#116, Delivered on February 8, 1857,
by C. H. Spurgeon
"Cleanse me from secret faults."
Self-righteousness arises partly
from pride, but mainly from ignorance of God’s Law. It is because men know
little or nothing concerning the solemn character of the Divine Law that
they foolishly imagine themselves to be righteous. They are not aware of the
deep spirituality and the stern severity of the Law or they would have other
and wiser notions. Once let them know how strictly the Law deals with the
thoughts—how it brings itself to bear upon every emotion of the inner
man—and there is not one creature beneath God’s Heaven who would dare to
think himself self-righteous in God’s sight in virtue of his own deeds and
Only let the Law be truly revealed
to a man. Let him know how strict the Law is and how infinitely just and his
self-righteousness will shrivel into nothing—it will become a filthy rag in
his sight—whereas before he thought it to be a goodly garment. David, having
seen God’s Law and having praised it in this Psalm, which I have read in
your hearing, is brought by reflecting on its excellency, to utter this
thought, "Who can understand his errors?" and then to offer this prayer,
"Cleanse me from secret faults."
In the Lateran Council of the Church
of Rome, a decree was passed that every true believer must confess his sins,
all of them, once each year to a priest and they affixed to it this
declaration—that there is no hope of pardon but in complying with that
decree. What can equal the absurdity of such a decree as that? Do they
suppose that they can tell their sins as easily as they can count their
fingers? Why, if we could receive pardon for all our sins by telling every
sin we have committed in one hour, there is not one of us who would be able
to enter Heaven.
Besides the sins that are known to
us and that we may be able to confess, there are a vast mass of sins which
are as truly sins as those which we do observe but which are secret and come
not beneath our eyes. Oh if we had eyes like those of God, we would think
very differently of ourselves. The sins that we see and confess are but like
the farmer’s small samples which he brings to market when he has left his
granary full at home. We have but a very few sins which we can observe and
detect, compared with those which are hidden to ourselves and unseen by our
I doubt not it is true of all of us
who are here that in every hour of our existence in which we are active, we
commit tens of thousands of sins for which conscience has never reproved us
because we have never seen them to be wrong, seeing we have not studied
God’s Laws as we ought to have done. Now be it known to us all that sin is
sin, whether we see it or not—that a sin secret to us is a sin as truly as
if we knew it to be a sin, though not so great a sin in the sight of God as
if it had been committed presumptuously, seeing that it lacks the
aggravation of willfulness. Let all of us who know our sins offer this
prayer after all our confessions—"Lord, I have confessed as many as I know
but I must add an etcetera after them and say, ‘Cleanse me from secret
That, however, will not be the
essence of my sermon this morning. I am going after a certain class of men
who have sins not unknown to themselves but secret to their fellow
creatures. Every now and then we turn up a fair stone which lies upon the
green sward of the professing Church, surrounded with the verdure of
apparent goodness and to our astonishment we find beneath it all kinds of
filthy insects and loathsome reptiles and in our disgust at such hypocrisy,
we are driven to exclaim, "All men are liars. There are none in whom we can
put any trust at all."
It is not fair to say so of all, but
really, the discoveries which are made of the insincerity of our fellow
creatures are enough to make us despise our kind because they can go so far
in appearances and yet have so little soundness of heart. To you, Sirs, who
sin secretly and yet make a profession—you who break God’s Covenants in the
dark and wear a mask of goodness in the light. To you, Sirs, who shut the
doors and commit wickedness in secret—to you I shall speak this morning. O
may God also be pleased to speak to you and make you pray this
prayer—"Cleanse me from secret faults."
I shall endeavor to urge upon all
pretenders present to give up, to renounce, to detest, to hate, to abhor all
their secret sins. And, first, I shall endeavor to show the folly of
secret sins. Secondly, the misery of secret sins. Thirdly, the
guilt of secret sins. Fourthly, the danger of secret sins and
then I shall try to apply some words by way of remedy—that we may all of us
be enabled to avoid secret sins.
