Puslapio vaizdai

I have to suffer all the same with my arm. A man got into a quarrel and got crippled, and some time ago he became converted, but although God has forgiven him his sin he has to remain a cripple all his life. So a man must reap what he sows. I heard of an illustration that just helps me out here. Suppose I have a field, and I say to a man, "I want you to sow that field with wheat." The man has become very angry-all out of sorts with me, and when he sows that wheat he puts in a lot of tares. When the wheat has come up I see among it a great many tares. I say to him, "Did you sow these tares ?" Well," he says, "I will confess; yes, sir, I did it; I sowed these tares; I will confess it instead of covering it up; but, sir, I am very sorry ;" and I forgive him. But when the wheat has to be harvested I make the man reap the tares also.

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You know how David fell. No man rose so high and fell so far, I think. God took him from the sheepfold and put him upon the throne. He took him from obscurity and made him King of Israel and Judea; gave him lands in abundance, and would have given him more if he had wanted them. He was on the pinacle of glory, and honored among men. But one day while looking out of a window, he saw a woman with whom he became enamored. He yielded to the temptation, and ordered her to be brought into the palace, and committed the terrible sin of adultery. After that, as is the case with all men who commit a sin, he had to commit another to cover it up, so he laid plans to kill her husband, and ordered him to be put in a position in the ranks of his army so that he could be killed. Months rolled away, and one day Nathan came into the palace of the king. I can imagine that David was glad to see him. Nathan began to tell him about two men who dwelt in a certain city. The one was rich the other poor; one had heards and flocks, and the other had only a little ewe lamb, and he went on to tell how this rich man seized this ewe lamb, all that the poor man had, and slew it. I can see the anger of David as it flashed from his eye when he heard the story, and he cried: "As the Lord liveth, the man that hath done this thing shall surely die." He turned to Nathan, and in tones of thunder demanded who the man was. "Thou art the man," was the reply of Nathan. David had convicted himself. "The man who did this thing shall die." Then the Lord said: "I will raise up evil against thee out of thine own house, because thou hast kept this thing secret." Soon after the hand of death was put upon that house; not only did death enter his house, but it wasn't long before his eldest son committed adultery with his sister, and another committed murder-murdered his own brothers, and went off into

a foreign land into exile. Then he got up a rebellion and drove the king from the throne, and at last died and was buried like a dog, and they heaped stones upon his resting place. "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." David committed adultery, so did his son; David committed murder, his son did the same. He was paid back in his own coin. He learned the truth of this passage: "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." Why, I hear things every day in this city of Chicago that make my ears tingle. I heard of three cases within the last six hours where men who have gone to the altar and sworn before God to love, cherish, and protect the women who became their wives-who have become, some of them, mothers · of children-and because these men have seen other women they like better they have cast off these women whom they have sworn before God to love. Do you think there is a God in heaven! Do you think that God is not going to punish these men? They may go on in their career-punishment may not come for a little while, but the wheels of judgment are going on, and retribution will come. Some of these heartbroken wives say it is hard. Wait a little while. His eyes cover all the earth, and man cannot deceive Him. He has said: "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." High heaven has decreed it, and I beg of you, if you have committed this sin, go and cry to the God of mercy. Go, confess it; don't try to cover it up. Let every sin be brought out; if you don't your own conscience will turn against you by and by.

When I was in London I went into a wax-work there-Mme. Tussaud's-and I went into the chamber of horrors. There were wax figures of all kinds of murderers in that room. There was Booth, who killed Lincoln, and many of that class; but there was one figure that I got interested in, who killed his wife because he loved another woman, and the law didn't find him out. He married this woman and had a family of seven children, and twenty years passed away. Then his conscience began to trouble him. He had no rest; he would hear his murdered wife pleading continually for her life. His friends began to think he was going out of his mind; be became haggard and his conscience haunted him till at last he went to the officers of the law and told them that he was guilty of murder. He wanted to die, life was so much of an agony to him. His conscience turned against him. My friends, if you have done wrong, may your conscience be woke up, and may you testify against yourself. It is a great deal better to judge our own acts and confess them, than go through the world with a curse upon you. And if you to-night will judge your own sin and confess

it, He is faithful to forgive. He will forgive every sinner here if you but come to Him in faith, and will blot out all your iniquities.


