Teaching Resources International

“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.” — Psalm 116:15

David sought deliverance from imminent peril, and he felt sure of obtaining it; for being a servant of the Lord he knew that his life was too precious in the sight of God for it to be lightly brought to an end.  It should be a source of consolation to all tried saints that God will not deliver them over to the hands of their enemies.  It is not the will of their Father who is in heaven that one of his little ones should perish.  A shepherd who did not care for his sheep might suffer the wolf to devour it, but he who prizes it highly will put his own life in jeopardy to pluck the defenseless one from between the monster’s jaws.

The text informs us that the deaths of God’s saints are precious to him.  How different, then, is the estimate of human life which God forms from that which has ruled the minds of great warriors and mighty conquerors.  Had Napoleon spoken forth his mind about the lives of men in the day of battle, he would have likened them to so much water spilt upon the ground.  To win a victory or subdue a province, it mattered not though he strewed the ground with corpses thick as autumn leaves, nor did it signify though in every village orphans and widows wailed the loss of sires and husbands.  What were the deaths of conscript peasants when compared with the fame of the Emperor?  So long as Austria was humbled or Russia invaded, little cared the imperial Corsican though half the race had perished.  Not thus is it with the King of kings; he spares the poor and needy and saves the souls of the needy, and precious shall their blood be in his sight.  Our glorious Leader never squanders the lives of his soldiers; he values the church militant beyond all price; and though he permits his saints to lay down their lives for his sake, yet is not one life spent in vain or unnecessarily expended.

How different also is the Lord’s estimate from that of persecutors! They have hounded the saints to death, considering that they did God service.  They have thought no more of burning martyrs than destroying noxious insects, and massacres of believers have been to them as the slaying of wild beasts.  Did they not strike a medal to celebrate the massacre of the Huguenots in France?   And did not the infallible Pope himself consider it to be a business for which to offer Te Deums to God?  What if murder made the streets of Paris run with blood?  The slaughtered ones were only Protestants, and the world thought itself well rid of them.  Foxes and wolves, and Protestants were best exterminated.  As for so-called Anabaptists, they were counted worse than vipers, and to crush them utterly was reckoned to be salutary Christian discipline.  The enemies of the church of God have hunted the saints as if they were beasts of the chase.  They have let loose upon them the dogs of war and the hell-hounds of the Inquisition, as if they were not fit to live.  “Away with such a fellow from the earth” has been the general cry of persecutors against the men of whom the world was not worthy.  But, precious is their blood in his sight. Though they have been cast to the beasts in the amphitheatre, or dragged to death by wild horses, or murdered in dungeons, or slaughtered amongst the snows of the Alps, or made to fatten Smithfield with their gore, precious has their blood been, and still is it in his sight, who will avenge his own elect when the day shall come for his patience to have had her perfect work and for his justice to begin her dread assize.

The text also corrects another estimate, namely, our own. We love the people of God, they are exceedingly precious to us, and, therefore, we are too apt to look upon their deaths as a very grievous loss.  We would never let them die at all if we could help it.  If it were in our power to confer immortality upon our beloved Christian brethren and sisters, we should surely do it, and to their injury we should detain them here, in this wilderness, depriving them of a speedy entrance into their inheritance on the other side the river.  It would be cruel to them, but I fear we should often be guilty of it.  We should hold them here a little longer, and a little longer yet, finding it hard to relinquish our grasp.  The departures of the saints cause us many a pang.  We fret, alas! also, we even repine and murmur.  We count that we are the poorer because of the eternal enriching of those beloved ones who have gone over to the majority and entered into their rest.  Be it known that while we are sorrowing Christ is rejoicing.  His prayer is, “Father, I will that they also whom thou hast given me be with me where I am,” and in the advent of every one of his own people to the skies he sees an answer to that prayer, and is, therefore, glad.  He beholds in every perfected one another portion of the reward for the travail of his soul, and he is satisfied in it.  We are grieving here, but he is rejoicing there. Dolorous are their deaths in our sight, but precious are their deaths in his sight.  We hang up the mournful escutcheon and sit us down to mourn our full, and yet, meanwhile, the bells of heaven are ringing for “the bridal feast above,” the streamers are floating joyously in every heavenly street, and the celestial world keeps holiday because another heir of heaven has entered upon his heritage.

May this correct our grief.  Tears are permitted to us, but they must glisten in the light of faith and hope.  Jesus wept, but Jesus never repined.  We, too, may weep, but not as those who are without hope, nor yet as though forgetful that there is greater cause for joy than for sorrow in the departure of our brethren.

I. Coming now to the instructive text before us, we shall remark, in the first place, that THE STATEMENT HERE MADE IMPLIES A VIEW OF DEATH OF A PECULIAR KIND. “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.”

Death in itself cannot be precious; it is terrible. It cannot be a precious thing to God to see the noblest works of his hand torn in pieces, his skillful embroidery in the human body rent, defiled, and given over to decay.  Death in itself cannot be a theme for rejoicing with God.  But death in the case of believers is another matter.  To them, it is not death to die; it is a departure out of this world unto the Father, a being unclothed that we may be clothed upon, a falling asleep, an entrance into the Kingdom.  To the saint death is by no means such a thing as happens unto the unregenerate.

And, observe wherein this change lies.  It lies mainly in the fact that death is no more the penalty for sin upon the believer.  One great cardinal truth of the gospel is that the sins of believers were laid upon Christ and were punished upon Christ, and that, consequently, no sin is imputed to the believer, neither can any penalty be visited upon him.  His sin was punished in his substitute.  The righteous wrath of God has altogether ceased towards those for whom Christ died.  It could not be consistent with justice that the death penalty should be executed upon Christ, and then should be again visited upon those for whom Christ was a substitute.

Death, then, does not come to me as a believer because I deserve it and must be punished by it.  It comes so to the ungodly.  It is upon them a fit visitation for their iniquities, the beginning of an unending death, which shall be their perpetual portion.  To the saints the sting of death is gone, and the victory of the grave is removed; it is no more a penalty but a privilege to die.  What if I say it is a covenant blessing?  So Paul esteemed it, for when he said “All things are yours, things present or things to come,” he added, “or life, or death, all are yours; and ye are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s,” as if the believer’s death came to him amongst other good and precious things by the way of his being Christ’s, and Christ’s being God’s.  To fall asleep in Jesus is a blessing of the covenant; it is a grace to be asked for, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace according to thy word.”  I would not miss it; if I might make my choice between living till Christ comes, so as to be changed only, and not to die, or of actually sleeping in the dust, I would prefer to die, for in this the believer who shall fall asleep will be the more closely conformed to Christ Jesus.  He will have passed into the sepulcher and slept in the tomb as his master did; he will know, as Jesus knows, what death pangs mean and what it is to gaze upon the invisible while the visible retreats into the distance.  Nay, let us die.  The Head has traversed the valley of death-shade, and let the members rejoice to follow.

“As the Lord their Savior rose,

So all his followers must.”

And, therefore, as the Lord the Savior slept, so let us sleep.  When we think of our Master in the tomb, our hearts say, “Let us go that we may die with him.”  We would not be divided from him in life or in death.  We are so wedded to him that we say, “Where thou goest, I will go, where thou diest, I will die, and with thee would I be buried, that with thee in the resurrection morning I may be partaker of the resurrection.”  Death, then, is so far changed in its aspect as it respects the saints that it is no longer a legal infliction, but it comes to us as a covenant blessing conforming us to Christ.

