Our Lord says, “The night cometh.”
Now, there is something inexpressibly solemn in such a thought to the
unconverted and unprepared; for the night, in such a case, is the deep,
dark, cheerless night, that settles down on the wicked; a night of black
darkness, and without one ray of light or hope; a night in which there is
not even one star visible, nor the least encouragement from the most
distant hope of morning. “To what end,” saith the Prophet, “is the day
of the Lord to you? The day of the Lord is darkness and not light.” Oh!
that every unconverted man would consider well what is his own prospect
when his sun sets, and would make haste in seeking that blessed Lord who
can turn darkness into light, and death into immortality and life!
But how different is the night to the believer,—to such an one as we are
now called to mourn! When the evening was closing in, and the sun just
setting, she was not aware of her great danger, and still thought she had
strength to recover; but when a dear friend thought it her duty to inform
her that the time of separation was very nearly come, her reply was that
of calm faith and full submission,—“Let us then obediently receive it.”
The truth was realized, and accepted at the hand of God. There is no
real night in such a case; or, if there be, it is like the night in the
Arctic summer, in which the sun is always visible; for such are never
separate from Him who is both light and life.
“Sun of my soul, thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if thou art near.”
Or it is like the night in the height of summer, when the twilight of
evening waits to welcome the dawn of morning, and it is almost difficult
to discover whether it is the past sunset or the coming sunrise that
sheds a soft brightness over the heavens. So, throughout the believer’s
night-time, there is continuous light till the morning dawns. And then
what a morning will it be! The morning of resurrection, the morning of
righteousness, the morning of joy, the morning of the Redeemer’s triumph!
“Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” Every
tear will then be dry; every anxious soul will then be satisfied; every
aching heart will then be healed, and every care forgotten in the sweet
peace of uninterrupted union with Christ.
Such is the night of the believer; and therefore it appears only to
deserve the name of night because it is the close of this world’s working
season. Angels, not men, do the work of heaven; and they are sent forth
to minister to them that shall be heirs of salvation. But to the
believer, the characteristic of the heavenly state is rest. The interval
between death and the resurrection is a period of holy, happy, peaceful,
intelligent rest. “They rest from their labours, and their works do
follow them.” When the late lamented Bishop Weeks was entering on his
most laborious mission at Lambeth, and when it was remarked to him that
he would have hard work to carry out his plans, his reply was,—“But there
will be plenty of rest at the end.” It is well to dwell on that blessed
hope of rest; it is well, when the heart grows weary, to know that there
is repose in prospect. That, however, is not the great lesson to be
learned, but rather this. If that be the time for rest, then this is the
day for work; and we must all make haste to seize the opportunity in its
rapid flight. I remember to have seen a card in the study of a friend,
on which it was written, “Lost between the hours of sunrise and sunset a
golden hour, set in sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered for
their recovery, for they are lost for ever.” Oh, let not the precious
time which God has given us be lost, but rather at the close of each day
let us each one put the question, and put it honestly—What has been done
this day for God? I had the great privilege of visiting the late Mrs.
Fry in her dying illness, and she then said to me, “I believe I can
safely say that, since the time of my conversion, my first thought on
awaking has been, what can I do this day for God?” Would that all of us
lived in such a spirit, with a more constant thoughtfulness for our
Master’s service! For is it possible to imagine anything more deeply
affecting, than to see a man at the close of life with no effort made for
Him who has redeemed him by his blood? There he is with his race nearly
run, and his opportunity almost over. He has passed through life with
time and talents; with friends, servants, children, under his influence,
and now what has he done? He may have made his fortune, acquired a
reputation, and filled his home with comforts; he may have done well for
himself, and perhaps done well for his family; but for his God, for his
blessed Lord who has done all for him, who has shed his own most precious
blood that his sins might be blotted out—for Him he has done nothing.
His day is almost over, and he has spent it for himself; his life is
nearly run out, and he has lived it for himself. And now he is about to
lie down and die; but still all in himself, with his hope in himself, his
strength in himself; and that hope all vanity, that strength all
weakness.
How different is the end of him, who when his sun sets is found well at
work for God! Who can look back on the whole pilgrimage, and though he
discovers countless defects, and is compelled to come before God with the
prayer, “Pardon the iniquity of my holy things;” is yet found in his
harness—not rusting out, but working out, with the loins girt, and the
lamp burning, and the whole man conscientiously consecrated to God!
Now, such was truly the case with our departed friend. Her eye was not
dim, nor her hand heavy even to the last. Even after the fatal illness
had set in upon her, she assembled the teachers and school-children of
the place where she was sojourning; and as disease advanced, she said
with characteristic energy to her faithful attendant, “If I go home I
must do more for God, and you must keep me up to it.” But there was no
return in prospect; her work was finished, and she has entered on her
rest.