved
home, for future virtues and usefulness. But, at last, one of the
sons became dissipated. He went on from step to step in vice, till he
became a degraded wretch. His father and mother wept over his sins,
and did everything in their power to reclaim him. All was in vain.
Every day he grew worse. His brothers and sisters found all the
happiness-of their home destroyed by his wickedness. The family was
disgraced by him, and they were all in sorrow and tears. One evening
he was brought home so intoxicated that he was apparently lifeless.
His poor broken-hearted mother saw him conveyed in this disgraceful
condition to his bed. At another time, when his parents were absent,
he came home, in the evening, in a state of intoxication bordering on
phrensy. He raved about the house like a madman. He swore the most
shocking oaths. Enraged with one of his sisters, he seized a chair,
and would have struck her, perhaps, a fatal blow, if she had not
escaped by flight. The parents of this child felt that such things
could no longer be permitted, and told him that, if there was not an
immediate reformation in his conduct, they should forbid him to enter
their house. But entreaties and warnings were alike in vain. He
continued his disgraceful career. His father, perceiving that
amendment was hopeless, and that he was, by remaining at home,
imbittering every moment of the family, and loading them with
disgrace, sent his son to sea, and told him never to return till he
could come back improved in character. To protect his remaining
children, it was necessary for him to send the dissolute one away.
Now, was this father cruel, in thus endeavoring to promote the peace
and the happiness of his family? Was it unkind in him to resolve to
make his virtuous children happy, by excluding the vicious and the
degraded? No! Every one sees that this is the dictate of paternal
love. If he had been a cruel father--if he had had no regard for his
children, he would have allowed this abandoned son to have remained,
and conducted as he pleased. He would have made no effort to protect
his children, and to promote their joy.
And is it not kind in our heavenly Father to resolve that those who
will not obey his laws shall be for ever excluded from heaven? He
loves his virtuous and obedient children, and will make them perfectly
happy. He never will permit the wicked to mar their joys and degrade
their home. If God were an unkind being, he would let the wicked go
to heaven. He would have no prison to detain them. He would leave the
good unprotected and exposed to abase from the bad. But God is love.
He never thus will abandon his children. He has provided a strong
prison, with dungeons deep and dark, where he will hold the wicked,
so that they cannot escape. The angels in heaven have nothing to fear
from wicked men, or wicked angels. God will protect his children from
all harm.
Our Father in heaven is now inviting all of us to repent of our sins,
and to cultivate a taste for the joys of heaven. He wishes to take us
to his own happy home, and make us loved members of his own
affectionate family. And every angel in heaven rejoices, when he sees
the humblest child repent of sin and turn to God. But if we will not
be obedient to his laws; if we will not cultivate in our hearts those
feelings of fervent love which glow and burn in the angel's bosom; if
we will not here on earth learn the language of prayer and praise, God
assures us that we never can be admitted to mingle with his happy
family above. Would not God be very unkind to allow the wicked and
impenitent to enter in and mar their joys? The angels are happy to
welcome a returning wanderer. But if they should see an unsubdued
spirit directing his flight towards heaven, they all would pray to
God that he might not be permitted to enter, to throw discord into
their songs, and sorrow into their hearts. God is love. He will keep
heaven pure and happy. All who will be obedient to him, he will
gladly elevate to walk the streets of the New Jerusalem, and to
inhabit the mansions which he has built.
But those who will not submit to his authority must be shut out for
ever. If we do not yield to the warnings and entreaties which now come
to us from God, we must hear the sentence, "Depart from me,"--"I know
you not." God uses all the means which he deems proper to reclaim us;
and when he finds that we are incorrigible, then does he close upon us
the doors of our prison, that we never may escape.
If God cared not for the happiness of his children, he would break
these laws; he would tear down this prison; he would turn all its
guilty inmates loose upon the universe, to rove and to desolate at
their pleasure. But, blessed be God, he is love; and the brightness
and glory of heaven never can be marred by the entrance of sin. In
hell's dreary abyss, the wretched outcasts from heaven will find
their secure and eternal abiding place. Where do you wish to have
your home? with the virtuous and happy in heaven, or with the vicious
and miserable in the world of wo? Now is the time to decide. But life
will soon be gone. As we die, we shall continue for ever.
"There are no acts of pardon passed
In the cold grave to which we haste."
God, in this world, makes use of all those means which he thinks
calculated to affect your feelings and to incline you to his service.