The statement of the text refutes the gloomy thought that death is a ceasing to be.  It is not the annihilation of a man, nor ought it ever to be regarded as such.  In all ages, there has fingered upon mankind the fear that to die may involve ceasing to be; and of all thoughts this is one of the most gloomy.  But, when God says that the death of a believer is precious to him, it is clear that no tinge of annihilation is in the idea, for where would be the preciousness of a believer ceasing to exist?  Oh, no, the thought is gone from us.  We know that to die is not to renounce existence; we understand that death is but a passage into a higher and a nobler existence.  The soul emancipated from all sinfulness passes the Jordan and is presented without fault before the throne of God.  No purgatorial fires are needed to cleanse her; the self-same day she leaves the body, she is with Christ in paradise, because she is fit to be there.  The body in death, it is true, undergoes decay, but even for that meaner part of our manhood there is no destruction.  Let us not malign the grave; it is no more a prison, but an inn, a halting place upon the road to resurrection.  As Esther bathed herself in spices that she might be fit for the embraces of the king, so is the body purged from its corruption that it may rise immortal.

“Corruption, earth, and worms

Shall but refine this flesh

Till my triumphant spirit comes

To put it on afresh.”

The body could not rise if it had not first died; it could not spring up like a fair flower unless it had first been sown.  If a grain of wheat fall not into the ground and die, how springeth it up again?  But the body is sown in dishonor that it may be raised in glory; it is sown in weakness that it may be raised in power; it is laid in the grave as a natural body, that it may arise therefrom by the infinite power of the Almighty a spiritual body, full of life, and glory, and majesty. Let this mortal body die, aye, let it molder into dust!  What more fit than earth to earth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes?  Let the gold go into the fining pot, it will lose none of its preciousness; it will only be delivered from its dross.  Let the gem go to the lapidary’s house, for it shall glitter the more brightly in the royal crown in the day when the Lord shall make up his jewels.

Death, too, we may be sure from this statement, cannot be any serious detriment to the believer after all; it cannot be any serious loss to a saint to die. Looking upon the poor corpse, it does seem to be a catastrophe for death to have passed his cold hand across the brow, but it is not so, for the very death is precious; therefore, it is no calamity.  Death if rightly viewed is a blessing from the Lord’s hand.  A child once found a bird’s nest in which were eggs, which it looked upon as a great treasure.  It left them, and by-and-by, when a week or so had passed, went back again.  It returned to its mother grieving: “Mother,” said the child, “I had some beautiful eggs in this nest, and now they are destroyed; nothing is left but a few pieces of broken shell.  Pity me, mother, for my treasure is gone.”  But the mother said, “Child, here is no destruction; there were little birds within those eggs, and they have flown away and are singing now among the branches of the trees; the eggs are not wasted, child, but have answered their purpose.  It is better far as it is.”  So, when we look at our departed ones, we are apt to say, “And is this all thou hast left us?  Ruthless spoiler, are these ashes all?”  But faith whispers “No, the shell is broken, but amongst the birds of paradise, singing amid unwithering bowers, you shall find the spirits of your beloved ones; their true manhood is not here, but has ascended to its Father, God.”

It is not a loss to die; it is a gain, a lasting, a perpetual, an illimitable gain. The man is at one moment weak and cannot stir a finger; in an instant he is clothed with power.  Call ye not this a gain?  That brow is aching; it shall wear a crown within the next few tickings of the clock.  Is that no gain?  That hand is palsied; it shall at once wave the palm branch. Is that a loss?  The man is sick beyond physician’s power, but he shall be where the inhabitant is never sick.  Is that a loss?  When Baxter lay dying and his friends came to see him, almost the last word he said was in answer to the question, “Dear Mr. Baxter, how are you?”  “Almost well,” said he, and so it is.  Death cures; it is the best medicine, for they who die are not only almost well, but healed forever.  You will see, then, that the statement of our text implies that the aspect of death is altogether altered from that appearance in which men commonly behold it.  Death to the saints is not a penalty, it is not destruction, it is not even a loss.

II. But now, secondly, I want your earnest thought to a further consideration of the text. THE STATEMENT HERE MADE IS OF A MOST UNLIMITED KIND. “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.”

It is a broad statement, wide and comprehensive, and I want you to observe that there is no limit here as to whom. Provided that the dying one be a saint, his death is precious.  He may be the greatest in the church, he may be the least; he may be the boldest confessor, he may be the most timid trembler; but if a saint, his death is precious in God’s sight.  I can well conceive the truth of this in respect to martyrs; to see a man enduring torments, but refusing to deny his Lord; to behold him offered life and wealth if he will recant, but to hear him say, “I cannot and I will not draw back by the help of God;” to mark every nerve throbbing with anguish and every single member of his body torn with torment, and yet to see the man faithful to his God even to the close — why, this is a spectacle which God himself might well count precious.  The church embalms the memories of her martyrs wherever they die — precious in God’s sight must their deaths be.  The deaths, too, of those who work for Christ until at last weary nature gives out, when body and brain are both exhausted and the man can no longer continue in his beloved labor, but lays down his body and his charge together, never putting off harness until he puts off his flesh — methinks the deaths of such men must be precious in God’s sight.  But, not more so – mark that not more so than the departure of the patient sufferer, scarcely able to say a word, solitary and unknown, only able to serve God by submissively enduring pains which make night weary and day intolerable.  Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of the consumptive girl who gradually melts into heaven; the death of the pauper in the workhouse, without a friend, but uncomplainingly bearing God’s will, is as precious (not perhaps under some aspects), but as truly precious in the sight of the Lord as that of the most useful preacher of the word.  Precious to Jehovah is the death of the least in the ranks, as the death of those who rush to the front and bear the brunt of the battle well.  There are no distinctions in the text: if you be a saint, no one may know you, you may be too poor and too illiterate to be of much account in the world, you may die and pass away and no record may be among the sons of men, no stone set up over your lonely grave, but precious in the sight of the Lord in every case is the death of his saints.

There is no limit as to whom.  And, mark you, there is no limit at all as to when. It matters not at what age the saint dies, his death is precious to God.  Very delightful to those who observe them are the deathbed scenes of young children who have early been converted to God.  There is a peculiar charm about the pious prattler’s departing utterances.  He can hardly pronounce his words aright, but he seems illuminated from above, and talks of Jesus and his angels, and the harps of gold, and the better land, as if he had been there.  Some of you have had the privilege to carry in your bosoms some of those nurselings for the skies, unfledged angels sent here but for a little while and then caught away to heaven, that their mothers’ hearts might follow them and their fathers’ aspirations might pursue them.  I confess to a great liking for such books as “Janeway’s Token for Children,” where the deaths of many pious boys and girls are recorded with the holy sayings which they used.  The Lord sets a high value on his little ones and, therefore, frequently gathers them while they are like flowers in the bud.  When these favored children die, Jesus stands at their little cots, and, while he calls them away, he whispers, “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.”  Equally precious, however, are the deaths of those who depart in middle life.  These we usually regret most of all, because of the terrible blanks which they leave behind them.  What, shall the hero fall when the battle wants him most?  Shall the reaper be sent home and made to lay down his sickle just when the harvest is heaviest and the day requires every worker?  To us it seemeth strange, but to God it is precious.  Oh, could we lift the veil, could we understand what now we see not, we should perceive that it was better for the saints to die when they died than it would have been for them to have lived longer lives.  Though the widow mourns and the orphans are left penniless, it was good that the father fell asleep.  Though a loving church gathered round the hearse and mourned that their minister had been taken away in the fullness of his vigor, it was best that God should take him to himself.  Let us be persuaded of this, that no believer dies an untimely death.

