This was David’s description of his own condition. King Saul was seeking to destroy him. The bitter malice of that king would not be satisfied with anything short of the blood of his rival. Jonathan did not know this. He could not believe so badly of his father as that he could wish to kill the champion of Israel, the brave, true-hearted young David; and so he assured David that it could not be so-that he had not heard of any plots against him. But David, who knew better, said, “It is certainly so. Your father seeks my blood, and there is but a step between me and death.”

Now, it was by knowing his danger that David escaped. Had he remained as ignorant of his own peril as his friend Jonathan had been, he would have walked into the lion’s mouth, and he would have fallen, by the hand of Saul. But to be forewarned is to be forearmed; he was, therefore, able to save his life because he perceived his danger. It would have been a very unwise person who should have said, “Do not tell David about it. You see that he is very happy in Jonathan’s company. Do not disturb him. It will only make him fret. Do not tell him about Saul’s anger.” But a true and wise friend would acquaint David of his danger, in order that he might seize the opportunity to escape. So also to-night somebody might say, “Many people now present are in great danger, and do not dare to think about death; do not mention the unpleasant subject to them.” Well, sirs, if my object were to please you, if my desire were to seem as one who playeth a merry tune upon a goodly instrument, I certainly should not speak to you of death and danger. But, then, it would be infamous to allow men and women to stand in infinite jeopardy and not to warn them; and it is kindness to speak to those who are carelessly at ease and tell them salutary truth. It will not put them in danger; but it may, God blessing it, be the means of their escaping from eternal ruin. So, I pray you, while I talk upon this theme, which may seem to be a sad one, ask God to make it a great blessing to those who hitherto have been sporting upon the brink-of fate without thinking of the solemnities of eternity.

It is rather a notable state of things, is it not, for David to be conscious of danger, and to be telling his friend Jonathan that he is in danger? I do not often meet with the case now. If I am the Jonathan, I have to keep on warning David of his danger, and I find it very difficult to wake up my friend to a sense of that danger. I should like to live to see the day in which David would come to Jonathan-I mean in which men in danger would come to me-and say, “There is but a step between me and death.” “We love to see care for the soul, and concern about a future state. Whenever God’s Holy Spirit is at work we do see it: sinners begin to be aware of their condition, and they come and tell us of their danger, and enquire for the way of escape. It is the simplest thing in the world to tell the awakened sinner how he may find peace; the difficulty lies in awakening the sinner. To cheer those who are alarmed is such good work that we would sit up all night at it. We can never have too much of it. To bind up the broken in heart when the Master gives us his gospel, is the most pleasant duty out of heaven. The worst of it is, that we cannot persuade them that they need to be broken in heart, or lead them to feel that they are in peril; but still shutting their eyes to all the truth they will go wildly on, determined not to know. Too many act as if it were folly to look a few days ahead, as if it were a work of supererogation to foresee the evil, a needless sorrow to think of eternity.

To-night I want to press the truth home, as far as it is truth, upon each person here present, that there is, or there may be, but a step between him and death.

First, in some sense this is true of everybody, “There is a step, and but a step, between me and death.” Secondly, to some it is peculiarly true. There are many persons-and some of them are here to-night-who might say with emphasis, “There is but a step between me and death” When I have spoken upon those two things, I shall then say, “Suppose that it is not so”; and conclude by saying, “Suppose that it is so.”

First, then, there is a sense in which this text is no doubt literally true of every man-“There is but a step between me and death”; for life is so short that it is no exaggeration to compare it to a step. Suppose that we should live to threescore years and ten, or even fourscore years, or to be, as some few of our friends are here to night, even past their fourscore years, yet life will occupy a very short time. Life is long to look forward to; but I appeal to every aged person whether it is not very short to look back upon. I confess to my own experience that a week is now a hardly appreciable space of time to me. There seems to be very little breathing room between one Sunday and another. One has scarcely preached before one has to prepare again some other word with which to address you. As we grow older time very sensibly quickens its pace. I know that this is an exceedingly trite observation, but I mention it all the more earnestly because the certainty of it should force it home with power upon our minds. You young people look to a month as being quite a period of time, but when you are getting forty,. or fifty, or sixty, you will look upon a whole year as no more than a brief interval. Indeed, I do not wonder that Jacob said his years were few. Because he was an old man he thought life short. If he had been a young man he would have said that his days were comparatively many, and would have tried to make himself feel that he had lived a long while; but when a man grows old his days seem fewer than they were, and the older he gets the shorter his life seems to have been. There are many ways of calculating time, and its length or brevity lies more in idea than in fact. I have sometimes noticed it-I dare say you have-that an hour has seemed to me very long indeed. In certain states of mind I have looked to the clock again and again, and I have thought that I never lived such a long hour. But often and often does it occur to me that I sit down to write, and that I go on writing, and when I lift up my head an hour has passed, and I think to myself, “It cannot be. There is a mistake. That clock has made a mistake somehow.” I have even referred to my watch, and I have found that it was even so; but where that hour went I do not know. When one is very busy the hours glide away, so that you say, “Time is, after all, only a dream.” Time may appear to be long while it is short, and it may be really short when according to human calculation it is long. But all men when they come to die confess that their life has been brief-that it was but a step. Yesterday I was born: to-day I live: to-morrow I must die. Ephemera are born and die in the space between the rising and the setting sun; their life is a fair picture of our own. We are shadows, and we come and go with the rising and the setting sun. Truly “there is but a step between me and death.” O my God, if my life be so short, prepare me for its end! Help me to stand ready for its close, so that I may give in my final account with joy.

