01 - Death
I. DEATH "It is appointed for men once to die, and after that the judgment!" Heb 9:27 "Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." Psa 90:12 The sacred penman — the sacred poets, have lavishly poured forth images to express the temporal character of human life. It is . . .
as short as a span,
as fleeting as a shadow,
as unsubstantial as a vapor,
as fading like a flower that comes up, and is immediately cut down and withered.
Thus creation on every side furnishes emblems of mortality — and man, the lord of creation, is the grand prototype, to which all these emblems refer. His hopes and his joys,
his fears and his sorrows,
his studies,
his pursuits,
his occupations —
are all but preludes and preparatives for a dreadful, inevitable catastrophe. Death finally winds up the short-lived tale, and closes the chequered scene. An outcome, thus certain, would, even were it distant, be dreadful — but it is near at hand; it is ever impending. In the life of every individual, each minute may be the last sand-grain — each passing incident may be the scythe-stroke of dissolution.
Death distant! No, alas! he’s ever near us,
And shakes the dart at us in all our actings;
He lurks within our cup when we’re in health;
Sits by our sick-bed; mocks our medicines;
We cannot walk, or sit, or sleep, or travel,
But Death is by, to seize us when he desires! To maintain a due impression and a wholesome alarm, as to the certainty and proximity of death — instances of it are continually occurring. Death’s shafts fly thick — his victims are every instant falling on this globe; which is one vast burying ground; and weekly — almost daily, they fall in every neighborhood. The angel of destruction knocks at every door — his sword ever reeking with death. Within a few years, there is not a house in which he leaves not one dead. To strike the greater terror, he observes no order in his seizures. He lifts the latch of the humble cottage — and breaks through the guards of the stately palace. The high and the low are alternately and promiscuously his prey. Nor can piety herself, though smiling at his malice, charm him into a Passover of her habitation. And as with every condition, so he deals with every age. Walking abroad in the earth, he now smites the lisping infant, with eyes just opened on the world! Now he arrests the youth, with high-beating heart, and with pulses keenly alive to pleasure! Now he levels to the ground, the full-grown man, while confiding and exulting in his strength. And now, though rarely, he allows the lamp of life to be extinguished through the mere exhaustion of the oil.
Death — thus certain, thus near, and thus continually occurring — is furthermore universal.
Learning and ignorance,
power and weakness,
idleness and exertion,
gaiety and seriousness,
health and sickness,
virtue and vice —
must all after a few years terminate in dissolution.
There is not one of us, but is destined to experience his death-struggle — not one but must sooner or later close his eyes on this visible, earthly scene.
Sometimes the thread of life is snapped hastily asunder — and sometimes it gradually unwinds itself. Sometimes the work of death proceeds in masses, and by thousands. The earthquake and the conflagration;
the hurricane and the tempest;
the famine and the pestilence;
the conflict of fleets or of armies —
are the mighty weapons of Omnipotence; when for purposes of wisdom or of vengeance, God would disarrange His own general laws, and outstrip the course of nature, in depopulating the multitudes of mankind. But the usual march of destruction is slow, silent, piecemeal — though not less unerringly certain — until almost imperceptibly a generation is swept away from the earth! Thus, whether singly, or in aggregate — it is appointed unto all men once to die. "For I know that you will bring me to death and to the house appointed for All Living." To pronounce death universal, is to call it unavoidable. Our days are threescore years and ten — some linger upon earth beyond that term; but there is no medical skill, no peculiar privilege, which can stay the advance of decrepitude, or save from the inexorable destroyer.
It might be imagined, that the certainty, the nearness, the continual occurrence, the universality, the unavoidableness of Death would conspire to render it a subject of frequent and familiar meditation. Yet strange to tell, these truths, through their notoriety and commonness (which should send them home to the heart) make but a slight impression, and are almost wholly unheeded! The remembrance of them too, is to most men irksome; it dampens the enjoyment of worldly pleasure, and quenches the ardor of worldly pursuit. Whenever, therefore, death intrudes itself, it is sedulously repelled: "The righteous perishes and no man lays it to heart; they are destroyed from evening until morning, and no one regards it." The thought of death, indeed, should so intimately and so constantly mix itself up with all our other thoughts, as to sadden our most innocent satisfactions, and to impede the common business and useful purposes of our calling. But this surely can be no reason, why the remembrance of mortality, the consideration of our departing hour, should be always and altogether banished. There are pauses in employment, there are interruptions in recreation, there are holy seasons expressly set apart for it.