First, then, the FOLLY of secret
Pretender, you are fair to look
upon. Your conduct is outwardly upright, amiable, liberal, generous and
Christian. But you indulge in some sin which the eyes of man have not yet
detected. Perhaps it is private drunkenness. You do revile the drunkard when
he staggers through the street. But you can yourself indulge in the same
habit in private. It may be some other lust or vice. It is not for me just
now to mention what it is. But, Pretender, we say unto you, you are a fool
to think of harboring a secret sin and you are a fool for this one
reason—that your sin is not a secret sin—it is known and shall
one day be revealed. Perhaps very soon.
Your sin is not a secret! The eyes
of God have seen it! You have sinned before His face! You have shut the door
and drawn the curtains and kept out the eye of the sun but God’s eye pierces
through the darkness. The brick walls which surrounded you were as
transparent as glass to the eye of the Almighty. The darkness which did gird
you was as bright as the summer’s noon to the eye of Him who beholds all
things. Know you not, O man, that "all things are naked and open to the eyes
of Him with whom we have to do?"
As the priest ran his knife into the
entrails of his victim, discovered the heart and liver and what else did lie
within, so are you, O man, seen by God. Cut open by the Almighty, you have
no secret chamber where you can hide yourself. You have no dark cellar where
you can conceal your soul. Dig deep, yes, deep as Hell but you can not find
earth enough upon the globe to cover your sin. If you should heap the
mountains on its grave, those mountains would tell the tale of what was
buried in their bowels. If you could cast your sin into the sea, a thousand
babbling waves would tell the secret out.
There is no hiding it from God. Your
sin is photographed in high Heaven! The deed, when it was done, was
photographed upon the sky and there it shall remain and you shall see
yourself one day revealed to the gazing eyes of all men a hypocrite, a
pretender, who did sin in fancied secret, observed in all your acts by the
all-seeing Jehovah. O what fools men are, to think they can do anything in
secret. This world is like the glass hives wherein bees sometimes work—we
look down upon them and we see all the operations of the little creatures.
So God looks down and sees all our eyes are weak. We cannot look through the
darkness but His eye, like an orb of fire, penetrates the blackness and
reads the thought of man and sees his acts when he thinks himself most
Oh, it were a thought enough to curb
us from all sin, if it were truly applied to us—"You, God, see me!" Stop
thief! Drop that which you have taken! God sees you! No eye of detection of
earth has discovered you but God’s eyes are now looking through the clouds
upon you. Swearer! Though none at whom you swore heard your oath, God heard
it. It entered into the ears of the Lord God of Sabbath. And those who lead
a filthy life and yet are respectable among men— your vices are all known.
They are written in God’s book. He
keeps a diary of all your acts. And what will you think on that day when a
crowd shall be assembled, compared with which this immense multitude is but
a drop in a bucket and God shall read out the story of your secret life and
men and angels shall hear it? Certain I am there are none of us who would
like to have all our secrets read, especially our secret thoughts. If I
should select out of this congregation the most holy man. If I should bring
him forward and say, "Now, Sir, I know all your thoughts and am about to
tell them," I am sure he would offer me the largest bribe that he could
gather if I would be pleased to conceal at least some of them.
"Tell," he would say, "of my
acts—of them I am not ashamed. But do not tell my thoughts and
imaginations—of them I must ever stand ashamed before God." What, then,
Sinner, will be your shame when your private lusts, your closet
transgressions, your secret crimes shall be heralded from God’s Throne,
proclaimed by His own mouth and with a voice louder than a thousand thunders
preached in the ears of an assembled world? What will be your terror and
confusion then, when all the deeds you have done shall be proclaimed in the
face of the sun, in the ears of all mankind? O renounce the foolish hope of
heresy, for your sin is this day recorded and shall one day be advertised
upon the walls of Heaven.
In the next place, let us notice the
MISERY of secret sins.