But, in another sense, there is but a step between us and death, namely, that life is so uncertain. How unexpectedly it ends! Strong and hearty men, if I might make a judgment from observation, seem to be among the first to fall. How often have I seen the invalid, who might almost long for death, draw out a long existence of continuous pain; while the man who shook your hand with a powerful grip, and stood erect like a column of iron, is laid low of a sudden and is gone! No man can reckon upon the full term of life: not one among us can be sure of reaching threescore and ten. We cannot be sure that we shall see old age. A bubble is more solid than human life, and a spider’s web is as a cable compared with the thread of our existence. There is but a step between us and death.

And this is all the more true when we consider that there are so many gates to the grave. We can die anywhere, at any time, by any means. Not alone abroad are we in danger, but at home in security we are still in peril. I am in my pulpit now, but I am not secure in this citadel from all-besieging death. I remember a dear servant of God in a country town, on a certain Sabbath morning, stood up and repeated as the first hymn of the morning, the sacred song which I gave out just now;

“Father, I long, I faint to see

The place of thine abode:

I’d leave thine earthly courts and flee

Up to thy seat, my God”;

and he fell back and was gone. His wish was granted. He saw the place of God’s abode, I do not doubt. There is no safety from death in the pulpit, nor in your own house. Dr. Gill, who was noted for always being in his study, said one day to a friend, “Well, at least, if a man is in his study he is safe.” Some one had been killed in the street through a falling chimney-pot or tile, and this gave emphasis to the doctor’s pleasantry. But it so happened that, soon after, the doctor went to visit a member of his church, and while he was away a stormy wind blew, and blew down a stack of chimneys into his study, into the very place where he would have been sitting if he had not been called away. So he said to his friend, “Verily, I see I must not boast of being safe in my study, for we are secure nowhere.” In times of battle men may shelter behind trees or walls, and so escape rifle-shot: but where can you get to escape from the arrows of death? Wherever you be, not alone in the crowded, thronging streets, but up there in your own chamber, or on the edge of your bed, you may slip, you may fall, and suffer fatal injury. At your table you may eat and drink and die. Wherever you are, you may well feel, “There is but a step between me and death.”

“Dangers stand thick through all our path

To push us to the tomb;

And fierce diseases wait around

To hurry mortals home.”

Therefore, I would say, as I leave this point, let nobody here reckon upon life. Let him never postpone what ought to be done at once to some future time. I do not know whether any brother here recollects old Mr. Timothy East. I knew him well in his old age. He was a man of careful observation and retentive memory, and in his later days he was full of stories which had happened in his pastoral experience; and he used to tell this one:-A certain woman was very much attached to his ministry, but still a very foolish woman. She used to sit regularly on the pulpit stairs, and she did so for many years, while Timothy East preached the gospel. One thing seemed to shut her heart against all his appeals. She told a neighbour that if she had five minutes before she died, she so understood the way of salvation that she would get all right in that time. She told her minister that, and Timothy said to her, “Oh, that will never do. You may not have that five minutes in which to set things right. Be right at once.” Singularly enough, one day, as Mr. East went down the street, a child came to him, and said, “Please, sir, come and see grandmother. Come and see grandmother.” He turned in, and there was grandmother struck for death. She looked at him with an entreating glance, and said, “I am lost! I am lost!” She died there and then, ere Mr. East could say a word to her about her salvation. Dear friend, I do beseech you not to imitate her folly, but rather say to yourself, “There is but a step between me and death. Therefore, now, God help me, I will lay hold upon eternal life, and seek and find in Christ the salvation that shall fit me to live, and fit me to die, and fit me to rise again, and fit me for the judgment-day, and fit me for eternal glory. “There is but a step between me and death”; there shall not be a step between me and Christ.

But, dear friends, I now turn to further remark that to some this is specially true. Will you bear with me when I remark that to persons who have reached a ripe old age this is most certainly true: “There is but a step between me and death”? It is inevitable in the order of nature that you should not live long. Now, do not object to think about it and talk about it. It is only foolish persons who will not mention death. If you are all right with God, it can be no trouble to you to remember that as your years multiply, there must be so many the fewer in which you are to abide here below. Those also have but a step between them and death who are touched with some incurable disorder. Some are warned that they have a heart complaint. If that be the case I may fairly say, “There is but a step between you and death.” If you are consumptive, and are gradually melting away, you are in like case. What a blessing it is that this form of death gives us notice of its approach, and does not impair the mind, so that a person may calmly seek and find eternal life if that disease has marked him for its own! But there is only a step between the consumptive and death. Those who follow dangerous trades are in a similar condition. The traveller across the deep, the fisherman, the soldier, the miner, and others are frequently at death’s door. I need not go into the details of all those various processes by which men earn their bread, which have so much danger about them that there is but a step between those who follow them and death.