Let us direct our attention during these times to Death, the end of all men, and of all things with which men busy themselves — and afterwards to those solemn matters by which death is followed . . .
to the grave;
to the intermediate state;
to judgment;
to Hell; and
to Heaven. In this first discourse of the series, I shall take into consideration:
1st. The origin and nature of Death.
2d. What changes take place at the time of Death.
3d. What may be expected as the consequences of Death.
4th. What circumstances may serve to mitigate the terrors, or to counteract the evils of Death.
1. We are first to consider the ORIGIN and NATURE of Death.
Death, we are informed in Scripture, is the punishment of the fall of Adam. "In the day that you eat the forbidden fruit, you shall surely die," said God to the first man, on placing him in paradise. That man disobeyed: he tasted, he deteriorated his nature, he died — that is to say, at that moment he became mortal. By one man’s disobedience sin entered into the world, and death by sin. Now the universality of death is a plain and necessary consequence, resulting from the fall of Adam. For since all are children of Adam, all inherit from that first parent the elements of depravity, and therefore the seeds of death. All, the unconscious infant, as well as the wayward adult — may strictly be said to have sinned, because all derive from their progenitor, the rudiments of sin.
Hence, then, the death of all: for "Death is the wages of sin"; "and so death passed upon all men, for all have sinned." Thus, in Adam, all die: for not only did all the generations, and all the myriads of the human race, exist in the loins, and follow the physical structure of Adam — but all partake, by birth, of his debased, of his sinful, and, consequently, of his mortal nature.
Death is a closing of the eyes to the cheerful light of day — an insensibility to all that is happening under the sun. It is . . .
to depart forever from this beautiful world;
to leave our home and its comforts;
to be welcomed no more by the caresses of our children;
to become unconscious and deaf to the voice of friendship;
and to exchange all the schemes of ambition, all the satisfactions of possession, and all the comforts of our lot — for the coldness, the darkness, the solemn stillness of the tomb.
We see that at death, that . . .
the eyes are sealed,
the lungs forget their office,
the pulses cease to beat,
the blood no longer courses within the veins,
the silver cord of the tongue is loosed,
the limbs, the supporters of the house, fall prostrate like broken columns, and the powerless right hand forgets its cunning.
Everything seems to bespeak a cessation, an extinction of being; and hence, with the sole exception of some unhappy suicides, driven to desperation, or afflicted with insanity, all men instinctively cling to life; and even when looking for immortality with the faith which borders on assurance, contemplate with dread the idea of dissolution.
It is no wonder that in so entire a dissolution as this, so complete a breaking up of that admirable and strange compound, which forms the physical system — the mind of the natural man should see only a ruin, incapable of salvage, "water spilt on the ground, and no more to be gathered up."
Some of the Sacred writers, indeed, assuming the sentiments, and uttering the doubts of the skeptic, or of man without the gospel, seem to speak of death with a despondence and utter despair; which the unintelligent have conceived to be but the voice of their own private persuasion. "But man dies and is laid low; he breathes his last and is no more." Job 14:10. "When his breath leaves him, he returns to his earth; in that very day his thoughts, plans, and purposes perish." Psa 146:4
It is no wonder that such should have been the conclusions of ancient wisdom, when not cheered by the hopeful rays of the New Testament.
Heathen and skeptics impressed with these sentiments, have placed the height of virtue in making up their minds, to meet, with stoic fortitude, an inevitable event. They have asked themselves what is so pleasant as sinking into a deep slumber? And why, then, they have rejoined, should death be feared, which is only a sleep that shall last forever? But such gloomy reasoning can surely be of little force, either to satisfy or to quiet the mind. But there is horror at the bare thought of utter extinction — and all have a longing after futurity — the irrepressible spring — the inextinguishable ardor — which proclaim the spirit to be immortal.