Of all sinners the man who makes a
profession of religion and yet lives in iniquity is the most miserable. A
downright wicked man, who takes a glass in his hand and says, "I am a
drunkard, I am not ashamed of it," he shall be unutterably miserable in
worlds to come. But brief though it is, he has his hour of pleasure. A man
who curses and swears and says, "That is my habit, I am a profane man," and
makes a profession of it, he has, at least, some peace in his soul. But the
man who walks with God’s minister, who is united with God’s Church, who
comes out before God’s people and unites with them and then lives in
sin—what a miserable existence he must have!
Why, he has a worse existence than
the mouse that is in the parlor, running out now and then to pick up the
crumbs and then back again to his hole. Such men must run out now and then
to sin. And, oh, how fearful they are to be discovered! One day, perhaps,
their character turns up. With wonderful cunning they manage to conceal and
gloss it over but the next day something else comes and they live in
constant fear, telling lie after lie, to make the last lie appear truthful—
adding deception to deception—in order that they may not be discovered—
"Oh, ‘tis a tangled web we weave,
When once we venture to deceive,"
If I must be a wicked man give me
the life of a boisterous sinner who sins before the face of day. If I must
sin let me not act as a hypocrite and a coward. Let me not profess to be
God’s and spend my life for the devil. That way of cheating the devil is a
thing which every honest sinner will be ashamed of. He will say, "If I serve
my master I will serve him out and out, I will have no sham about it. If I
make a profession, I will carry it out but if I do not, if I live in sin, I
am not going to gloss it over by cant and hypocrisy." One thing which has
hamstringed the Church and cut her very sinews in two has been this most
Oh, in how many places have we seen
men whom you might praise to the very skies if you could believe their
words— but whom you might cast into the nethermost pit if you could see
their secret actions? God forgive any of you who are so acting! I had almost
said I can scarce forgive you. I can forgive the man who riots openly
and makes no profession of being better. But the man who fawns and cants and
pretends and prays and then lives in sin—that man I hate—I cannot bear him.
I abhor him from my very soul. If he will turn from his ways, I will love
him but in his hypocrisy he is to me the most loathsome of all creatures.
‘Tis said the toad does wear a jewel
in her head but the hypocrite has none but bears filthiness about him—while
he pretends to be in love with righteousness. A mere profession, my Hearers,
is but painted pageantry to go to Hell in. It is like the plumes upon the
hearse and the trappings upon the black horses which drag men to their
graves—the funeral array of dead souls. Take heed above everything of a
waxen profession that will not stand the sun. Take care of all that needs to
have two faces to carry it out. Be one thing, or else the other. If you make
up your mind to serve Satan, do not pretend to serve God. And if you serve
God, serve Him with all your heart.
"No man can serve two masters." Do
not try it, do not endeavor to do it, for no life will be more miserable
than that. Above all beware of committing acts which it will be necessary to
conceal. There is a singular poem by Hood, called "The Dream of Eugene Aram"—a
most remarkable piece it is, indeed, illustrating the point on which I am
now dwelling. Aram has murdered a man and cast his body into the river—"a
sluggish water, black as ink, the depth was so extreme." The next morning he
visited the scene of his guilt—
"And sought the black accursed pool,
With a wild misgiving eye;
And he saw the dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry."
Next he covered the corpse with
heaps of leaves but a mighty wind swept through the wood and left the secret
bare before the sun—
"Then down I cast me on my face,
And first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refused to keep.
On land or sea though it should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep."
In plaintive notes he prophesies his
own discovery. He buried his victim in a cave and trod him down with stones
but when years had run their weary round the foul deed was discovered and
the murderer put to death. Guilt is a "grim chamberlain," even when fingers
are not bloody red. Secret sins bring fevered eyes and sleepless nights
until men burn out their consciences and become in very deed ripe for the
pit. Hypocrisy is a hard game to play at, for it is one deceiver against
many observers. And for certain it is a miserable trade, which will earn at
last, as its certain climax, a tremendous bankruptcy.