Besides this, there are some-and probably some in this congregation-who, whether it be by disease or not, will die in the course of a few weeks. The probabilities, if they are calculated, will show that out of six or seven thousand persons gathered here, there are certainly some, beyond all guesswork, who will not see the month of November, who certainly will never pass into the next year. There is but a step between such and death.

I should like you to be able to think about death. If you do not like to think about it at all, my dear friends, I think that there is something wrong in you, and you ought to take warning from your own dislike. He that is afraid of solemn things has probably solemn reason to be afraid of them. It is greatly wise to talk with our last hours. A man who is going to a certain place should think about the place to which he is going, and make some preparation for it. If he be a wise man he will do so. I should like you to attain to such a state that you could feel as Dr. Watts did. He said to a friend when he was an old man, “I go to my bed each night with perfect indifference as to whether I shall wake up in this world or the next.” That is a beautiful state of mind to be in. Or, as the old Scotch minister said when some one asked him, “Is this disease of yours fatal”? and he replied, “I do not know, and I do not wish to know, for I do not think that it can make much difference to me; for if I go to heaven I shall be with God, and if I stop here God will be with me.” Oh! is not that a sweet way of putting it? There is not so much difference, after all, between being with God and God’s being with us. Old George the Third, who, whatever the faults of his early days, was undoubtedly a godly man in his old age, would have a mausoleum prepared for himself and family; and when Mr. Wyatt, the architect, went to see him by his own order he did not know how to speak to the old king about his grave; but George said,” Friend Wyatt, do not mind speaking about my tomb. I can talk as freely to you about the preparation of a place for me to be buried in, as I could about a drawing-room for me to hold my court in; for I thank God that I am prepared to do my duty if I live, and to sleep in Jesus if I die.” There are but few, I think, of his rank who could talk so; but every wise man ought to see to it that, as he must die, he is ready for it-ready for the bar of God. “Ready, ay, ready,” says the sailor as he grinds his cutlass; and let the Christian say the same. Ready, ay, ready, to live to an extreme old age patiently waiting, or to depart out of the world unto the Father, which is far better; in any case finding it heaven enough to do the will of God, and to trust in Jesus Christ, whom he hath sent.

Thus I have mentioned the cases of those of whom it may specially be said, “There is but a step between me and death.” “Oh,” said some one, “you are the wrong side of sixty, Mr. Jones.” “No,” answered Jones, “I am on the right side of sixty, for I am the heaven side of it “; and that is the way to look at our age. We say,

“Nearer, my God, to thee,”

and then we do not like to grow old: that is absurd. Nay, let us rather rejoice that we are getting nearer the desired haven, nearer our everlasting rest.

I am to close by saying first, suppose it is not so. Young friends, you that are here, suppose it is not true that there is only a step-between you and death. Suppose it is not so. There may be some here-that will live to a very great age. I may be addressing some persons who will rival Sir Moses Montefiore. Possibly you may. Well, what then,? If so, I should recommend you to follow the Scriptural advice, “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness.” The first things should come first: the best things should have the best of our thoughts. A prince who had been warned of assassination, gaily exclaimed, “Serious things to-morrow”; but before to-morrow he was slain. Yet had he not been slain, his speech would have been an unwise one; for, however long we live, we ought not to push serious matters into a corner. If we: are to live, let us live to noble purpose. It would be a great pity to lose a single year, much less a long life. If you are going to live a hundred years, begin them with God. If you are going to have long: life, why not spend it for him? There was a storm at sea once, and there was a young man on board who was not used to storms, and he fell into a great state of mind. He was not of much use on board the ship through his fears. He crept into a corner and knelt, down to pray; but the captain, on coming along, could not stand that. He shouted, “Get up, you coward, say your prayers in fine weather.” He did get up, saying to himself, “I only hope that I shall see fine weather to say my prayers in” When he landed, the words the captain said remained in his mind. He said, “That is quite correct, I will say my prayers in fine weather.” I would say to you who hope to live a hundred years, say your prayers in fine weather. The young man was so impressed with those words that he went to hear the gospel, was converted, and became a minister of Christ. One Sunday morning, while he was preaching in one of the most notable pulpits in New York, that captain came into the chapel, and the preacher looked him in the face and said, “Say your prayers in fine weather.” The captain was astonished, as he perceived that the very man whom he had addressed as a coward was now preaching from the pulpit, and giving out at the commencement of his sermon the advice which he had given him. I trust the captain took his own medicine. I want to give that advice to all who do not think that they are going to die yet. Say your prayers in fine weather. Begin with God now. Oh, come and give my Lord Jesus the prime of your youth, the best of your days. I came to Christ when I was fifteen. I was a minister of the gospel when I was sixteen years of age. I have gone on preaching Christ ever since. I wish that I could have begun sixteen years before, I do not repent of coming to him too early; but I urge upon you, young friends, while yet the marrow is in your bones, and your brain is clear, and your eye is true; ere yet you have dishonoured yourself, and weakened your body by sin, come and yield yourselves up to Jesus Christ, that you may spend a whole life in that blessed service which is joy and peace. May the Holy Spirit of his great love make it so with many here present!