In every consistent Christian’s case that promise is true, “With long life also will I satisfy him, and show him my salvation;” for long life is not to be reckoned by years as men count them.  He lives longest who lives best.  Many a man has crowded half a century into a single year.  God gives his people life, not as the clock ticks, but as he helps them to serve him; and he can make them to live much in a short space of time.  There are no untimely figs gathered into God’s basket; the great Master of the vineyard plucks the grapes when they are ripe and ready to be taken, and not before. Saintly deaths are precious in his sight.  And, dear brethren, if the Lord’s providence permits the saint to live to a good old age, then is his death precious too.  The decease which has lately occurred among us will abide in my memory as one of my choice treasures.

I say but little of it to-day, for on another Sabbath morning I may be able to tell you some of those choice things which our dear brother and venerated elder uttered which charmed and gladdened us all as we lingered about his bed.  You knew him; you knew what a man he was in life; he was just such a man in death.  But a day or so before he died, while he could scarcely draw his breath, he told me with a smile that it was the happiest day of his life.  As he was always wont to rejoice in God while he was here among us, so he was kept in the same blessed spirit even to the end.  “See,” said he, “what a blessed thing it is to be here.”  “Here!”  I said.  “What, on a dying bed?” “Yes,” said he, “for I am Christ’s, and Christ is mine; I am in him, and He is in me; what more would I have?  It is the happiest day of my life,” and again he smiled serenely.  It was all joy with him, all bliss with him.  Pain might rack him, or weakness might prostrate him, but ever did his spirit magnify the Lord and rejoice in God his Savior.  Yes, these ripe ones, like the fruits of autumn, fall willingly from off the tree of life when but a gentle breeze stirs the branches.  The deaths of these are precious unto God.  There is no limitation as to when.

And again, there is no limitation as to where.  Precious shall their deaths be in his sight, let them happen where they may.  Up in the lonely garret where there are none of the appliances of comfort, but all the marks of the deepest penury, up there where the dying work-girl or the crossing sweeper dies — there is a sight most precious unto God.  Or yonder, in the long corridor of the hospital, where many are too engrossed in their own griefs to be able to shed a tear of sympathy, there passes away a triumphant spirit, and precious is that death in God’s sight.  Alone, utterly alone in the dead of night, surprised, unable to call in a helper, saintly life often has passed away; but in that form also precious is the death in God’s sight.  Far away from home and kindred, wandering in the backwoods or on the prairie, the believer has died where there was none to call him brother; but it mattered not, his death was precious in the sight of the Lord.  Or, a bullet has brought the missive from the throne which said, “Return and be with God,” and falling in the ditch to die amongst the wounded and the dead, with no onlooker but the silent stars and blushing moon, amidst the carnage the death of the believing soldier has been precious in the sight of Jehovah.  Ah, and run over in the street, or crushed, and bruised, and mangled in the railway accident, or stifled in the pit by the coal damp, or sinking amidst the gurgling waters of the ocean, or falling beneath the assassin’s knife, precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints. They are everywhere in the sight of God when they die, and he looks upon them with a smile, for their death is precious to his heart.

There is no limit as to where and, dear brethren, there is no limit as to how.  “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.”  Their deaths may happen suddenly; they may be alive and active, and in a moment fall down dead, but their death is precious.  I could never understand that prayer which is put into the prayer-book, that God would deliver us from sudden death.  Why, methinks, it is the most desirable death that a person could die, not to know you die at all, to have no fears, no shiverings on the brink, but to be busy in your Master’s service here, and suddenly to stand in the white robe before his throne in heaven, shutting the eye to the scenes below and opening it to the scenes above.  I know, if I might ask such a favor, I would covet to die as a dear brother in Christ died, who gave out this hymn from his pulpit —

“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.”

Just as he finished that line in the pulpit he bowed his head and his prayer was answered; he was immediately before the throne of God.  Is there anything in that to pray against?  It seems to us much to be desired; but at any rate, such a death as that is precious in God’s sight.  But if we linger long, if the tabernacle be taken down piece by piece, and the curtains be slowly folded up, and the tent pins gently put away, precious in the sight of the Lord is such a death as that.  Should we die by fierce disease, which shakes the strong man, or by gentle decline, which slowly saps and undermines, it matters not.  Should a sudden stroke take us and men call it a judgment, it is no judgment to the believer, for from him all judgments are past, and the true light of love shineth on him.  Die how he may, and where he may, and when he may, and let him be in what position he will when he dies, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.”

III. And now, thirdly, we notice that THE STATEMENT OF THE TEXT MAY BE FULLY SUSTAINED AND ACCOUNTED FOR, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints,” is a most sober and truthful declaration.

First, because their persons were, and always will be, precious unto God. His saints!  Why, these are his elect; these are they upon whom his love was set before the mountains lifted their heads into the clouds; these are they whom he bought with precious blood, cheerfully laying down his life for their sakes; these are they whose names are borne on Jesus’ breast and engraved upon the palms of his hands; these are his children; these are members of his body; these are his bride, his spouse; he is married unto them: therefore, everything that concerns them must be precious.  Do I not look with interest upon the history of my child?  Do I not carefully observe everything that happens to my beloved spouse?  Where there is love the little becometh great and what would seem a matter of no concern in a stranger is gilded with great importance.  The Lord loves his people so intensely that the very hairs of their heads are numbered; his angels bear them up in their hands lest they dash their foot against a stone, and because they are the precious sons of Zion, comparable unto fine gold, therefore their deaths are precious unto the Lord.

Precious are the deaths of God’s saints next because precious graces are in death very frequently tested and as frequently revealed and perfected. How could I know faith to be true faith if it would not stand a trial?  The precious faith of God’s elect is proved to be such when it can bear the last ordeal of all; when the man can look grim death in the face and yet not be staggered through unbelief, when he can gaze across the gulf, so often veiled in cloud, and yet not fear that he shall be able to overleap it and land in the Savior’s arms.  Believe me, the faith which only plays with earthly joys and cannot endure the common trials of life will soon be dissipated by the solemn trial of death; but that which a man can die with, that is faith indeed.  Faith, moreover, brings with it, as its companions, an innumerable company of graces, amongst which chiefly are hope and love. Blessed is the man who can hope in God when heart and flesh are failing him, and can love the Lord even though he smite him with many pains, yea, even though he slay him.  The death of the body is a crucible for our graces, and much that we thought to be true grace disappears in the furnace heat; but God counts the trial of our faith much more precious than that of gold, and therefore he counts deathbeds precious in his sight.  Besides, how many graces are revealed in dying hours?  I have known plants of God’s right hand planting that had always been in the shade before and yet they have enjoyed sunlight at last; silent spirits that have laid their finger on their lips throughout their lives, but have taken them down and have declared their love to Jesus just when they were departing.  Like the swan, of whom the fable hath it, that it singeth never till it comes to its end, so many a child of God has begun to sing in his last hours; because he has done with the glooms of earth, he begins to sing here his swan song, intending to sing on forever and ever.  You cannot tell what is in a man to the fullness of him till he is tried to the full, and therefore the last trial, inasmuch as it strippeth off earth-born imperfections and develops in us that which is of God, and brings to the front the real and the true and throws to the back the superficial and the pretentious, is precious in God’s sight.