Ah, you who have sinned without
discovery, "Be sure your sin will find you out." And remember, it may find
you out before long. Sin, like murder, will come out—men will even tell
tales about themselves in their dreams. God has sometimes made men so
pricked in their consciences that they have been obliged to come forward and
confess the crime. Secret sinner! If you want the foretaste of damnation
upon earth, continue in your secret sin, for no man is more miserable than
he who sins secretly and yet tries to preserve a character.
Yonder stag, followed by the hungry
hounds with open mouths, is far more happy than the man who is followed by
his sins. Yonder bird, taken in the fowler’s net and laboring to escape, is
far more happy than he who has weaved around himself a web of deception and
labors to escape from it day by day by making the toils more thick and the
web more strong. Oh, the misery of secret sins! Truly, one may pray,
"Cleanse me from secret faults."
But now, next, the guilt—the
solemn GUILT of secret sin.
Now, John, you do not think there is
any evil in a thing unless somebody sees it, do you? You feel that it is a
very great sin if your master finds you out in robbing the till—but there is
no sin if he should not discover it—none at all. And you, Sir, you fancy it
to be very great sin to play a trick in trade, in case you should be
discovered and brought before the court. But to play a trick and never be
discovered, that is all fair—do not say a word about it Mr. Spurgeon, it is
all business. You must not touch business—tricks that are not discovered, of
course you are not to find fault with them. The common measure of sin is the
notoriety of it.
But I do not believe that. A sin is
a sin, whether done in private or before the whole world. It is singular how
men will measure guilt. A railway servant puts up a wrong signal—there is an
accident. The man is tried and severely reprimanded. The day before he put
up the wrong signal but there was no accident and therefore no one cursed
him for his neglect. But it was just the same, accident or no accident—the
accident did not make the guilt—it was the deed which made the guilt, not
the notoriety nor yet the consequence of it. It was his business to have
taken care and he was as guilty the first time as he was the second, for he
negligently exposed the lives of men. Do not measure sin by what other
people say of it. But measure sin by what God says of it and what your own
conscience says of it.
Now I hold that secret sin, if
anything, is the worst sin. Because secret sin implies that the man who
commits it has Atheism in his heart. You will ask how that can be? I reply,
he may be a professing Christian but I shall tell him to his face that he is
a practical Atheist if he labors to keep up a respectable profession before
man and then secretly transgresses. Why, is he not an Atheist who will say
there is a God, yet at the same time thinks more of man than he does of God?
Is it not the very essence of Atheism—is it not a denial of the Divinity of
the Most High when men lightly esteem Him and think more of the eye of a
creature than of the observation of their Creator?
There are some who would not for the
life of them say a wicked word in the presence of their minister but they
can do it knowing God is looking at them. They are Atheists. There are some
who would not trick in trade for all the world if they thought they would be
discovered. But they can do it while God is with them, that is, they think
more of the eye of man than of the eye of God. And they think it worse to be
condemned by man than to be condemned by God. Call it by what name you
will—the proper name of that is practical Atheism. It is dishonoring God. It
is dethroning Him— putting Him down below His own creatures. And what is
that but to take away His Divinity?
Brethren, do not, I beseech you,
incur the fearful guilt of secret sins. No man can sin a little in secret—it
will certainly engender more sin. No man can be a hypocrite and yet be
moderate in guilt—he will go from bad to worse and still proceed—until when
his guilt shall be published—he shall be found to be the very worst and the
most hardened of men. Take heed of the guilt of secret sin. Ah, now if I
could preach as Rowland Hill did, I would make some people look to
themselves and tremble!
It is said that when he preached,
there was not a man in the window, or standing in the crowd, or perched up
anywhere but said, "There, he is preaching at me. He is telling me about my
secret sins." And when he proclaimed God’s omniscience, it is said men would
almost think they saw God bodily present in the midst of them looking at
them. And when he had finished his sermon, they would hear a voice in their
ears, "Can any hide himself in secret places that I cannot see him? says the
Lord. Do not I fill Heaven and earth? says the Lord."