Atheism cannot soothe and quiet the desolate heart, which death has bereaved of the objects of its dearest affection; and which feels it to be little else than a cruel mockery to urge, that these objects are now as if they had never been; and that itself, which loved them, will shortly be as they are. Human nature, stronger than atheistic reasoning, seeks a higher consolation; and will be pacified with nothing short of renewed consciousness, and of the actual restitution of what has been torn away. But where — or when — or how? Are these wishes proofs of immortality? Are these feelings certainties? Are these probabilities matters of assured reliance? Here are the intricate questions which nature cannot solve. Hence the soul of the skeptic subsides into a horrid tumult and wild anarchy, of contending aspirings and misgivings: gleams overcast by clouds — alternations of hope and despair. And what is the moral result of this boasted stoicism — this proud philosophic fortitude? The great bulk of mankind, once rendered skeptical in their belief of futurity, would disdain all moral restraints, and think only of immediate enjoyment. Considering only the manifest uncertainty of life, would exclaim, in wild recklessness, "If the dead are not raised, let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we will die!" 1Co 15:32
How rests the condition of our souls before God?
How many presumptuous offences have the best to account for?
How great is our sinfulness?
How numerous are our faults?
How often has our conduct been wayward?
How negligently have we guarded our lips?
How innumerable are our offences of the heart and of the thoughts, which will all be brought up against us in judgment!
Even our better actions, on which we plume ourselves, and by virtue and power of which we boldly claim eternity — have we probed them to their secret motives? Have we searched how much belongs to mere impulse — and how little to self-denial? How much belongs to worldly selfishness — and how little to the pure love of God? How much is mere glitter — and how little is fine gold? Though these things may have all passed slightly over our minds, though they have vanished from computation, and ceased to impress conscience — assuredly they are, every one, registered in the books of God.
Well, then, might the man after God’s own heart exclaim, "Enter not into judgment with your servant, O Lord; for in your sight shall no man living — not the holiest, not the purest — be justified!" Where then, is the strength of what we vainly call our virtues! Where is the confidence of our hopes of eternal bliss!
How, knowing ourselves, can we dare to prate of merit, or to look even in our best works for recompense! There is a law of inflexible moral justice against us — and that law is the sting of death.
It is only under Christianity, it is only under the doctrine of the cross, that man can re-assure himself, and sing the dying song, "O death, where is your sting! O grave, where is your victory?" There was a sting in death, but it is extracted. There was a rigorous law, but it has lost its terrors. Thanks be unto God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. By this reliance upon Christ and His substitutionary atonement, our obedience though imperfect, is accepted; and life while drooping, is cheered. The penitent, who distrusts and disclaims his own merit — sees the salvation of God, and learns to depart in peace.
I shall now, in conclusion, set before you two portraits; the one, that of a lost sinner departing without salvation. The other, that of the saved sinner, the righteous man, looking up with modest confidence, to the Savior in whom he has trusted, and the God whom he has loved.
First, then, contemplate the lost transgressor at the hour of death. His guilty pleasures, his ill-gotten gains, the honors, to attain which, he has stained the true honor of man — must now, in a little while, be left behind. Let us convey ourselves to the death chamber, where, at length, the son of disobedience reaches the end of all those chequered joys, for which he has made a barter of his soul. You shudder at the dismal gloom of a room, where the gleam of red embers, or the feeble glimmering of a candle, imperfectly displays to view the ghastly countenance of the dying man. An hireling attendant sits in silence by his side. Friends, too conscious of his past misconduct, regard one another with looks of dismay; unable to dispel or to suppress their apprehensions, as to the dreadful outcome of impending dissolution. On entering this abode of stillness and sadness, you behold all around:
the unavailing apparatus of medical skill;
the range of half-exhausted medicine vials;
the simmering drink that may allay the thirst of fever;
the choice food that has been but tasted and loathed. No sound disturbs the mournful domain of death, except the dull register of existence, whose strokes, like a death-watch, taking note of the gliding moments, give dismal warning to the patient, that his last hour is about to strike — and remind him, how little he has profited under the sun; while precious, irretrievable, feather-footed time, has stolen away in these apparently insignificant portions.
If, on witnessing this spectacle, you recoil appalled — if the blood courses, chilled within your veins; how will you reflect on the terrors which beset the departing transgressor, on perceiving himself arrived at the last end of a life, misused, and not to be recalled — on the brink of a dark abyss wherein he is about to be fall, into an eternity wherein he has everything to apprehend?
Now, perhaps, some friend, with ill-judged indulgence, approaches to soften down crimes into infirmities. Perhaps some bold religious teacher, invited to the couch of death, promises with full assurance, a peace that may be imaginary, and pours the balm of Falsehood on the soul that is ready to perish.