“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints,” for a third reason, because precious attributes are in dying moments gloriously illustrated. I refer now to the divine attributes. In life and in death, we prove the attribute of God’s righteousness: we find that he does not lie but is faithful to his word.  We learn the attribute of mercy: he is gentle and pitiful to us in the time of our weakness.  We prove the attribute of his immutability: we find him “the same yesterday, today, and forever.”

There is scarcely a single characteristic of the divine being which is not set out delightfully to the child of God and onlookers when the saint is departing.  And the same is true of the promises as well as the attributes.  Precious promises are illustrated upon dying beds.  “I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.”  Who would have known the meaning of that to the full if he had not found that the Lord did not leave him when all else was gone?  “When thou passeth through the river I will be with thee.”  Who could have known the depth of truth in that word, if saints did not pass through the last cold stream. “As thy days so shall thy strength be.”  Who could have known to the full that word if he had not seen the believer triumphant on his dying day?  “Yea, though I pass through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff comfort me.”  You may read commentaries upon that psalm, but you will never value it so well as when you are in the valley yourself.  My dear departed friend said to me, ere I came away on one of my last visits, “Read me a psalm, dear pastor,” and I said, “which one?”  “There are many precious ones,” said he, “but as I get nearer to the time of my departure, I love the 23^rd best, let us have that again.”  “Why,” I said, “you know that by heart.”  “Yes,” said he, “it is in my heart too, it is most true and precious to me.”  And is it not so?  Yet you had not seen the 23rd Psalm to be a diamond of the purest water if you had not beheld its value to saints in their departing moments.

“Precious,” again, “in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints,” because the precious blood is glorified. It is memorable how saints turn to the cross when they die.  Not very often do you hear them speak of Christ in his glory then, it is of Christ the sufferer, Christ the substitute that they then speak. And how they delight to roll under their tongue as a sweet morsel, such texts as that one, “The blood of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanseth us from all sin.”  With what delight do they speak about having trusted in him years ago, and how gladly will they tell you that they have not been confounded.  All their hope and all their confidence lie in the crucified one alone, and they are persuaded that he is able to keep that which they have committed to him.  It ought to be the object of our lives to magnify the blood of Jesus, and to speak well of it, and to recommend it to others.

But oh, dear soul, if thou hast no faith in Christ’s blood, one argument that ought to convince thee of the sin of unbelief above all others is this — that blood has afforded comfort when pains have been bitter, and consolation when death has been imminent, not in one case or a thousand, but in countless cases.  Saints by myriads have died singing, for they have overcome the last enemy by the blood of the Lamb.  Oh, you that were never washed in Jesus’ blood, I dread to think of your dying.  What will you do without the Savior?  Oh, how will you pass the terrors of that tremendous hour, with no advocate on high pleading for you there, and no blood of Christ upon you pleading for you here.  Oh, fly to that cross, rest in that cross, then will you live well and die well; but, without the blood, you shall live uneasily and die wretchedly. God prevent it, for his name’s sake!

Again, the deaths of believers are precious to God because oftentimes precious utterances are given forth in the last moments. There are little volumes extant of the death bed sayings of saints, and if ever I have mistaken the utterances of man for inspiration, it has been when I have read some of these dying speeches.  Oh, what brave things do they tell of the heavenly world!  What glorious speeches do they make!  To some of them the veil has been thrown back, and they have spoken of things not seen as yet.  They have almost declared things which it were not lawful for men to utter, and, therefore, their speech has been broken, and mysterious, like dark sayings upon a harp.  We could hardly make out all they said, but we gathered that they were overwhelmed with glory, that they were confounded with unutterable bliss, that they had seen and fain would tell but must not, they had heard and fain would repeat but could not.  “Did you not see the glory?” they have said, and you have replied, “The sun shines upon you through yonder window;” they have shaken their heads, for they have seen a brightness not begotten of the sun.  Then have they cried, “Do you not hear it?” and we should have supposed that a sound in the street attracted them, but all was the stillness of night; silent all, except to their ear, which was ravished with the voice of harpers, harping with their harps.

I shall never forget hearing a brother, with whom I had often walked to preach the gospel, say,

“And when ye hear my eyestrings break,

How sweet my minutes roll;

A mortal paleness on my cheek,

But glory in my soul.”

It must have been a grand thing to hear good Harrington Evans say to his deacons, “Tell my people, tell them I am accepted in the Beloved;” or to hear John Rees say, “Christ in the glory of his person, Christ in the love of his heart, Christ in the power of his arm, this is the rock I stand on, and now death strike.”  Departing saints have uttered brave things and rare things which have made us wish that we had been going away with them, so have they made us long to see what they have seen, and to sit down and feast at their banquet.

The last reason I shall give why the death of a saint is precious is this — because it is a precious sheep folded, a precious sheaf harvested, precious vessel which had been long at sea brought into harbor, a precious child which had been long at school to finish his training brought home to dwell in the Father’s house for ever.  God the Father sees the fruit of his eternal love at last ingathered; Jesus sees the purchase of his passion at last secured; the Holy Spirit sees the object of his continual workmanship at last perfected: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit rejoice that now the blood-bought ones are free from all inbred sin and delivered from all temptation.

The battle’s fought, the battle’s fought, and the victory is won for ever.  The commander’s eagle eye, as he surveys the plain, watches joyously the shock of battle as he sees that his victory is sure.  But when at the last the fight culminates in one last assault, when the brave guards advance for the last attack, when the enemy gathers up all the shattered relics of his strength to make a last defense, when the army marches with sure and steady tramp to the last onslaught, then feels the warrior’s heart a stern overflowing joy, and as his veterans sweep their foes before them like chaff before the winnower’s fan, and the adversaries melt away, even as the altar fat consumes away in smoke, I see the commander exulting with beaming eye and hear him rejoicing in that last shock of battle, for in another moment there shall be the shout of victory, and the campaign shall be over, and the adversary shall be trampled for ever beneath his feet.  King Jesus looks upon the death of his saints as the last struggle of their life-conflict; and when that is over, it shall be said on earth and sung in heaven, “Thy warfare is accomplished, thy sin is pardoned, thou hast received of the Lord’s hand double for all thy sins.”  “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.”

Sirs, are you his saints?  Preacher, thou speakest to others: hast thou been sanctified unto God?  Answer this in the silence of thy soul.  Officers of this church, are you saints or mere professors?  Members of this church, are you truly saints or are you hypocrites?  You who sit in this congregation Sabbath after Sabbath, have you been washed in the blood of Jesus?  Are you made saints or are you still in the gall of bitterness and the bonds of iniquity?  Casual visitors to this house of prayer, the same question would I press on you, are you saints of God?  If not, earth and hell combined, though they are both full of anguish, could not utter a shriek that should be shrill enough to set forth the woe unutterable of the death that shall surely come upon you.

Oh before that death overtakes you, fly to Jesus.  Trust Him, trust Him now!  Ere this day’s sun goes down, cast yourself at the feet of the crucified Redeemer, and live!  The Lord grant it, for his name’s sake.  Amen.