You now hear of the love of Jesus, and feel the strivings of the Holy
Spirit. You are surrounded by many who love the Savior, and enjoy all
the precious privileges of the Bible and the Sabbath. God speaks to
you in afflictions and enjoyments, and tries ways without number to
reclaim you to himself. If you can resist all this, your case is
hopeless. In the world of wo there will be no one to plead with you
the wonders of a Savior's love. You will feel no strivings of the
Spirit. No Christian friends will surround you with their sympathies
and their prayers. The Sabbath will no longer dawn upon you, and the
Bible will no longer entreat you to turn to the Lord. If you can
resist all the motives to repentance which this life affords, you are
proof against all the means which God sees fit to adopt. If you die
impenitent, you will for ever remain impenitent, and go on
unrestrained in passion and wo. The word of God has declared that, at
the day of judgment our doom will be fixed for ever. The wicked shall
then go into everlasting punishment, and the righteous to life
eternal. The bars of the sinner's prison will never be broken. The
glories of the saint's abode will never be sullied.
A few years since, a child was lost in the woods. He was out, with his
brothers and sisters, gathering berries, and accidentally was
separated from them and lost. The children, after looking in vain
for some time in search of the little wanderer, returned just in the
dusk of the evening, to inform their parents that their brother was
lost, and could not be found. The woods at that time were infested
with bears. The darkness of a cloudy night was rapidly coming on, and
the alarmed father, gathering a few of his neighbors, hastened in
search of the lost child. The mother remained at home, almost
distracted with suspense. As the clouds gathered and the darkness
increased, the father and the neighbors, with highly-excited fears,
traversed the woods in all directions, and raised loud shouts to
attract the attention of the child. But their search was in vain.
They could find no traces of the wanderer; and as they stood under
the boughs of the lofty trees, and listened, that if possible they
might hear his feeble voice, no sound was borne to their ears but the
melancholy moaning of the wind as it swept through the thick branches
of the forest. The gathering clouds threatened an approaching storm,
and the deep darkness of the night had already enveloped them. It is
difficult to conceive what were the feelings of that father. And who
could imagine how deep the agony which filled the bosom of that
mother as she heard the wind, and beheld the darkness in which her
child was wandering! The search continued in vain till nine o'clock
in the evening. Then one of the party was sent back to the village to
collect the inhabitants for a more extensive search. The bell rung
the alarm, and the cry of fire resounded through the streets. It was,
however, ascertained that it was not fire which caused the alarm, but
that the bell tolled the more solemn tidings of a lost child. Every
heart sympathized in the sorrows of the distracted parents. Soon the
multitudes of the people were seen ascending the hill upon the
declivity of which the village was situated, to aid in the search.
Ere long the rain began to fall, but no tidings came back to the
village of the lost child. Hardly an eye was that night closed in
sleep, and there was not a mother who did not feel for the agonized
parents. The night passed away, and the morning dawned, and yet no
tidings came. At last those engaged in the search met together and
held a cousultation. They made arrangements for a more minute and
extended search, and agreed that in case the child was found, a gun
should be fired to give a signal to the rest of the party. As the sun
arose, the clouds were dispelled, and the whole landscape glittered
in the rays of the bright morning. But that village was deserted and
still. The stores were closed, and business was hushed. Mothers were
walking the streets with sympathising countenances and anxious
hearts. There was but one thought there--What has become of the lost
child? All the affections and interest of the community were flowing
in one deep and broad channel towards the little wanderer. About nine
in the morning the signal gun was fired, which announced that the
child was found; and for a moment how dreadful was the suspense! Was
it found a mangled corpse, or was it alive and well? Soon a joyful
shout proclaimed the safety of the child. The shout was borne from
tongue to tongue, till the whole forest rung again with the joyful
acclamations of the multitude. A commissioned messenger rapidly bore
the tidings to the distracted mother. A procession was immediately
formed by those engaged in the search. The child was placed upon a
platform, hastily constructed from the boughs of trees, and borne in
triumph at the head of the procession. When they arrived at the brow
of the hill, they rested for a moment, and proclaimed their success
with three loud and animated cheers. The procession then moved on,
till they arrived in front of the dwelling where the parents of the
child resided. The mother, who stood at the door, with streaming eyes
and throbbing heart, could no longer restrain herself or her
feelings. She rushed into the street, clasped her child to her bosom,
and wept aloud. Every eye was suffused with tears, and for a moment
all were silent. But suddenly some one gave a signal for a shout. One
loud, and long, and happy note of joy rose from the assembled
multitude, and they then dispersed to their business and their homes.
