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it is difficult for us to see how could he have done more than he has already done. Never did sinner come to him who was cast out; never did a poor prodigal return to him, but he was made welcome, and there was joy on his return, both on earth and in heaven. And even those whom he has been constrained to destroy, has he borne with, with great long-suffering. He has waited upon them, till further waiting was useless. There is not a reprobate now in the world of darkness, whose history does. not honor the Divine clemency and forbearance. He keeps back the blow till he can keep it back no longer, till the last hour in the death-warrant of the sentenced offender is on the wing. And even then he reluctates-even then he hesitates to strikeeven then he is saying, "How shall I give them up? how shall I set thee as Admah, how shall I make thee. as Zeboim ?" And not till then is the hardened reprobate given over to the tormentors.

Some of you, my friends, God may thus give up; but if he does so, it will not be because he has no regard for you, nor that your eternal welfare is with him a matter of no concern. It will be through your own folly and fault, and because you are so sinful. Sin he must hate, and the incorrigible sinner he must destroy. He cannot help pitying, but he cannot help cursing him. It were more than his honor is worth to hold such a man guiltless.

It is a fearful thing to be thus given up of God; I pray you see to it that you are not thus abandoned. Now God offers you his mercy; in a little while, the voice of his mercy will be dumb. You have his Sabbaths now; and they cheer you. They are full of hope. But these sweet cheerings of this day of the Son of Man,

these bright hopes will ere long become depression and despair, if you seek not more earnestly to enter into the kingdom. What you need is the same sincerity in seeking, which God expresses in offering you eternal life; the same reluctance to endure, which he feels in inflicting, the death you deserve. His sincerity in offering is indorsed by motives as tender and endearing as his own infinite and loving mind knows how to express; his reluctance in inflicting is testified by expostulations, and entreaties, and tears. Will you be unmindful of them-deaf to them? Is there nothing that can persuade you to be holy and happy? Will nothing induce you to become willing to be saved?" "Wilt thou not be made whole? When shall it once be? Will you,-why will you die?"



NUMBERS XXXI. 23. And be sure your sin will find you out.

THE Great God is a terrible enemy to all sin. He cannot look upon it without abhorrence. He solemnly commands men not to commit it; and if they have committed it, he requires them to repent of it, to forsake it, and to repair to the blood of Jesus Christ that it may be washed away. This is their only hope; and he urges them to do this, so that "their iniquity may not be their ruin."

Yet, strange to say, there are very many persons who will sin; they love to sin; they are determined to sin, be the consequences what they may. But they do not mean to be found out; they sin secretly, and have an inward hope that their wickedness will never be known. Now, God says to all such persons, "Be sure your sin will find you out." Nothing is more true than this; and I wish, by God's blessing, so to exhibit and prove this truth, that all may see, and feel it; may forsake their sins, and find mercy. I remark, therefore,

I. In the first place, that the man who indulges himself in secret sin has, within his own bosom, a conscience which will betray him.

He is acquainted with his own sin; if nobody else knows it, he himself knows it. King Solomon said to

Shimei, the Benjamite, who abused David in the day of his calamity, and cursed him, "Thou knowest all the wickedness which thy heart is privy to, that thou didst to David, my father: therefore the Lord shall return thy wickedness upon thine own head." No man need expect to keep his sins secret, so long as he knows them himself. He may forget them, and for a while lose sight of them; but when his memory comes to be refreshed, and he is reminded of them; when he is forced to call them to remembrance, and cannot help reflecting upon them, nor divert his mind from the melancholy subject; the only relief he has is to make them known. I have known of men who stole money from their employers, and nobody knew it but themselves, whose conscience was so burdened with the sin, that they could not rest until they had gone and confessed it, and made restitution. I have read of a murderer, who had wickedly killed one of his fellow creatures, and who never was detected by all the search that could be made, who, years after the crime was committed, was so troubled in his own conscience for what he had done, that he went one day into open court, and told the judges that he was the guilty murderer. Men will always expose their own sins when they find greater relief of mind in confessing them than in keeping them secret. And they had often rather confess them, and know the worst, than suffer the slow flame to be always burning in their own bosoms.

There are sins with which no man can trust himself. His conscience will tell of them. When he was about to commit them, she tried to prevent him; by all the means in her power she tried to restrain him. She whispered in his ear, not to do the fearful deed; and

told him at the time, that if he would not listen to her, she would expose him. She was on the spot, and recorded it in her memory. And because he silenced her, and abused her, and treated her as an enemy, the time is coming when she will be revenged, and publish his wickedness to the world. That man is always miserable who has a guilty conscience. "A fire not blown consumes him." Conscious guilt renders him suspicious that others know all about him, and makes him afraid of everybody. He "trembles at the shaking of a leaf." He often suspects he is known, where he is unknown. If he is in the midst of friends, the sudden appearance of a strange face disturbs him; and the thought passes through his mind, perhaps this man knows me! In the midst of laughter, his mirth is boisterous, or his heart is sorrowful. An equivocal remark, an incidental inquiry, a scrutinizing glance alarms him. Like the guilty monarch of Babylon, whom we read of in the Bible, surrounded by his guards and princes, and amid all the delights of music and the revelry of feasting, he is terrified by a sentence which he does not even understand.

In the time of prosperity and glee, men may still the voice of conscience, though they are actually chargeable with atrocious crimes. But when calamity overtakes them, conscience is not always so easily silenced. More than twenty years rolled away, and Joseph's brethren appear to have had no compunction for selling their own father's son as a slave to the Midianites. They had kept the secret, and no doubt thought that it would remain buried in their own breasts. But in the providence of God they were sent into Egypt thenselves, and by a cluster of circumstances which they

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