“Here is the patience of the saints: here are they that keep the commandments of God, and the faith of Jesus.  And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.” — Revelation 14:12, 13

The text speaks of a voice from heaven which said, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.”  The witness of that voice is not needed upon every occasion, for even the commonest observer is compelled to feel concerning many of the righteous that their deaths are blessed.  Balaam, with all his moral shortsightedness, could say, “Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his.”  That is the case when death comes in peaceful fashion.  The man has lived a calm, godly, consistent life; he has lived as long as he could well have wished to live, and in dying he sees his children and his children’s children gathered around his bed.  What a fine picture the old man makes, as he sits up with that snowy head supported by snowy pillows.  Hear him as he tells his children that goodness and mercy have followed him all the days of his life, and now he is going to dwell in the house of the Lord forever.  See the seraphic smile which lights up his face as he bids them farewell and assures them that he already hears the harpers harping with their harps — bids them stay those tears and weep not for him but for themselves — charges them to follow him so far as he has followed Christ and to meet him at the right hand of the Judge in the day of his appearing.  Then the old man, almost without a sigh, leans back and is present with the Lord.

Heaven waits not the last moment; owns her friends

On this side death, and points them out to men;

A lecture silent but of sovereign power!

To vice, confusion — and to virtue, peace.

Even the blind bat’s-eyed worldling can see that “blessed are the dead which die in the Lord” in such a fashion as that, nor is it difficult to perceive that this is the case in many other instances.  We have ourselves known several good men and women who were afraid of death and were much of their lifetime subject to bondage, but they went to bed and fell asleep and never woke again in this world, and as far as appearances go they could never have known so much as one single pang in departure, but fell asleep among mortals to awake amid the angels.  Truly, such gentle loosings of the cable, such fordings of Jordan dry shod, such ascents of the celestial hills with music at every step, are beyond measure desirable, and we need no voice out of the excellent glory to proclaim that blessed are the dead who in such a case die in the Lord.

But that was not the picture which John had before his mind.  It was quite another — a picture grim and black to mortal eye.  The sounds which meet the ear are not those of music, nor the whispered consolations of friends, but quite the reverse, all is painfully terrible, and the very opposite of blessed, so far as strikes the eye and ear.  Hence it became needful that there should be a voice from heaven to say, “Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord.”  I will give you the picture.  The man of God is on the rack.  They are turning that infernal machine with all their might; they have dragged every bone from its place; they have exercised their tortures till every nerve of his body thrills with agony.  He is flung into a dark and loathsome dungeon and left there to recover strength enough to be led in derision through the streets.  Upon his head they have placed a cap painted with devils, and all his garments they have adorned with the resemblance of fiends and flames of hell.  And now, with a priest on each side holding up before him a superstitious emblem and bidding him adore the Virgin or worship the cross, the good man, loaded with chains, goes through the street, say of Madrid or Antwerp, to the place prepared for his execution.  “An act of faith,” they call it – an auto da fe — and an act of heroic faith it is indeed when the man of God takes his place at the stake, in his shirt, with an iron chain about his loins, and is fastened to the tree, where he must stand and burn “quick to the death.”  Can you see him as they kindle the faggots beneath him, and the flames begin to consume his quivering flesh till he is all ablaze and burning — burning without a cry, though fiercely tormented by the fire?  Now assuredly is that voice from heaven wanted, and you can hear it, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord,” — blessed even when they die like this.

“Here is the patience of the saints,” and, in the esteem of angels and of glorified spirits, such a death may under many aspects be adjudged to be more blessed than the peaceful deathbed of the saint who had some fellowship with Jesus, but was not so made to drink of his cup and to be baptized with his baptism, as to die a painful and ignominious death as a witness for the truth.  It must have been a dreadful thing to watch the rabble rout hurrying to Smithfield, to stand there and see the burning of the saints.  It would have been a more fearful thing still, if possible, to have been in the dungeons of the Low Countries and seen the Anabaptists put to death in secret.  In a dungeon dark and pestilential, there is placed a huge vat of water, and the faithful witness to Scriptural baptism is drowned, drowned for following the Lamb whithersoever he goeth, drowned alone where no eye could pity and no voice from out of the crowd could shout a word of help and comfort.  Men hear only the coarse jests of the murderers who have given the dipper his last dip, but the ear of faith can hear ringing through the dungeon the voice, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.”  True, through the connection of their names with a fanatic band, these holy ancestors of ours have gained scant honor here, yet their record is on high; blessed they are, and blessed they shall be.  Wheresoever on this earth, whether among the snows of Piedmont’s valleys or in the fair fields of France, saints have died by sword or famine, or fire or massacre, for the testimony of Jesus, because they would not bear the mark of the beast either in their forehead or in their hand, this voice is heard sounding out of the third heavens, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.”

It matters not, my brethren, where they die who die in the Lord.  It may be that they have not the honor of martyrdom in man’s esteem, yet are witnesses for the Lord in poverty and pain.  Here is the patience and here also is the blessedness of the saints.  Yonder poor girl lies in a garret [watchtower], where the stars look between the tiles and the moon gleams on the ragged hangings of the pallet where she largely suffers and, without a murmur, gradually dissolves into death.  However obscure and unknown she may be, she has been kept from the great transgression; tempted sorely, she has yet held fast her purity and her integrity; her prayers, unheard by others, have gone up before the Lord, and she dies in the Lord, saved through Jesus Christ.  None will preach her funeral sermon, but she shall not miss that voice from Heaven, saying, “Write, blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.”  We repeat it, it matters not when you die nor in what condition; if you are in the Lord and die in the Lord, right blessed are ye.

First, we shall briefly describe their character, then mention the rest which constitutes their blessedness, and conclude by meditating upon the reward, which is a further part of that blessedness.

I. First, then, let us describe THE CHARACTER.

“Here is the patience of the saints.”  To be blessed when we die, we must be saints.  By nature we are sinners, and by grace we must become saints if we would enter heaven; for it is the land of saints, and none but saints can ever pass its frontiers.  Since death does not change character, we must be made saints here below if we are to be saints above.  We have come to misuse the term “saint,” and apply it only to some few of God’s people.  What means it but this — holy?  Holy men and holy women — these are saints.  It is not Saint Peter and Saint John merely; you are a saint, dear brother, if you live unto the Lord; you are a saint, my sister, however obscure your name, if you keep the Lord’s way, and walk before him in sincere obedience.  We must be saints, and in order to be this we must be renewed in spirit, for we are sinners by nature; we must, in fact, be born again.  All unholy and unclean, we are by nature nothing else but sin; and we must be created anew by the power of the eternal Spirit, or else holiness will never dwell in us.  Our loves must be changed, so that we no longer love evil things, but delight only in that which is true, generous, kind, upright, pure, godlike.  We must be changed in every faculty and power of our nature by that same hand which first made us, and across our brows must be written these words, “Holiness unto the Lord.”

The word saint denotes not merely the pure in character, but those who are set apart unto God, dedicated ones, sanctified by being devoted to holy uses — by being, in fact, consecrated to God alone.  My dear hearer, do you belong to God?  Do you live to glorify Jesus?  Can you honestly put your hand on your heart and say, “Yes, I belong to him who bought me with his blood, and I endeavor by his grace to live as he would have me live.  I am devoted to his honor, loving my fellow-men and loving my Lord, endeavoring to be like unto him in all things?”  You must be such, for “without holiness no man shall see the Lord.”