I wish I could do that. That I could
make every man look to himself and find out his secret sin. Come my Hearer,
what is it? Bring it forth to the daylight. Perhaps it will die in the light
of the sun. These things love to not be discovered. Tell your own
conscience, now, what it is. Look it in the face. Confess it before God and
may He give you grace to remove that sin and every other and turn to Him
with full purpose of heart. But know this—your guilt is guilt discovered or
undiscovered and if there is any difference it is worse, because it has been
secret. God save us from the guilt of secret sin! "Cleanse me from secret
And note, next,
the DANGER of secret sin.
One danger is that a man cannot
commit a little sin in secret without being by-and-by betrayed into a public
sin. You cannot, Sir, though you may think you can, preserve a moderation in
sin. If you commit one sin, it is like the melting of the lower glacier upon
the Alps. The others must follow in time. As certainly as you heap one stone
upon the mound today, the next day you will cast another, until the heap,
reared stone by stone, shall become a very pyramid. See the coral insect at
work—you cannot decree where it shall stay its work.
It will not build its rock just as
high as you please. It will not stay until it shall be covered with weeds
and until the weeds shall decay. And then there shall be soil upon it and an
island shall be created by tiny creatures. Sin cannot be held in with bit
and bridle. "But I am going to have a little drink now and then, I am only
going to be intoxicated once a week or so. Nobody will see it. I shall be in
bed directly." You will be drunk in the streets soon. "I am only just going
to read one lascivious book, I will put it under the sofa when anyone comes
in." You will keep it in your library yet, Sir.
"I am only going into that company
now and then." You will go there every day, such is the bewitching character
of it. You cannot help it. You may as well ask the lion to let you put your
head into his mouth. You cannot regulate his jaws—neither can you regulate
sin. Once go into it, you cannot tell when you will be destroyed. You may be
such a fortunate individual that like Van Amburgh you may put your head in
and out a great many times. But rest assured that one of these days it will
be a costly venture.
Again—you may labor to conceal your
vicious habit but it will come out—you cannot help it. You keep your little
pet sin at home. But mark this, when the door is ajar the dog will be out in
the street. Wrap him up in your bosom, put over him fold after fold of
hypocrisy to keep him secret—the wretch will be singing some day when you
are in company. You cannot keep the evil bird still. Your sin will gad
abroad. And what is more, you will not mind it some of these days. A man who
indulges in sin privately, by degrees gets his forehead as hard as brass.
The first time he sinned, the drops of sweat stood on his brow at the
recollection of what he had done.
The second time, no hot sweat was on
his brow—only an agitation of the muscle. The third time there was the sly,
sneaky look but no agitation. The next time, he sinned a little further. And
by degrees he became the bold blasphemer of his God and exclaims, "Who am I
that I should fear Jehovah and who is He that I should serve Him?" Men go
from bad to worse. Launch your boat in the current—it must go where the
current takes it. Put yourself in the whirlwind—you are but a straw in the
wind—you must go which way the wind carries you—you cannot control yourself.
The balloon can mount, but it cannot
direct its course. It must go whichever way the wind blows. If you once
mount into sin there is no stopping. Take heed if you would not become the
worst of characters. Take heed of the little sins. They, mounting one upon
another, may at last heave you from the summit and destroy your soul
forever. There is a great danger in secret sins.
But I have here some true Christians
who indulge in secret sins. They say it is but a little one and therefore do
they spare it. Dear Brethren, I speak to you and I speak to myself, when I
say this—let us destroy all our little secret sins. They are called little
and if they are, let us remember that it is the foxes, even the little
foxes, that spoil our vines. For our vines have tender shoots. Let us take
heed of our little sins. A little sin, like a little pebble in the shoe,
will make a traveler to Heaven walk very wearily.
