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"One woe is past; and, behold, there come two woes more hereafter."-Revelation ix. 12.

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ITH the particular context of this small sentence I have no intention to meddle this evening. I am not an interpreter of unfulfilled prophecy; I leave that for those who have time and talent for such researches. Doubtless these words were spoken of old by the angel that appeared to John the Divine. After he had lifted the curtain of futurity, and shown the terrible things that God would do in the earth, he explained to John: "One woe is past; and, behold, there come two woes more hereafter." To my own apprehension, while reading this in private, it seemed just such an utterance as the angel of God might address to the soul of the ungodly when he leaves the body. "Death is over," saith the angel. "One woe is past; and, behold, there come two woes more hereafter." Thou hast passed through the Jordan, but thou art to pass through two streams deeper still; thou hast passed through the woes of death, but behold there comes a judgment, and then comes a second death: "One woe is past; and, behold, there come two woes more hereafter."

Very solemnly and earnestly, then, let me make a few observations concerning the woe that is supposed to be passed after the sinner is dead; after which I will briefly notice the two woes that are to come hereafter.

The woe which is supposed to be passed is the woe of death. Death to the righteous has lost its sting, but to the wicked death has all its terrors. Its horrors are not diminished by anything that Christ hath done; yea, rather, death gathers more cause of dismay; for the very Cross itself may fill the obdurate heart with consternation. When the sinner dies impenitent, having rejected the mercy of Christ, death is woe indeed. Let me show you in what respect death is a woe to the ungodly. On the eve of dissolution the wicked man often has fierce temptations. Lying upon his dying bed, he casts his eye back over the panorama of life, and remembers what he has been; he hears the church bell of every Sabbath ringing again; he thinks of the many times he has broken the Lord's-day. Laying there he remembers the many sermons he has heard, the many warnings he has had, and how they have all been forgotten. In these hours memory is very strong, -it has great power of vision, as with a lightning flash it brings before the dying man the starting point of his childhood; the earnest exhortations of a pious father in full many an instance ring their clear notes afresh in his ears; or he may remember how he was then carried in his arms up to the sanctuary, and how he was admonished not in riper age to forsake its hallowed floor. Anon turning upon his sick bed, he seems to hear the sobbings of a fond mother as she was wont in days of yore to kneel by his bedside imploring God in earnest

prayer, bedewed with tears, that her child might be saved. Memory brings back everything, but to him it is no bosom-spring of joy; far otherwise is it, for

"Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,

Swells at his breast, and turns the past to pain."

It tells him of all the sins he has committed; it reminds him of things which he had hoped were forgotten; it revokes sins of revelry, concerning which he had said, "Let these be forgotten and blotted out of the book of my remembrance for ever." He thinks of those moments when he had rebelled against his Maker, or even blasphemed his name; oh, God, what a woe thismust be to a dying sinner simply to look back on all his sins! Memory is no liar. Glancing at the black catalogue, it seems to say-Look there, man, look at the mercy you have slighted, at the solemn warnings you have trampled under foot, at the opportunities you have needlessly wasted. As the wretched man lies there writhing in his pain, this is one of the worst woes that he feels. Memory sticks daggers into his conscience, crying all the while, "It shall be more tolerable for Sodom and Gomorrah in the day of judgment than for thee." Death to the sinner is a woe again in another sense, it warns him now that he has to leave all his earthly joys for ever. Sinner, I see thee lying on thy bed, and thou art panting for thy breath; thy heaving iungs are struggling for air so that thou canst scarcely breathe. Come, take a last look at all thy joys, for thou shalt never know another; kiss thy harlot on the cheek, for all thy sins thou must now forsake for ever: thou wouldst not give them up at the warning of the minister,

and canst not shake them off now with all the convulsions of thy conscience. Come, rich man, lean upon thy bony arm, and look out of thy window upon thy broad acres, for thou shalt never see them again. Come, drunkard, drink, drink-for this is thy last draught; take a last farewell of all thy joys, thy festive pleasures, thy garish lusts, thy bewitching vanities, thy deceitful hopes; bid a last farewell, "a long farewell to all thy greatness," for now thou goest into the land of contempt and misery, agony and death-yea, into a place of unutterable depths of agony. Well may it be said that death is a woe to the sinner. Death, again, is a woe to the ungodly man, if he be really awakened at the last hour—and many such there be-for conscience comes and tells the dying sinner that it is now all over with him for ever; it is too late for him to be saved. One of my predecessors, Mr. Benjamin Keach, has left on record an account of a man that had been a trouble to his church, for he had backslidden,-and his cries, shrieks, and tears, at the very prospect of death, were enough to make one's hair turn white and stand upon end. That poor wretched man seems to have had a foretaste of perdition before he entered into its fire; and so it is ofttimes with the wicked: thou hast had thy harvest; thy summer is ended; but thou art not saved; thou hast been warned, but thou shalt not be warned again; the lips that said, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest," shall say, "Depart, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels;" and all the while conscience says this is just-I knew my duty and I did it not; I knew it was my duty to repent, but I

steeled my heart against God, and I would not forsake my sins; I turned my back upon the cross to dance in a merry circle downwards to the pit. This shall make death woeful indeed, when it shall be hurled into the mind; thou knewest thy duty, but thou didst it not. "Woe unto thee, Capernaum, thou hast been exalted to heaven, but thou shalt be cast down to hell, for if the mighty works that had been done in thee had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes." Death is a woe indeed. I never wish to stand by the deathbed of any who die in their sins; this is a dreadful woe indeed, to be wrapped in the black winding-sheet of guilt. I have seen the eyes starting from the sockets; I have seen the throat dried up like a potsherd; I have heard the cries of one man in death whom I visited. The scene comes up before me at the present moment as I saw him rise in his bed and shriek, "O God, I will not die, there is no mercy for me." He begged of us to pray for him, and yet he knew that our prayers were of no avail. "I have had my seasons," said he, "but I can't repent; I shall die in a short time, and I shall soon be in hell." "Water," said he, "give me water." Yet again he cried, "O, God, I cannot die, I will not die," and this was a prelude to his departure, for he shortly afterwards expired in desperate agony. Death is indeed a woe to such a man as that. And you, my hearers, if you die without faith in Christ, your death must be a woe as terrible as ever filled the heart or blanched the cheek with terror. Yet this is only a small part of the sufferings. The man is dead; there lies his corpse; his friends say that it was a happy release for

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