“But how am I to attain to holiness?”  You cannot rise to it save by divine strength.  The Holy Spirit is the Sanctifier.  Jesus who is our justifier is also made unto us sanctification, and if we by faith lay hold on him, we shall find in him all that we want.  Let this be a searching matter with every one here present, as I desire to make it with myself, and may God grant we may be numbered with the saints!

But the glorified are also described in our text as patient ones — “Here is the patience of the saints,” or, if you choose to render it differently, you may lawfully do so — “Here is the endurance of the saints.”  Those who are to be crowned in heaven must bear the cross on earth.  “No cross, no crown” is still most true.  Many would be saints if everybody would encourage them; but as soon as a hard word is spoken, they are offended.  They would go to heaven if they could travel there amidst the hosannas of the multitude, but when they hear the cry of “Crucify him, crucify him,” straightway they desert the man of Nazareth, for they have no intention to share his cross or to be despised and rejected of men.  The true saints of God are prepared to endure scoffing, and jeering, and scorning; they accept this cross without murmuring, remembering him who endured such contradiction of sinners against himself.  They know that their brethren who went before “resisted unto blood, striving against sin,” and as they have not yet come to that point, they count it foul scorn that they should be ashamed or confounded in minor trials, let their adversaries do what they may.  Those who are to sing Christ’s praise in heaven must first have been willing to bear Christ’s shame below.  Numbered with him in the humiliation must they be, or they cannot expect to be partakers with him in the glory.  And now, dear brethren and sisters, how is it with us?  Are we willing to be reproached for Christ’s glory?  Can we bear the sarcasm of the wise?  Can we bear the jest of the witty?  Are we willing to be pointed at as Puritanic, punctilious and precise?  Do we dare to be singular when to be singular is to be right?  If we can do this by God’s grace, let us further question ourselves.  Could we endure this ordeal if its intensity were increased?  Suppose it came to something worse — to the thumbscrew or the rack, could we then bear it?

I sometimes fear that many professors would cut a sorry figure if persecuting times should come; for I observe that to be excluded from what is called “society” is a great grievance to many modern Christians.  When they settle in any place, their enquiry is not, “Where can I hear the gospel best?” but “Which is the most fashionable place of worship?”  And the question with regard to their children is not, “Where will they have Christian associations?” but “How can I introduce them to society?” — introduction to society frequently being an introduction to temptation, and the commencement of a life of levity.  Oh, that all Christians could scorn the soft witcheries of the world, for, if they cannot, they may be sure that they will not bear its fiery breath when, like an oven, persecution comes forth to try the saints.  God grant us grace to have the patience of the saints; that patience of the saints which will cheerfully suffer loss rather than do a wrong thing in business; that patience of the saints which will pine in poverty sooner than yield a principle though a kingdom were at stake; that patience of the saints which dreads not being unfashionable if the right be reckoned so; that patience of the saints which courts no man’s smile, and fears no man’s frown, but can endure all things for Jesus’ sake, and is resolved to do so.  “Can you cleave to your Lord when the many turn aside?  Can you witness that he hath the living word, and none upon earth beside?”  Can you watch with him when all forsake him and stand by him when he is the butt of ribald jest and scorn, and bear the sneer of science, falsely so called, and more polite sarcasm of those who say they “doubt,” but mean that they utterly disbelieve?  Blessed is that preacher who shall be true to Christ in these evil days.  Blessed is that church-member who shall follow Christ’s word through the mire and through the slough, o’er the hill and down the dale, caring nothing so that he can but be true to his Master.  This must be our resolve.  If we are to win the glory, we must be faithful unto death.  God make us so!  “Here is the patience of the saints” — it cometh not by nature; it is the gift of the grace of God.

Farther on these saints are described as “they that keep the commandments of God.”  This expression is not intended for a moment to teach us that these people are saved by their own merits.  They are saints to begin with, and in Christ to begin with, but they prove they are in Christ by keeping the commandments of God.  Let us search ourselves upon this matter.  Brethren and sisters, we cannot hope to reach the end if we do not keep the way.  No man is so unwise as to think that he would reach Bristol if he were to take the road to York.  He knows that to get to a place he must follow the road which leads thither.  There is a way of holiness in which the righteous walk, and this way of obedience to the Lord’s commands must and will be trodden by all who truly believe in Jesus and are justified by faith, for faith works obedience.  A good tree brings forth good fruit.  If there be no fruit of obedience to God’s commands in you, or in me, we may rest assured that the root of genuine faith in Jesus Christ is not in us at all.  In this age the keeping of Christ’s commandments is thought to be of very little consequence.  It is dreadful to think how Christians in the matter of the law of God’s house do not even pretend to follow Christ and his appointments.  They join a church, and they go by the law of that church, though that church’s rule may be clean contrary to the will of Christ; but they answer to everything, “That is our rule, you know.”  But then who has a right to make rules for you or for me, but Christ Jesus?  He is the only legislator in the kingdom of God, and by his commands we ought to be guided.  I should not, I could not, feel grieved if brethren arrived at contrary conclusions to mine, I being fallible myself; but I do feel grieved when I see brethren arrive at conclusions, not as the result of investigation, but simply by taking things just as they find them.  Too many professors have a happy-go-lucky style of Christianity.  Whichever happens to come first they follow.  Their fathers and mothers were this or that, or they were brought up in such and such a connection, and that decides them; they do not pray, “Lord, show me what thou wouldst have me to do.”  Brethren, these things ought not so to be.  Has not the Master said, “Whosoever shall break one of the least of these my commandments, and teach men so, the same shall be least in the kingdom of heaven?”  I would not stand here to condemn my fellow Christians for a moment; in so doing I should condemn myself also, but I plead with you, if you do indeed believe in Jesus, be careful to observe all things whatsoever he hath commanded you, for he has said, “If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you;” and again, “If ye love me keep my commandments.”

A worldling once said to a puritan, “When so many great make rents in their consciences, cannot you make just a little nick in yours for peace’s sake?”  “No,” said he, “I must follow Christ fully.”  “Ah, well,” you say, “these things are non-essential.”  Nothing is non-essential to complete obedience: it may be non-essential to salvation, but it is selfishness to say, “I will do no more than I know to be absolutely necessary to my salvation.”  It is essential to a good servant to obey his master in all things, and it is essential for the healthiness of a Christian’s soul that he should walk very carefully and prayerfully before the Lord, else otherwise he will miss the blessing of them of whom it is said, “These are they which follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth.”  To be blessed in death we must keep the commandments of God.

The next mark of the blessed dead is that they kept “the faith of Jesus.”  This is another point upon which I would emphasize, if I could, for to keep the faith of Jesus is an undertaking much ridiculed now-a-days.  “Doctrines!” says one, “we are tired of doctrines.”

For forms and creeds let graceless bigots fight,

He can’t be wrong whose life is in the right.

