SERMON VI.

ON DEATH.

JOB, XXX. 23.

For I know that thou wilt bring me to death, and to the house appointed for all living.

THIS book of Job contains the history of a righteous man, fallen from the height of prosperity, into scenes of great distress. Almost every affliction which falls to the lot of mortal man, embittered his life. His goods were taken away by robbers; his body was smitten by a loathsome and tormenting disease; his family was cut off, and all his company made desolate by a sudden stroke from heaven; his surviving friends proved miserable comforters, and, instead of relieving, added to his afflictions. His head was bare to every blast of adversity, and his heart bled with all the va

rieties of pain. In the course of his complaint, he utters the genuine voice of sorrow, and pours forth his soul in lamentation and woe. He sets before us the evil day; he shews us the dark side of things, and presents to view those shades in the picture of human life, which must one day meet our eye. From these calamities, he passes, by a natural transition, to the consideration of the last evil in human life :—“ I know that thou wilt bring “me to death, and to the house appointed for "all living."

Man is a serious being. There is a string in the heart which accords to the voice of sorrow, and impressions of grief take the strongest hold of the mind. There is a time when solitude has a charm; when cheerfulness gives place to melancholy; and when the house of mourning is better suited to the soul than the house of mirth. Even our amusements often partake of a serious turn. For the sake of amusement, we give our attention to histories of woe; we sit spectators to the scene of sorrow, and devote the hours to melancholy and to tears. And yet, by a strange perversion of mind, though we rush into foreign woe, and take delight in weeping for the fate of others, yet our own departure excites little attention

or regard, notwithstanding the many warnings which tell us that here we have no continuing city; although few weeks elapse without being marked with the funeral of a neighbour or a friend, we remain in a criminal indifference; the tear is soon dried upon our cheeks, and we muse upon the fate of our friends with unconcern. If, by removing the thought of death, men could remove the day of death, their conduct would admit of an excuse. But whether you think of it

or not, death approaches, and the want of preparation will only serve to sharpen the sting, by the surprise with which it may strike.

Since we know then, assuredly, that God will bring us to death, and to the house appointed for all living, let us consider, in the first place, the certainty of its approaching soon; secondly, the time and manner of its arrival; and, thirdly, the change which it introduces.

In the first place, Let us consider the certainty of death's approaching soon.

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All the works of nature, in this inferior tem, seem only made to be destroyed. Man is not exempted. There is a principle of mortality in our frame, and, as if we were

only born to die, the first step we take in life is a step to the grave. It was not always so. Adam came from the hands of his Creator perfect and immortal. The Almighty created man after his own image. He planted in his frame the seeds of eternal life, to grow and flourish through a succession of ages. This noble shoot, which the hand of the Most High had planted, was blasted by sin. When man became a sinner, he became mortal. The doom was pronounced, that, after few and evil days, he should return to the dust from whence he was taken. Since that time, as soon as our eyes open on the light, we come under the law of mortality, and the sentence of death is passed. In the morning of our day, we set out on our journey for eternity; thither we are all fast tending and day and night we travel on without intermission. There is no standing still on this road. To this great rendezvous of the sons of Adam we are continually drawing nearer and nearer. Our life is for ever on the wing, although we mark not its flight. Our motion down the stream of time is so smooth and silent, that though we are for ever moving, we perceive it not, till we arrive at the ocean of eternity. Even now death is doing his work. At this very mo

ment of time, multitudes are stretched on that bed from which they shall rise no more. The blood is ceasing to flow; the breath is going out; and the spirit taking its departure for the world unknown.

When we look back on our former years, how many do we find who began the journey of life along with us, and promised to themselves long life and happy days, cut off in the midst of their career, and fallen at our side! They have but gone before us; one day we must follow. O man! who now rejoicest in the pride of life, and looking abroad, sayest in thy heart, thou shalt never see sorrow, for thee the bed of death is spread; the worm calls for thee to be her companion; thou must enter the dominions of the dead, and be gathered to the dust of thy fathers. If then death be certainly approaching fast, let us learn the true value of life. If death be at hand, then certainly time is precious. Now the day shines, and the master calls us; in a little time the night cometh, when no man can work. To-day, therefore, hear the voice which calls you to heaven. "Now is the ac"cepted time; now is the day of salvation.'

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it "with thy might; for there is no work, nor