Suppose that it is not true that there is but a step between you and death; nevertheless, while death is at a distance, health and strength furnish the best time for coming to Christ. Do not imagine that when you are ill and near to die, it will be the best time to turn. I remember the striking words of Philip Henry, the father of the famous Matthew Henry. When he was dying, his friends stood round about his bed, and he said, “What a blessing it is, Matthew, that I have not to make my peace with God now! My body is full of pain, and my mind is greatly disturbed by reason of it. Oh!” said he, “if that were undone and had now to be done, how could it be done?” What a mercy when that great transaction is complete! Now, come pain or weakness, come long-sleep, come broken-down spirit, what does it matter? It is all well; it is all well. That having to make our peace with God when we die is a poor business. I do not like the expression. I like far better the language of a poor bricklayer who fell from a scaffold, and was so injured that he was ready to die. The clergyman of the parish came, and said, “My dear man, I am afraid you will die. You had better make your peace with God.” To the joy of the clergyman the man said, “Make my peace with God, sir? That was made for me upon Calvary’s cross eighteen hundred years ago; and I know it.” Ah! that is it-to have a peace that was made by the blood of Christ all those years ago-a peace that never can be broken. Then, come life, come death, ay, or come a lengthened life, and ripe old age, the best preparation for a lengthened life is to know the Lord. The best encouragement and comfort for the decrepitude of extreme old age is to have a good hope through Christ. There is nothing like it. Why, some old folks that I have known, so far from being unhappy, have been the very happiest people that I have ever met with, and though they have lived long, they have come, not to court long life, but they have been willing to depart. Dr. Dwight, the famous tutor, had a mother who lived to be over a hundred years of age; and one day, when the son heard the bell toll for a neighbour, the old lady said with tears in her eyes, “Won’t it soon toll for me? Will they not soon toll for me?” Dear Mr. Rowland Hill used merrily to say, when he got old, that he hoped that they had not forgotten him. That is how he came to look at death; and he would go to some old woman if he could, and sit down and say, “Now, dear sister, if you go before I go, mind that you give my love to John Bunyan and the other Johns. Tell them that Rowley is stopping behind a little while, but he is coming on as fast as he can.” Oh! it is a sweet thing gradually to melt away and have the tenement gently taken down, and yet not to feel any trouble about it, but to know that you are in the great Father’s hands, and you shall wake up where old age and infirmities will all have passed away, and where, in everlasting youth, you shall behold the face of him you love.

That is, suppose that it is not so.

But now suppose that it is so. Suppose that it is so, and suppose, as yet, that you have no good hope. Dear friend, there is a word that I would like to drop into your ear. If there is but a step between you and death, yet there is only a step between you and Jesus. There is only a step between you and salvation. God help you to take that step to-night. You know the description of the way to heaven: “Take the first on the right by the cross, and keep straight on.” May you take that step to-night! It is not a step even; it is only a look.

“There is life in a look at the Crucified One.”

Why delay it? Since faith in Christ will put you beyond danger, and will put you beyond the dominion of sin, so that you will live a godly life which shall continue to the end, why not believe in Jesus now? Why not cast yourself upon him now? For suppose it is so? suppose that it is written in the book, “Thou shalt die, and not live”; then is it not your wisdom that you should at once close in with Christ and find eternal salvation in him?

Suppose that it is so, that you are soon to die; then set your house in order. Get everything ready with regard to your temporal affairs. Mind that. A world of sorrow comes through people not having made their wills. Have everything in order. Trim the ship when a storm is expected. Be ready, for you are about to die. Now sit loose by all earthly things. You must assuredly part with them soon; do not hold them tightly. “Set not your affection upon things on earth,” or you will weep when you lose your idols. If you harbour any anger in your heart, turn it out directly, for you are going to die. If there is any quarrel between you and anybody else, go home and settle it. Whether you are going to live or die, I advise you to do that. Hold no ill-will to any one, for you are so soon to die. I remember well the story of a husband who had grieved his wife. I do not know what had happened,-some little awkward word or deed. He went out of the house. He had to fell timber that day, and he turned back and said, “Wife, I am very sorry. Let us part good friends. Give me a kiss.” Alas, she turned away All day long she sorrowed, for she loved him well, and she grieved to think that he was gone without that kiss of love. He never came back again alive. Four men brought him home a corpse. She would have given a thousand worlds if they had not parted so. Now, do not part with anybody that you love with any kind of tiffs or quarrellings. End all that, for death is near. If there is but a step between you and death-if the Judge is at the door-go and wind up your little difficulties. You that have family quarrels, wipe them out. You that have got any malice in your heart, turn it out.