The opinion is current that to be fluent and original is the main thing in preaching, and provided a man is a clever orator it is a proper thing to hear him.  The Lord will wither with the breath of his nostrils that cleverness in any man which departs from the simplicity of the truth.  There is a gospel, and “there is also another gospel which is not another, but there be some that trouble you.”  There is a yea yea, and there is a nay nay; and woe unto those whose preaching is yea and nay, for it shall not stand in the great day when the Lord shall try every man’s work of what sort it is.  Search ye, my brethren, and know what the gospel is, and when you do know it, hold it: hold it as with a hand of iron and never relax your grasp.  Grievous wolves have come in among us, wolves of another sort to what were wont to be in the churches, yet, verily, after the same fashion they come disguised in sheep’s clothing.  They use our very terms and phrases, meaning all the while something else; they take away the essentials and vitalities of the faith and replace them with their own inventions, which they brag of as being more consistent with modern thought and with the culture of this very advanced and enlightened age, which seems by degrees to be advancing, half of it to Paganism with the Ritualists, and the other half of it to Atheism with the Rationalists.  From such advances may God save us!  May we be enabled to keep the faith and uphold the truth which we know, by which also we are saved.  I, for one, cannot desert the grand doctrine of the atoning blood, the substitutionary work of Christ, and the truths which cluster around it.  And why can I not desert these things?  Because my life, my peace, my hope hang upon them.  I am a lost man if there is no substitutionary sacrifice, and I know it.  If the Son of God did not die, “the just for the unjust, to bring us to God,” I must be damned; and therefore all the instincts of my nature cling to the faith of Jesus.  How can I give up that which has redeemed my soul and given me joy and peace and a hope hereafter?  I beseech you, do not waver in your belief, but keep the faith, lest ye be like some in old time who “made shipwreck of faith and a good conscience,” and were utterly cast away.  Woe unto those who keep not the doctrines of the gospel, for in due time they forget its precepts also and become utterly reprobate.  In departing from Christ, men forsake their own mercies both for life and death.  The blessed who die in the Lord are those who “keep the commandments of God and the faith of Jesus.”

Notice that these people continue faithful till they die.  For it is said, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.”  Final perseverance is the crown of the Christian life.  “Ye did run well; what did hinder you that ye should not obey the truth?”  Vain is it to begin to build, we must crown the edifice or all men will deride us.  Helmet and plume, armor and sword, are all assumed for nothing unless the warrior fights on till he has secured the victory.

Those who thus entered into rest exercised themselves in labors for Christ.  For it is said, “They rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.”  The idle Christian can have little hope of a reward; he who serves not his Master can scarcely expect that his Master will at the last gird himself and serve him.  If I address any here who are not bringing forth fruit unto God, I can say no less than this, “Every tree that bringeth not forth fruit is hewn down and cast into the fire.”  “Be not deceived; God is not mocked: whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap.”  The rule is invariable.  It must be so.  If there be no works and no labors for Christ, no suffering or patient endurance, we lack the main evidence of being the people of God at all.

To close this description of character, these people who die in the Lord were in the Lord.  That is the great point.  They could not have died in the Lord if they had not lived in the Lord.  But are we in the Lord?  Is the Lord by faith in us?  Dear hearer, are you resting upon Jesus Christ only?  Is he all your salvation and all your desire?  What is your reply to my enquiry?  You are not perfect, but Jesus is.  Are you hanging upon him as the vessel hangs upon the nail?  You cannot expect to stand before God with acceptance in yourself, but are you “accepted in the beloved?”  That is the question — “accepted in the beloved.”  Are you in Christ and is Christ in you by real vital union, by a faith that is the gift of God and the work of the Holy Spirit in your soul?  Answer, I charge you, for if you cannot answer these things before one of your own flesh and blood, how will you answer in your soul when the Lord himself shall come?

II. So much with regard to the character.  And now a very few words with regard to THE BLESSEDNESS which is ascribed to those who die in the Lord. “They rest from their labors.”

By this is meant that the saints in heaven rest from such labors as they performed here.  No doubt they fulfill service in heaven.  It would be an unhappy heaven in which there should be nothing for our activities to spend themselves upon.  But such labors as we can do here will not fall to our lot there.  There we shall not teach the ignorant, or rebuke the erring, or comfort the desponding, or help the needy.  There we cannot oppose the teacher of error or do battle against the tempter of youth.  There no little children can be gathered at our knee and trained for Jesus, no sick ones can be visited with the word of comfort, no backsliders led back, no young converts confirmed, no sinners converted.  They rest from such labors as these in heaven.

They rest from their labors in the sense that they are no longer subject to the toil of labor.  Whatever they do in heaven will yield them refreshment and never cause them weariness.  As some birds are said to rest upon the wing, so do the saints find in holy activity their serenest repose.  They serve him day and night in his temple, and therein they rest.  Even as on earth by wearing our Lord’s yoke we find rest unto our souls, so in the perfect obedience of heaven complete repose is found.

They rest also from the woe of labor, for I find the word has been read by some “they rest from their wailing.”  The original is a word which signifies to beat and hence, as applied to beating on the breast it indicates sorrow; but the beating may signify conflict with the world, or labor in any form.  The sorrow of work for Jesus is over with all the blessed dead.  Naught to that place approacheth their sweet peace to molest; they shall no more say that they are sick, neither shall adversity afflict them.  Their rest is perfect.  I do not know whether the idea of rest is cheering to all of you, but to some of us whose work exceeds our strength it is full of pleasantness.  Some have bright thoughts of service hereafter, and I hope we all have, but to those who have more to do for Christ than the weary brain can endure — the prospect of a bath in the ocean of rest is very pleasant.  They rest from their labors.

To the servant of the Lord, it is very sweet to think that, when we reach our heavenly home, we shall rest from the faults of our labors.  We shall make no mistakes there, never use too strong language or mistaken words, nor err in spirit, nor fail through excess or want of zeal.  We shall rest from all that which grieves us in the retrospect of our service.  Our holy things up there will not need to be wept over, though now they are daily salted with our tears.

We shall there rest from the discouragements of our labor.  There no cold-hearted brethren will damp our ardor or accuse us of evil motives; no desponding brethren will warn us that we are rash when our faith is strong and obstinate when our confidence is firm.  None will pluck us by the sleeve and hold us back when we would run the race with all our might.  None will chide us because our way is different from theirs, and none will foretell disaster and defeat when we confidently know that God will give us the victory.

We shall also rest from the disappointments of labor. Dear brother ministers, we shall not have to go home and tell our Lord that none have believed our report.  We shall not go to our beds sleepless because certain of our members are walking inconsistently and others of them are backsliding, while those that we thought were converted have gone back again to the world.  Here we must sow in tears: there we shall reap in joy.  There we shall wear the crown, or rather cast it at the Master’s feet; but here we must plunge deep into the sea to fetch up the pearls from the depths that they may be set in the diadem.  Here we labor; there we shall enjoy the fruits of toil, where no blight or mildew endangers the harvest.

It will be a sweet thing to get away to heaven, I am sure, to rest from all contentions amongst our fellow Christians. One of the hardest parts of Christ’s service is to follow peace and to maintain truth at the same time.  He is a wise chemist who can in due proportions blend the pure and the peaceable; he is no mean philosopher who can duly balance the duties of affection and faithfulness, and show us how to smite the sin and love the sinner — to denounce the error and yet to cultivate affection for the brother who has fallen into it.  We shall not encounter this difficulty in yon bright world of truth and love, for both we and our brethren shall be fully taught of the Lord in all things.  We shall be free from the clouds and mists of doubt which now cover the earth, and clear of the demon spirits which seek to ruin men’s souls beneath the shadow of deadly falsehood.  Blessed be God for this prospect!  It will be joy indeed to meet no one but a saint, to speak with none but those who use the language of Canaan, to commune with none but the sanctified.  Truly blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, if they reach to such as this.

To this our laboring souls aspire,

With ardent pangs of strong desire.