Little sins, like little thieves,
may open the door to greater ones outside. Christians, recollect that little
sins will spoil your communion with Christ. Little sins, like little stains
in silk, may damage the fine texture of Fellowship. Little sins, like little
irregularities in the machinery, may spoil the whole fabric of your
religion. The one dead fly spoils the whole pot of ointment. That one
thistle may seed a continent with noxious weeds. Let us, Brethren, kill our
sins as often as we can find them. One said—"The heart is full of unclean
birds. It is a cage of them." "Ah but," said another Divine, "you must not
make that an apology, for a Christian’s business is to wring their necks."
And so it is. If there are evil
things, it is our business to kill them. Christians must not tolerate secret
sins. We must not harbor traitors. It is high treason against the King of
Heaven. Let us drag them out to light and offer them upon the altar, giving
up the dearest of our secret sins at the will and bidding of God. There is a
great danger in a little secret sin. Therefore avoid it, pass not by it,
turn from it and shun it and God give you grace to overcome it!
And now I come, in finishing up, to plead
with all my might with some of you whom God has pricked in your consciences.
I have come to entreat you, if it is possible, even to tears, that you will
give up your secret sins. I have one here for whom I bless God. I love him,
though I know him not. He is almost persuaded to be a Christian. He halts
between two opinions. He intends to serve God, he strives to give up sin but
he finds it a hard struggle and as yet he knows not what shall become of
him. I speak to him with all love—my Friend, will you have your sin and go
to Hell, or leave your sin and go to Heaven?
This is the solemn alternative—to an
awakened sinner I put it—may God choose for you, otherwise I tremble as to
which you may choose. The pleasures of this life are so intoxicating, the
joys of it so ensnaring that did I not believe that God works in us to will
and to do, I should despair of you. But I have confidence that God will
decide the matter. Let me lay the alternative before you—on the one hand
there is an hour’s merriment—a short life of bliss and that a poor, poor
bliss. On the other hand there is everlasting life and eternal glory. On the
one hand, there is a transient happiness and afterwards overwhelming woe. In
this case there is a solid peace and everlasting joy and after it
I shall not fear to be called an
Arminian, when I say, as Elijah did, "Choose this day whom you will serve.
If God is God, serve Him. If Baal be God serve him." But, now, make your
choice deliberately. And may God help you to do it! Do not say you will take
up with religion, without first counting the cost of it. Remember, there is
your lust to be given up and your pleasure to be renounced—can you do it for
Christ’s sake? Can you? I know you cannot, unless God’s grace shall assist
you in making such a choice. But can you say, "Yes, by the help of God,
earth’s gaudy toys, its pomps, pageantries, gewgaws, all these I renounce"?—
"These can never satisfy,
Give me Christ or else I die."
Sinner, you will never regret that
choice, if God help you to make it. You will find yourself a happy man here
and thrice happy throughout eternity. "But," says one, "Sir, I intend to be
religious but I do not hold with your strictness." I do not ask you to do
so. I hope, however, you will hold with God’s strictness and God’s
strictness is ten thousand times greater than mine. You may say that I am
Puritanical in my preaching—God will be Puritanical in judging in that great
day. I may appear severe but I can never be so severe as God will be. I may
draw the harrow with sharp teeth across your conscience but God shall drag
harrows of eternal fire across you one day.
I may speak thundering things! God
will not speak them but hurl them from His hands. Remember, men may laugh at
Hell and say there is none. But they must reject their Bibles before they
can believe the lie. Men’s consciences tell them that—
"There is a dreadful Hell,
And everlasting pains.
Where sinners must with devils dwell,
In darkness, fire and chains."
Sirs, will you keep your secret sins
and have eternal fire for them? Remember it is of no use, they must all be
given up, or else you cannot be God’s child. You cannot by any means have
both. It cannot be God and the World. It cannot be Christ and the devil. It
must be one or the other. Oh, that God would give you grace to resign all!
For what are they worth? They are your deceivers now and will be your
tormentors forever. Oh, that your eyes were open to see the rottenness, the
emptiness and trickery of iniquity! Oh, that God would turn you to Himself!