Oh, if it is only a step between us and death, then you that are unprepared, it is only a step between you and bell! Escape, I pray you, by the living God. As you love your souls, flee for your lives, and lay hold on Christ.

But if you are in Christ, it is only a step between you and heaven. You may well desire that you might take that step right speedily. I shall never forget one summer afternoon, when I was preaching in a village chapel about the joys of heaven, that an elderly lady sitting on my right kept looking to me with intense delight. Some people’s eyes greatly help the preacher. A telegraph goes on between us. She seemed to say to me, “Bless God for that. How I am enjoying it!” She kept drinking in the truth, and I poured out more and more precious things about the eternal kingdom and the sight of the Well beloved, till I saw what I thought was a strange light pass over her face. I went on, and those eyes were still fixed on me. She sat still as a marble figure; and I stopped and said, “Friends, I think that yon sister over there is dead.” They said that it was even so, and they bore her away. She had gone. While I was telling of heaven, she had gone there; and I remember saying that I wished that it had been my case as well as hers. It was better not, perhaps, for many reasons; but oh, I did envy her! I am always looking for the day when I shall see her again. I shall know those eyes, I am sure I shall. I shall recollect that face, if in heaven she is anything like what she was here, or bears any marks of identification. I shall not forget that inward fellowship which existed between a soul that stood with wings outspread for glory, and the poor preacher who was trying to talk of that which he knew but little of compared with her. Well, well, it will soon be my turn. Good night, poor world! It will soon be your turn, and then you shall say, “Good night.” Let us meet in glory. Let us meet in glory, for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.

Portion of Scripture read before Sermon-Psalm 90.

Hymns from our “Own Hymn Book”-853, 854, 846.

LOVE’S TRANSFORMATIONS:

a communion meditation

A Sermon

delivered by

C. H. SPURGEON,

at the metropolitan tabernacle, newington,

On September 4th, 1881.

“If ye loved me, ye would rejoice, because I said, I go unto the Father.”-John 14:28.

The loving Jesus saw a shade of sadness fall upon the faces of the twelve while he talked to them of his departure. Though he was himself to die, with his usual self-forgetfulness he only thought of them, and he desired to comfort them-to comfort them about the present sorrow of his departure. See how adroitly, how wisely, he drew upon their love for their comfort. The most common and usual source of comfort is Christ’s love to us, but in this instance the most applicable and the most influential source of comfort was their love to him. He said, therefore, to them, “If ye loved me, ye would rejoice, because I said, I go unto the Father.” It was well and wisely spoken, for he touched them upon a point in which they were very tender; if anything could move them to comfort, it would be his appeal to their loyal love. He had appealed to that before, when he said, “If ye love me, keep my commandments”; but now, in softer, sweeter, tenderer tones, he seems to say, “If ye love me, cease your sorrow, and begin to rejoice.” The Lord may give us drink from that same spring. It is a lower spring compared with the upper spring of his own sweet love; but he may cause it to flow most preciously, so that when we are not bold enough to drink of the higher stream, we may taste of this. If we are able to say, “Thou knowest all things: thou knowest that I love thee,” we may be cheered by that truth. “So surely as you do love me,” says Christ, “you will rejoice rather than sorrow, because I said, I go unto my Father.” Oh, what a blessed Master we serve, who quotes our love, not to blame us for its feebleness, but to draw a happy inference from it! So much does he desire our peace, our restfulness in his own dear self, that even the love we give to him he gives back to us, and bids us find comfort in it.

Let that stand as a preface; and now I shall deal with the text by way of making some three or four observations upon it.

And the first is this: It will be much for our comfort to try to see things in Christ’s light. Notice the expression, “If ye loved me, ye would rejoice, because I said, I go unto the Father.”

Christ had told them that he was about to die. He had said in very plain language on a former occasion, “The Son of man shall be betrayed unto the chief priests and unto the scribes, and they shall condemn him to death, and shall deliver him to the Gentiles to mock, and to scourge, and to crucify him.” But now he looks at the matter in another light. His present view of it is, “I go unto the Father.” Their view of it was, “Jesus is to die;” his view of it was, “I go unto my Father.” Oh, how often our hearts would grow happy if we could but see things in Christ’s light! Let us try to do so.