“Our feet shall stand within thy gates, O Jerusalem.”

III. The last matter for our consideration is THEIR REWARD — “They rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.”

Their works do not go before them; they have a forerunner infinitely superior to their works, for Jesus and his finished work have led the way.  “I go,” says he, “to prepare a place for you.”  In effect he says to us, “Not your works, but mine; not your tears, but my blood; not your efforts, but my finished work.”  Where then do our works come?  Do they march at our right hand or our left as subjects of cheering contemplation?  No, no, we dare not take them as companions to comfort us: they follow us at our heel; they keep behind us out of sight, and we ourselves in our desires after holiness always outmarch them.  The Christian should always keep his best services behind, always going beyond them, and never setting them before his eyes as objects for congratulation.  The preacher should labor to preach the best sermons possible, but he must never have them before him so as to cause him, in self-satisfaction, to say, “I have done well;” nor should he have them by his side, as if he rested in them, or leaned upon them, for this were to make antichrists of them.  No, let them come behind: that is their proper place.  Believers know where to put good works; they do not despise them, they never say a word to depreciate the law or undervalue the graces of the Holy Spirit, but still they dare not put their holiest endeavors in the room of Christ.  Jesus goes before, works follow after.

Note well that the works are in existence and are mentioned; immortality and honor belong to them.  The works of godly men are not insignificant or unimportant as some seem to think.  They are not forgotten, they are not as the leaves of last year’s summer; they are full of life and bloom unfadingly; they follow the saints as they ascend to heaven, even as the silver trail follows in the wake of the vessel.  I pictured just now a man burning at the stake; his enemies thought they had destroyed his work, but they only deepened its hold upon the age in which he suffered and projected his influence into the effect for ages to come.  They made a pile of his books, and as they blazed before his eyes they said, “There is an end of you and your heresies.”  Ah, what fools men have become!  Truth is not vanquished with such weapons, nay, nor so much as wounded.  Think of the case of Wycliffe, which I need not repeat to you.  They threw his ashes into the brook the brook carried them to the river, and the river to the sea, till every wave bore its portion of the precious relics, just as the influence of his preaching has been felt on every shore.  Persecutors concluded beyond all question that they had made an end of a good man’s teaching when they had burned him and thrown away his ashes, but they forgot that truth often gathers a more vigorous life from the death of the man who speaks it, and books once written have an immortality which laughs at fire.

Thousands of infidel and heathen works have gone, so that not a copy is to be found – I hope they never may be unearthed from the salutary oblivion which entombs them: but books written for the Master and his truth, though buried in obscurity are sure of a resurrection.  Fifty years ago our old Puritan authors, yellow with age and arrayed in dingy bindings, wandered about in sheep-skins and goat-skins, destitute, afflicted, tormented, but they have been brought forth in new editions, every library is enriched with them, the most powerful religious thought is affected by their utterances and will be till the end of time.  You cannot kill a good man’s work, nor a good woman’s work either, though it be only the teaching of a few children in the Sunday-school.  You do not know to whom you may be teaching Christ, but assuredly you are sowing seed which will blossom and flower in the far off ages.  When Mrs. Wesley taught her sons, little did she think what they would become.  You do not know who may be in your class, my young friend.  You may have there a young Whitfield, and if the Lord enable you to lead him to Jesus, he will bring thousands to decision.  Ay, at your breast, good woman, there may be hanging one whom God will make a burning and a shining light; and if you train that little one for Jesus, your work will never be lost.  No holy tear is forgotten, it is in God’s bottle.  No desire for another’s good is wasted, God has heard it.  A word spoken for Jesus, a mite cast into Christ’s treasury, a gracious line written to a friend — all these are things which shall last when yonder sun has blackened into a coal and the moon has curdled into a clot of blood.  Deeds done in the power of the Spirit are eternal.  Therefore, “Be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.”

Good works follow Christians and they will be rewarded.  The rewards of heaven will be all of grace, but there will be rewards.  You cannot read the Scripture without perceiving that the Lord first gives us good works, and then in his grace rewards us for them.  There is a “Well done, good and faithful servant,” and there is a proportionate allotment of reward to the man who was faithful with five talents and the man who was faithful with two.  You who live for Jesus may be quite certain that your life will be recompensed in the world to come.  I repeat it, the reward will not be of debt, but of grace, but a reward there will be.  Oh, the joy of knowing, when you are gone, that the truth you preached is living still!  Methinks the apostles since they have been in heaven must often have looked down on the world and marveled at the work which God helped twelve poor fishermen to do.  And they must have felt a growing blessedness as they have seen nations converted by the truth which they preached in feebleness.  What must be the joy of a pastor in glory to find his spiritual children coming in one by one!  Methinks, if I may, I shall go down to the gate and linger there to look for some of you.  Ay, not a few shall I welcome as my children there, blessed be the name of the Lord; but what a joy it will be!

You, teachers — you my good sister, who have brought so many to Christ — I cannot but believe that it shall multiply your heaven to see your dear ones entering it.  You will have a heaven in every one of those whose feet you guided thither, you will joy in their joy, and praise the Lord in their praise.  No, no, the good old cause shall never die and the truth shall never perish.  As I have lately read many hard things that have been spoken against the gospel, and as in going up and down throughout this land I have seen the nation wholly given to idolatry, I have felt something of the spirit of the Pole who wherever he wanders says to himself, “No, Poland, thou shalt never perish!”  Despite the darkness and ill-savor of the times, the gospel nears its triumph.  It can never perish.  Great men may fall, great reputations may grow obscure, grand philosophies may be cast into the shade, monstrous infidelities may win popularity, and old superstitions may come back again to darken us; but thy cross, Emmanuel, thy pure and simple gospel, the faith our fathers loved and died for, must continue to be earth’s brightest light — her day-star, till the day dawn and the shadows flee away.  The vessel of the church can never be wrecked; she rocks and reels in the mad tempest, but she is sound from stem to stern and her pilot steers her with a hand omnipotently wise.  Her bow is in the wave, but see she divides the sea and shakes off the mountainous billows, as a lion shakes the dew from his mane!  Fiercer storms than those of the present have beat upon her, and yet she has kept her eye to the wind, and in the very teeth of hell’s tremendous tempests she has ploughed her glorious way: and so she will till she reaches her appointed haven.  The Lord liveth and the Lord reigneth, and Christ from the tree has gone to the throne — from Gethsemane and Golgotha up to the glory; and all power is given unto him in heaven and in earth.  We have nothing to do but to go on preaching the gospel and baptizing in his name, according to his bidding; and the day shall come when the might with the right and the truth shall be, and the right hand of Jesus with the iron rod shall break his adversaries and reward his friends.  The Lord own every one of us as being on his side; and if we are not on that side, oh, that we may speedily become so by repentance and faith!  May the Lord turn us, and we shall be turned; for if “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord,” depend upon it, cursed are they that die out of Christ — ay, cursed with a curse, and their works shall follow them or go before them, unto judgment, to their condemnation.  May infinite mercy save us from being howled at by our works in the next world, save us from being hunted down by the wolves of our past sins, risen from the dead; for, except we are forgiven, our transgressions will rise from the grave of forgetfulness, and gather around us, and tear us in pieces, and there shall be none to deliver.

May we fly even now to Jesus, and through faith in his blood be delivered from all evil that we also may have it said of us, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.”  The Lord bless you for Christ’s sake.  Amen.