I was telling of a young man who spoke up in the association one night. He got up at the close of the meeting and said : "Mr. Moody, may I say a few words ?" Well, I thought I wouldn't, but then I thought perhaps he has a message from God, and I told him to speak. He went on and urged these young men to accept salvation. "If you have friends praying for you, if you have mothers praying for you, treat them kindly, for you will not always have them with you." Then he went on to tell how he had once a father and mother who loved him dearly, and who prayed continually for him. He was an only child. His father died, and after the burial his mother became more anxious than ever for his salvation. Sometimes she would come to him and put her arms around his neck and say with kindness, "O, my boy, I would be so happy if you would only be a Christian, and could pray with me." He would push her away: "No, mother; I'm not going to become a Christian yet; I am going to wait a little longer and see the world." He would try to banish the subject from his mind altogether. Sometimes he would wake up at the midnight hour, and would hear the voice of that mother raised in supplication for her boy: "O, God, save my boy; have mercy upon him." At last, this is the way he put it, "it got too hot for him." He saw he had either to become a Christian or run away. And away he ran, and became a prodigal and a wanderer. He heard from her indirectly; he could not let his mother know where he was, because he knew she would have gone to the end of the world to find him. One day he got word that his mother was very sick. He began to think: Suppose mother should die, I would never forgive myself," and he said, “I will go home,” but then he thought, "Well, if I go home, she will be praying at me again, and Í can't stay under her roof and listen to her prayers," and his proud, stubborn heart would not let him go. Months went on, and again he heard indirectly that his mother was very sick. His conscience began to trouble him. He knew he would never forgive himself if he didn't go home, and he finally determined. There were no railroads, and he had to go in a stage-coach. At night he got into the town. The moon was shining, and he could see the little village before him. The mother's home was about a mile from where he landed, and on his way he had to pass the village grocery, and as he went along, he thought he would pass through the grave yard and see his father's grave. What," thought he, "if my mother has been laid there." When he got up to the grave he saw by the light of the moon, a



new-made grave. He felt the turf, and the earth was fresh and soft. He knew who had been laid there, and for once in his life the thought flashed upon him, "Who will pray now for my lost soul; my mother and father lie there, and they are the only ones who ever prayed for me." "Young men," said he, "I spent that night at my mother's grave, and before the sun rose, my mother's God had become my God. But I can never forgive myself for murdering my mother, although Christ has forgiven me." My friends, that poor fellow had to reap what he sowed.

I may be speaking to-night to some young man whose mother perhaps just now is in her closet, wrestling in prayer for you. Bless God, boy, for that mother. Do not treat that mother contemptuously; do not deny her prayer to-night; do not make light of your mother's cries to God this night. God's best gift on earth to you is that praying mother. She is your dearest, most unselfish friend in all the world. Will you not heed her pleading prayer? Come out like a man, come to your mother's Saviour, and take Him to be your God. May the God of heaven convict you of sin, and draw you to Himself, and this will be the best night you've had upon earth.

How many are there in this room to-night who have moral courage to stand upright in this Tabernacle and say, "Pray for me?" How many in this room to-night would like to become Christians? How many are there in this room now who would like to have prayer for them, beseeching prayer that God will save them? I am going to lead in prayer, and as many as would like to have prayer-personal prayer, to God, will just rise. You can just stand right up one after another. Never mind if there is but one of you; just remain standing. There's another whose got moral courage to rise to night. Just stand up, will you, and remain so while others join you. There, there, friends, don't get up as if you were ashamed or scared; rise right up and show me and God that you are in earnest. I would like to see every man out of Christ rising right up here. There's another in the gallery, and another; well, keep rising; I would sit here all night and see you rise up in the galleries there and everywhere. Every man and woman in this assembly, every boy, who would like to a Christian, will you just rise now, all of you.

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The Sacrifice of Christ.


OU will find my text to-night in the fifteenth chapter of First Corinthians, and part of the third verse: Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures." I was going to preach in the city of Dublin a few years ago, and the town was placarded giving notice of the meeting There was one passage of Scripture at the bottom of the bill that my eye rested upon : "Christ died for our sins." I had read it a great many times, but I seemed to see it now in a new light, and that light flashed into my soul as it never did before: "Christ died for my sins." That's the way to put it-" for my sins." And I wish I could get every one here to take it that way, and just keep saying it while I preach to you to-night, "Christ died for me." My friends, will you only make this personal and remember that He died for you? Let that little boy and girl remember that He died for you just as much as for that gray-headed man, and let those who came in to scoff at the meeting remember that the text is for them-that Christ died for you. I have often thought that if I could only make people feel this really, and could tell the story of His death as it ought to be told, I would only preach one sermon, and go up and down the world and just tell this one story. I don't know anything that would break the heart of the world like this story if it could be brought before men and women and they would feel it. I know it broke my heart, and I have often thought if I could tell it as it ought to be told, I would be the happiest man in the world. I don't believe it has ever been told yet. I don't believe the man has been born who could tell it; I don't believe that the angels in heaven could tell it. Sometimes people say we have overdrawn the pictures in the Bible, but there is one story that has never been overdrawn-the story of His death. No one ever did justice to that store; no one ever made that real. I believe the heart of every man in this audience would be broken if I could make that story real. I remember during the war how I would take up a paper and read about the great battles and loss of life; but I would lay down the paper and soon forget all about the thousands that had been slain. But I went

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