For, here observe, that Christ sees through things. You and I look at them, and we see Pilate, Herod, the judgment-seat, the scourge, the cross, the spear, the sepulchre; but Jesus looks through them, and he sees the Father’s throne and himself exalted upon it. Could we not sometimes try to see affairs in Christ’s light by looking through them? Come, brother, that present affliction which seemeth not to be joyous but grievous, nevertheless, afterward, yieldeth the peaceable fruits of righteousness. Canst thou not look at the “afterward,” and thus discern the end of the Lord? Thy present estate is tossed about and troubled, for thou art on a stormy sea; but thou art being tossed towards the port, and driven even by the storm towards thy desired haven. Canst thou not see through matters as Jesus did? Why dwell always on this life? Canst thou not see what it leads to? “The way may be rough, but it cannot be long;” and then comes an eternity of joy. Canst thou not spy out this? Thy Lord did so; for though his passage into glory was infinitely rougher than thine, though he had to swim through seas of blood, and breast the breakers of hell itself in his death-pangs, yet he looked beyond all, and said, “I go unto the Father.” See things in Christ’s light. See the end as well as the beginning and the middle, and thou wilt be comforted!

Do you not see, too, that the light in which Christ sees things is such that he notices the bearing of things? He says, in effect, “If ye could see my death as I see it-as a going unto the Father-ye would rejoice.” He sees the ultimate result and bearing of things. Oh, if we could always do the same, and perceive what will come of our present sorrow, and what it tends to, and what God means to bring out of it all, then we should not so much see the fire as the pure ingot that comes forth of it! Then we should not so much see the ploughing, and the scattering of the seed to be buried beneath frost and snow, but we should hear the shouts of harvest, and see the yellow sheaves gathered into the garner. Oh, to see providences in Christ’s light!

But I do not mean to dwell upon this. I only want to throw out the thought, that every troubled one may now think of his own case as Christ would think of it. If you have a sorrow, how would Jesus deal with this sorrow if it were his own? If you are just now in darkness, what would be Christ’s outlook from the window of faith? What would he see as coming out of this affliction? There is no better rule for Christian conduct than, “What would Jesus do?” I was much struck when I saw that question hanging up in our Orphanage girls’ school-“What would Jesus do?” Friend, this is what you should do. What does Jesus think about trial?-for, according to the measure of your capacity, my brother, that is what you should think of it. Try this holy rule, and you will find the major part of your sorrows transformed into joys. A clear understanding of the nature of our trial would lead us to glory in tribulation. All that has to do with Jesus is joyous when seen in his light! If you understood his passion, you would see his glory; if you understood his tomb, you would see his resurrection; if you understood his death, you would see his throne.

Our second observation is this: Our love ought to go to wards our Lord’s person. “If ye loved me, ye would rejoice.” Come, my dear friends, gather up your thoughts a minute while I remind you that the chiefest love that we have should go to Jesus Christ himself: not so much to his salvation, as to himself, should our hearts fly. “If ye loved me, ye would rejoice.” We do well to love Christ’s house, and his day, and his book, and his church, and his service, and his blood, and his throne; but we must, above all these things, love his person. That is the tender point; “we love him,” and other things in him. We love his church for his sake; his truth because it is his truth; his cross because he bore it for us; and his salvation because purchased by his blood. I counsel you to pull up the sluices of your love, and let the full tide flow towards Jesus. Love him.

For, first, he is the source of all benefits; therefore, in loving him you value the benefits, but you trace them to their fountain-head. Should we love the gift better than the giver? Should the wife love her jewels better than the beloved one who gave them? It must not be so. Love the very person of Jesus-the God, the man, Emmanuel, God with us. Realize him as a distinct existence. Let him stand before you now “with scars of honour in his flesh, and triumph in his eyes,” as we sang just now. Love him as the source of your hope, your pardon, your life, your future glory.

Loving him we learn to prize all his gifts the more, for he that loves the giver values the smallest gift for the giver’s sake. Your love to the person of Jesus will not make you think less of the benefits which he bestows, but infinitely more. Shoot at the centre of the target. Love him, and, loving him, you will value all that he gives.

Loving Jesus we have him for our own, and that is a great blessing. A man may love gold and not have it. A man may love fame and not have it. But he that loves Christ has Christ; for certainly there was never yet a hand of love stretched out to embrace him unlawfully. He is the property of all who lay hold of him with their hearts.

Love him, and then you will sympathize with him. His work will arouse your greatest interest. When his cause seems to decline, you will grieve with him; and when he wins the day, you will shout the victory with him. Love him, and you will love the souls of men. Love Jesus, and you will seek to bring sinners to him. Nothing, can do you so much good, and fit you so well for his service, as to love himself. Love him, and you will love his people, for never heart did love Christ and hate his church. He that loves the Head loves the members. “Every one that loveth him that begat loveth him also that is begotten of him.” We know that we love Jesus when we love the brethren.

Love Christ, and you will have a possession which will last for ever for other things expire, but love never fails. “Whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease;” but he that loves possesses a coin that is current in the skies. He shall go on to love for ever. When the sun shall be darkened, and the stars shall fall from heaven, like withered leaves, he that loves Jesus shall still go on to love, and find in that love his heaven.

Remember, if you love the Son, the Father will love you. That is a precious word of his which you will find in the sixteenth chapter of john, at the twenty-seventh verse. There is a common object of love between the believer and the Father. When you glorify Christ, the Father says “Amen” to what you do. There is no lover of the Christ equal to the Father. “The Father loveth the Son, and hath given all things into his hand.” Therefore love the Son, and yield all honour to him, even as the Father doth.