There was more joy over the one child that was found than over the
ninety and nine that went not astray. Likewise there is joy in the
presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth. But
still this is a feeble representation of the love of our Father in
heaven for us, and of the joy with which the angels welcome the
returning wanderer. The mother cannot feel for her child that is lost
as God feels for the unhappy wanderers in the paths of sin. The child
was exposed to a few hours of suffering; the sinner to eternal
despair. The child was in danger of being torn by the claws and the
teeth of the bear--a pang which would be but for a moment; but the
sinner must feel the ravages of the never-dying worm, must be exposed
to the fury of the inextinguishable flame. Oh, if a mother can feel
so much, what must be the feelings of our Father in heaven! If man
can feel so deep a sympathy, what must be the emotions which glow in
the bosoms of angels! Such is the nature of the feelings with which
we are regarded by our heavenly Father and the holy angels.
Many parables are introduced in the Bible to illustrate this feeling
on the part of God. He compares himself with the kind shepherd, who,
finding that one little lamb had strayed from the flock, left the
ninety and nine and went in search of the lost one. He illustrates
this feeling by that of the woman who had lost a piece of silver, and
immediately lit a candle and swept the house diligently, till she
found it. In like manner, we are informed, that it is not the will of
our Father who is in heaven, that one of his little ones should
perish. He has manifested the most astonishing love and kindness that
he might make us happy.
But what greater proof of love can we have than that which God has
given in the gift of his Son! That you might be saved from sin and
ceaseless wo, Jesus came and died. He came to the world, and placed
himself in poverty, and was overwhelmed with sorrow, that he might
induce you to accept salvation, and to be happy for ever in heaven.
The Savior was born in a stable. When an infant, his life was
sought. His parents were compelled to flee out of the country, that
they might save him from a violent death. As he grew up, he was
friendless and forsaken. He went about from town to town, and from
village to village, doing good to all. He visited the sick, and
healed them. He went to the poor and the afflicted, and comforted
them. He took little children in his arms, and blessed them. He
injured no one, and endeavored to do good to all. And yet he was
persecuted, and insulted, and abused. Again and again he was
compelled to flee for his life. They took up stones to stone him.
They hired false witnesses to accuse him. At last they took him by
night, as he was in a garden praying. A cruel multitude came and took
him by force, and carried him into a large hall. They then surrounded
our blessed Savior, and heaped upon him all manner of insult and
abuse. They mocked him. They collected some thorns, and made a crown,
which they forced upon his head, pressing the sharp thorns into his
flesh, till the blood flowed down upon his hair and his cheeks. And
after thus passing the whole night, he was led out to the hill of
Calvary, tottering beneath the heavy burden of the cross, which he
was compelled to bear upon his own shoulders, and to which he was to
be nailed. When they arrived at the place of crucifixion, they drove
the nails through his hands and his feet. The cross was then fixed in
the ground, and the Savior, thus cruelly suspended, was exposed to
the loud and contemptuous shouts of an insulting mob. The morning air
was filled with their loud execrations. A soldier came and thrust a
spear deep into his side. To quench his burning thirst, they gave him
vinegar, mixed with gall. Thus did our Savior die. He endured all
this, from the cradle to the grave, that he might save sinners. And
when he, while enduring the agony of the cross, cried out, "My God,
my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" he was then suffering those
sorrows which you must otherwise have suffered. If it had not been
for our Savior's sorrows and death, there would have been no help for
any sinner. You never could have entered heaven. You must for ever
have endured the penalty of that law which saith, "The soul that
sinneth, it shall die." Was there ever such love as this? And, oh,
must not that child's heart be hard, who will not love such a Savior,
and who will not do all in his power to prove his gratitude by a holy
and an obedient life? Christ so loves you, that he was willing to die
the most cruel of deaths, that he might make you happy. He is now in
heaven, preparing mansions of glory for all those who will accept him
as their Savior, and obey his law. And where is the child who does
not wish to have this Savior for his friend, and to have a home in
heaven?
The Holy Spirit is promised to aid you in all your efforts to resist
sin. If, when the power of temptation is strong, you will look to him
for aid, he will give you strength to resist. Thus is duty made easy,
God loves you. Angels desire that you should come to heaven. Jesus has
died to save you. The Holy Spirit is ready to aid you in every
Christian effort, and to lead you on, victorious over sin. How
unreasonable, then, and how ungrateful it is, for any child to refuse
to love God, and to prepare to enter the angels' home! There you can
be happy. No night is there. No sickness or sorrow can ever reach you
there. Glory will fill your eye. Joy will fill your heart. You will
be an angel yourself, and shine in all the purity and in all the
bliss of the angels' happy home.