Heaven forbid that in meditating on the sinner’s close of life, we should presume to set bounds to the mercy of God in Christ Jesus. Heaven forbid that we should pronounce, absolutely, that there is no hope, should penitence then only be born in the soul, when it is struggling in the agonies of dissolution. But whether, in any particular instance of what is called a death-bed repentance, the penitent be truly contrite, or only terrified, and half-converted; whether, if a new lease of years were conceded, the heart renewal is so complete and so powerful, as to break the chain of evil habits, and to bid defiance to the returning smiles and vanities of the world — these are solemn questions, which ought to warn the spiritual counselor, or the friend, against too rashly promising a transit through the portals of bliss, unto him, who, throughout life, had trodden the crooked paths of iniquity.
Yet, however this may be, not the palliations of friendship — not the promises of ignorance — not the honied flatteries of self-love, suffice to drown, wholly, the honest clamors of the reproachful conscience. Memory will still point, with leaden finger . . .
to years squandered in folly, or abused by vice;
to opportunities cast away;
to spiritual impulses resisted;
to friends seduced by persuasion, or corrupted by example;
to a long course of profaneness, falsehood, lust, selfishness — to a train of sins, thickening and blackening with the march of time — while fear, glancing on futurity, will command the dying enemy of God to tremble. Of how little value or avail do those excessive cares of a worldly mind, which had driven true religion from the affections — or those sinful pleasures which had debased and ruined the soul — at this moment appear in his sight! He has sown the wind — and reaped the whirlwind! He has served a treacherous master — and his wages is death! "Ah!" he exclaims, "had I devoted myself to God, as I have toiled for the world and for Satan — He would not have abandoned me in this, my last extremity. I thought the life of the godly was madness — but now, how different is their situation from mine! As his strength decays, his spirits sink — a dejection deepening into horror. Cold dews burst forth in big drops upon his forehead — indications of the bodily and mental strife within. His eyes swim — and now see his cherished vanishing world, indistinctly. He mutters with his lips, a few incoherent, uncertain expressions — the blended language of dread and despair. Specters seem to flit before his sight — the grisly shapes of former sins. He hears at a distance the clanking of everlasting chains, the mingled yells of the torturers and the tortured, ascending from the bottomless abyss.
Half-rising, affrighted, shuddering, he makes one feeble and desperate effort to cling to the disappearing world. In vain. Exhausted, and sinking back, he casts on the empty scene, a last, wild look of agony — and all the rest is silence. He is gone:
gone from the wealth he had dishonestly amassed;
gone from his pride in the praise of men;
gone from a body, the house of his voluptuousness,
and gone from a world, the shrine of his idolatry.
He is gone to appear before the omniscient, inflexibly righteous Judge — trembling, defenseless, stained with iniquity, and covered with confusion!
Yet, as dreadful as is the picture I have here delineated, this is the end of every man who lives in sin, with a seared conscience and a false tranquility — and carries the flatteries of self-delusion forth to the very confines of eternity! But averting our view from such distressing contemplations, permit me now to display that beautiful contrast, which will assuage the pain you have been hitherto enduring. Approach, you mirthful and thoughtless multitudes, who are treading the paths of sin, and the rounds of dissipation; who are ever asking, ’Who will show us any good?’ or seeking some new pleasure — come to the couch and the dying hour of the Christian, and learn what you must believe — what you must practice — what you must become, if you would be truly and finally happy.
"The righteous," it is said, "has hope in his death," and though, truly, at that solemn moment . . .
when pain rends the frame, or the whole head is sick unto death;
when the prospect of the dark and dreary tomb can hardly fail to strike a chilling terror to the best-fortified heart;
when a final farewell is about to be pronounced to objects on which the purest affections had reposed;
when the warm and cheerful precincts of day, the blue skies, the rich wrought handiwork in this fair palace of nature, are about to be relinquished;
and an is abode to be entered, where the worm, the sole companion, is about to supply the place of father, and sister, and brother;
above all, when the recollection of those thousand imperfections and sins which stain the record of the best-spent life, will summon up within the delicate conscience some portion of shame, of distrust, of reluctance to advance to judgment; though there is yet a general remembrance of right principles, of pure motives, of uniform fidelity, of habitual integrity of purpose, which, cannot but speak the departing spirit of the Christian into composure, and embolden it to look up to the cross of Christ, as a deliverance on which it may rest with humble assurance of faith. In the mean time, the Divine Comforter, the Spirit of peace and joy, pours forth his balms, and confirms his declaration, "Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright; for the end of that man is peace!"