If you love him you may well do so. It is necessary-absolutely necessary-that you should love your own Lord, for I will tell you a secret thing, only to be whispered in the believing ear-you are married to him; and what is the marriage-state without love? What, then, would the church be to Christ if she loved him not? What a wretched farce this union would be if there were no love between the soul and Christ to whom it is united! You are a member of his body; shall not the hand love the Head? Shall not the foot love the Head? God forbid that we should be without love to Jesus Christ; love to his own altogether lovely self. May God the Holy Spirit work in us abundantly to love Jesus, who tenderly says, “If ye loved me, ye would rejoice”!

My third observation is, that sometimes our sorrows put a question on our love. Do you not notice that it was because they were very sorrowful, not seeing things in the Master’s light, that Jesus said, “If ye loved me, ye would rejoice”? Let us try to-night to check the sorrow which may be in our bosoms at this hour, since it may cast an “if” upon our love to Christ.

Notice that if sorrow about the loss of an earthly thing eats into your heart, it puts an “if” upon your love to Christ. Many are the cries of woe: “Alas! I have lost my property; I have lost the old house in which my fathers lived; I have lost my situation; I have lost my dearest friend!” Is it therefore true that, because of this loss, you have no joy left? Have you lost your Saviour? I thought you called him your Best-Beloved, and you said that he was your all: is he also gone? Did I not hear you say, “Whom have I in heaven but thee? And there is none upon earth that I desire beside thee”? Is that true? Oh, over-burdened heart! Oh, heavy spirit! Dont thou love Jesus? Then why disconsolate? An “if” comes up when we think of your despair.

So, too, when we too much repine under personal affliction, a question is suggested. You may be ill to-night; or you may be fearing: that an illness is coming; or you may be in pain or weakness. Because you fear that consumption is upon you, your heart is very heavy. Truly, it is a sad thing to be diseased; but who sent you this? Whose will is it that it should be so? Who is the Lord of the house? Is not the grief your Lord’s will, your Saviour’s will? You say you love him, and yet you will not let him have his way, and are in a pet with him, and would dispute his love in sending this affliction! Is that so, my brother? Does not that murmuring of yours put an “if” of question upon your love to his blessed person?

You say, too, that you have been trusting him, and yet you have fallen into difficulties and straits. You do not know which way to turn; and you suspect that his providence is not wise. Do you think so? If you loved him as you should, would you think so? Is there not an “if” somewhere? I do not mean an “if” about your loving him, but about your loving him as you ought. Methinks, if you loved him as he deserves, you would say, “The King can do no wrong. My King is kind, wise, loving. I yield everything into his blessed hands.”

And so your sorrow is occasioned by the fear of death! You go burdened every day about death, do you? That is a poor compliment to the Well-Beloved. I thought you loved him! Love him-and not wish to see his face? It is a dark passage, is it? Oh, if the way were darker still, since he is on the other side, let us pass through it with a song. To be with him where he is-are you reluctant? Reluctant to behold his face? Reluctant to be in his bosom for ever? Is there not an “if” somewhere?

No, your grief is not about your death; it is about those that have died whom you loved. You cannot forgive God for taking away those you loved so well. Who has them, friend? Who has them? I will tell you. It is One who, when he was here, said, “Father, I will that they also, whom thou hast given me, be with me where I am.” He prayed for them; he died for them; and now he has his own, and you are displeased! Do you stand fretting because Christ has his own? What! Are you pettish because what he lent you for a while he has taken back? Were not your dear ones always more his than yours? Do you love him, then, and grudge your child, your babe, to Jesus? Do you grudge your mother, your brother, your wife, your husband, to him that bought them with his blood? Oh, I say again, it puts an “if” upon your love-not on the existence of it, but on the degree of it. If you loved him, you would rejoice that he sees of the travail of his soul, and has his saints with him in glory.

That brings me to the closing remark, which contains the gist of the text, and all the rest is meant to lead up to it, namely, this: that our love to our divine lord ought to be such that his exaltation, though it should be our loss, should, nevertheless, give us unfeigned delight. I will put this very simply before you. There is a daughter of yours in Christ, and she is fading away by consumption. She is very happy in the Lord, and full of joyful expectation. She is about to die, and you are all round the bed: you, her dear mother, stand there weeping most of all. Now, your dear girl shall give you an explanation of my text. She says, “Mother, do you not know that I shall soon be with the angels, and shall see the face of God, without fault? If you loved me, mother, you would rejoice to think that I shall be away from all this weakness and this pain. If you love me, you will be glad to think that your child shall be in glory.” Your girl’s sweet words shall tell you what Jesus meant. He meant, “If you loved me very much-if you loved me-not merely my presence and the comforts that I bring you, and the charm with which I invest your earthly life; but if you loved me, you would say, ‘Blessed Lord, we readily deny ourselves thy company and all the joy it brings, because it is better for thee to be gone unto the Father. It is more glorious for thee to be in heaven than here; and therefore we do rejoice in thy exaltation.’ ” You see how it was with those disciples. I need not enlarge upon their case. When Jesus had died and risen again, and had gone away from his disciples, he took upon himself the glory which he had laid aside. The glory which he had with God before the world was, he re-assumed at the time when he entered heaven. Then, too, as the God-Man, he was invested with a new splendour. The Father said, “Let all the angels of God worship him”; and they adored him. New songs went up from every golden street, and all heaven rang with “Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna!” as Christ ascended to his throne, To the throne he ascends and there he sits, King and Priest for ever, enthroned until his enemies are made his footstool. No more the bloody sweat: no more the cruel spear: no more the dark and lonesome tomb. He is exalted above all exaltation, higher than the kings of the earth, far above all principalities and powers and every name that is named. We ought to be glad of this-exceeding glad. These disciples were bound to be glad if they loved Christ, for though they could no more enjoy his company, could not sit at the table with him, could not walk through the streets with him any more, yet it was good for him to be gone to his glory; and therefore they were constrained to rejoice.

I want, in conclusion, to draw one or two parallel cases which may be practically applicable to yourselves.

Suppose, beloved, that it should ever be for Christ’s glory to leave you in the dark, would you not rejoice to have it so? A little while ago it was so with me. A few years ago I remember preaching to you from the text, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” and I think that if ever soul of mortal man did know the bitter meaning of that cry I did. I preached, hearing the clanking of my own fetters while I spoke to you. It was sad work. That night, ere I went home, I knew the reason. There came into the vestry a man as nearly insane as man could be. Despair hung like a cloud over his countenance; and as he took my hand, he said, “I have never met a man before that seemed to know where I am. Talk with me.” I saw him the next day, and several days, and saved him, by God’s help, from self-destruction. Then did I rejoice because I saw that Christ was glorified. I would lose my Master’s company, dark as the day would be to me without it-lose it, ay, by the month together-if it would make him glorious in the heart of one poor downcast man, or bring a single sinner to his feet. Be willing to say the same, brethren. Love Christ, and be willing for him to give you the cold shoulder instead of the kiss of his lips, if he might the more be glorified. God bring us to reach that state of self-denial, to be willing to forego that greatest luxury of heaven, for which angels themselves do pine-the presence of the Lord, if thereby Jesus may be the better served.

Well, now, suppose that you are going to be laid aside, and afflicted, and troubled, and it should be God’s intent that by this you should become more useful and more fitted for his service. If you love him, you will rejoice at this. You will accept chastisement with thankfulness, and say, “Lay on the stripes! Multiply the pains! Only fashion me so that I can glorify thee! Make no account of anything else but this-that thou mayest be exalted in my mortal body whether I live or whether I die!”

It is possible, dear friend, that you are going to be eclipsed by one who has a brighter light than any God has yet given you. None of us like this. Somebody is coming forward who will preach better than you. That Sunday-school teacher is going to teach better than you. Somebody near you will display more grace and more gift than you. What then? If you love Jesus you will rejoice that it should be so. You recollect how Paul did. There were some who preached Christ out of contention and ill-will, and wanted to get the better of Paul, and have their names cried up above the apostles. “Ah!” says Paul, “so long as Christ is preached I do rejoice, yea, and will rejoice.” Well spoken, Paul! I like the valour of the soldier who helped to fill the ditch with his dead body that his captain might march to victory. Throw yourselves into oblivion that Jesus may triumph. It were a small sacrifice for all the church to die a martyr’s death if Jesus were but raised one inch the higher among men. Let us exhibit the self-denying spirit which is born of love. “If ye loved me, ye would rejoice, because I said, I go unto the Father.”

Suppose that it should also happen that some of you are going to be deprived of all the privileges of hearing the gospel, because you are going away to a foreign land. You are extremely sorry; but suppose that Jesus means to make use of you to advance his glory among the heathen-by naming his name where it was never known before: then you may rejoice in banishment, rejoice to deny yourselves gospel privileges, rejoice to be scattered far and wide by mount, and stream, and sea, so that you may bring forth a harvest to his glory.

Brethren, if you should be sinking lower and lower in your own esteem, be not sorry for it. If Christ is rising higher and higher in your esteem, count it all gain. Sink, O self, down to death, and the abyss. Sink, sink, till there is nothing left of thee! Go down, pride, self-conceit, self-trust, self-seeking! Go even though your going should: cause despondency, so long as Christ is crowned! Sink, sink, soul, if Jesus rises! If thou canst trust him better, love him better, and admire him more, so let it be. As you come to his table, say in your hearts, “Lord, make me glad, or make me sad, so long as thou art exalted! Lord, let me have thy presence, or even let me be without it, so long as thou art exalted and extolled!”

Portions of Scripture read before Sermon-John 14. (parts).

Hymns from “Our Own Hymn Book”-313, 317, 786.