Approaching nearer, you observe around this death-bed, the same external array of sadness, and dismal prognostics of departure, as you had witnessed near that of the lost sinner — the same darkness — the same stillness — a similar circle of disconsolate friends. But when you steadfastly regard him, for whom the sorrows of these friends are flowing, you find not the same cloud lowering on his brow; the same terror, or what is worse, the same callous indifference, depicted on his countenance. You find . . .
meekness, patience, resignation, serenity, like a hovering troop of cherubs;
and delightful retrospection, and humble hope, and chastened joy;
and the grateful acquiescence in the release from a sinful body;
and the glad anticipating glance, that darts forward into the courts of God.
You find a soul desirous to forget itself — to think only of those whom it is preparing to leave behind; anxious to impart to them a last lesson of wisdom, and by descanting on the blissful hope in futurity, to soothe and to console their sorrow.
"Let each prepare for his own inevitable hour: let faith, piety, holiness smooth the bed of death, that the passage from world to world may be welcomed; and that the pillow may be soft on which the last sleep is to be taken."
Thus, like a venerable patriarch . . .
distributing blessings,
instructing his household,
prophesying of hereafter —
he meets death as an event, of which he had lessened the horrors, by rendering them long familiar in meditation; and assuaged the sorrows of death by a life of vigilance in piety. He resigns his spirit as gently as he had possessed it; and the same peace which he had enjoyed while yet living, (the outcome of a holy life and an unruffled conscience,) continues to beam upon him after the soul has forsaken its tenement — and is pursuing its way through the heavens.
I well know, brethren, that on hearing this recital — though feeble the tongue that has rehearsed it — one sentiment, one wish pervades every breast, "May I die the death of the righteous, and may my last end be like his!" But have you duly weighed the means of attaining this latter end? Is it distinct in your apprehension, that to live the life of the righteous is the needful preparation for dying his death?
What, in truth, is life, or how ought it to be estimated? A wise man, a believer, will above all regard life as an opportunity of making his calling and election sure — as a brief season to be occupied in one continual preparation for death. But how differently does the lost multitude regard it! Assured of their impending death, continually threatened with it, they live as though it were afar off — as though they were to live forever — like secure mariners, whose ship is amidst destruction, seeing wrecks floating around them, and a fierce storm on the horizon involved in mists — they relinquish the rudder, and set the sails, and allow the vessel to drive at the mercy of wind and tide. Like indolent travelers, they loiter when they should proceed — they strike into each inviting bypath, until the shadows of night surprise them.
Dissolve, child of Heaven, this fatal enchantment. Assume once more your cloak and your bag — bind on your sandals, and seek the heavenly Zion, with your face turned thitherward. Seek it with every faculty of your soul — seek it by every action of your life. Look not wistfully back on the sinful city whence you have escaped — from the noble career to which your Lord had beckoned you. Mistake not your inn for your home — your cottage of clay for your everlasting dwelling.
Engage in the concerns, participate in the satisfactions of the present scene, as one going a journey — with your loins girded, and your staff firm in your hands, and the latchet of your shoes securely tied. Often recall your thoughts from the mart of occupation and the crowds of pleasure; and observe, like the chosen people, a feast of tabernacles, a solemn memorial, that you are a dweller in tents.
"By faith Abraham made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise!" Heb 11:9 "For here we do not have an enduring city, but we are looking for the city that is to come!" Heb 13:14 So when death shall sooner or later arrive, to detach you more completely from the surrounding scene, his blow may be welcomed as that happy consummation which transmits you to "the rest remaining for the people of God;" to a better country, that is, to an heavenly country, prepared for all those who by faith and continuance in well-doing, look for the glorious appearance of their Lord and Savior. To you will it belong to exclaim, with confident hope, "For I know, that when . . .
the earthly house of this tabernacle shall be dissolved,
the wilderness of life shall have been left,
the Jordan of death passed,
and the promised land entered —
I have an endless rest from my long and weary pilgrimage! When the earthly tent I live in is destroyed, I have a building from God, not built by human hands, whose builder and maker is God — eternal in Heaven!"