Oh, may God give you grace to cross the Rubicon of repentance at this very
hour! May He give you grace to say, "Henceforth it is war to the knife with
my sins. Not one of them will I willingly keep but down with them, down with
them—Canaanite, Hittite, Jebusite, they shall all be driven out."—
"The dearest idol I have known.
Whatever that idol be.
Help me to tear it from its Throne,
And worship only Thee."
"But oh, Sir, I cannot do it, it
would be like pulling my eyes out." Yes but hear what Christ says—"It were
better for you to enter into life with one eye, than having two eyes to be
cast into Hell fire." "But it would be like cutting my arm off." Yes and it
would be better for you to enter into life crippled or maimed, than to be
cast into Hell fire forever. Oh, when the sinner comes before God at last,
do you think he will speak as he does now? God will reveal his secret
sins—the sinner will not then say, "Lord, I thought my secret sins so sweet,
I could not give them up."
I think I see how changed it will be
then. "Sir," you say now, "you are too strict." Will you say that when the
eyes of the Almighty are glowering on you? You say now, "Sir you are too
precise." Will you say that to God Almighty’s face? "Sir, I mean to
keep such-and-such a sin." Can you say it at God’s bar at last? You will
not dare to do it then. Ah, when Christ comes a second time there will be a
marvelous change in the way men talk. Methinks I see Him. There He sits upon
His Throne. Now, Caiaphas, come and condemn Him now! Judas! Come and kiss
Him now! What do you stick at, man? Are you afraid of Him?
Now, Barabbas! Go, See whether they
will prefer you to Christ now. Swearer, now is your time. You have
been a bold man—curse Him to His face now. Now drunkard—stagger up to
Him now. Now infidel—tell Him there is no Christ now—now that the
world is lit with lightning and the earth is shaking with thunder till the
solid pillars thereof do bow themselves—tell God there is no God now! Now
laugh at the Bible. Now scoff at the minister. Why Men, what is the matter
with you? Why, can’t you do it?
Ah, there you are, you have fled to
the hills and to the rocks—"Rocks hide us! Mountains fall on us! Hide us
from the face of Him that sits on the Throne." Ah, where are your boasts
now? Alas! alas! For you, in that dread day of wonders— secret sinner—what
will become of you? Go out of this place unmasked. Go out to examine
yourself, go out to bend your knee, go out to weep, go out to pray. God give
you grace to believe! And oh, how sweet and pleasant the thought—that this
day sinners have fled to Christ and men have been born again to Jesus!
Brethren, before I finish, I repeat
the words at which so many have quibbled—it is now or never, it is turn or
burn. Solemnly in God’s sight I say it. If it is not God’s Truth I
must answer for it in the great day of account. Your consciences tell you it
is true. Take it home and mock me if you will. This morning I am clear of
your blood—if any seek not God but live in sin, I shall be clear of your
blood in that day when the Watchman shall have your souls demanded of Him.
Oh, may God grant that you may be cleared in a blessed manner! When I went
down these pulpit stairs a Sabbath or two ago, a friend said to me words
which have been in my mind ever since—"Sir, there are nine thousand people
this day without excuse in the Day of Judgment."
It is true of you this morning. If
you are damned, it will be not for want of preaching to you and it shall not
be for want of praying for you. God knows that if my heart could break of
itself, it would, for your souls. God is my witness how earnestly I long for
you in the heart of Christ Jesus. Oh, that He might touch your hearts and
bring you to Him! For death is a solemn thing. Damnation is a horrible
thing. To be out of Christ is a dreadful thing. To be dead in sin is a
terrible thing. May God lead you to view these things as they are and save
you, for His mercy’s sake! "He that believes and is baptized shall be
"Lord, search my soul, try every
Though my own heart accuse me not
Of walking in a false disguise,
I beg the trial of your eyes,
Does secret mischief lurk within?
Do I indulge some unknown sin?
O turn my feet whenever I stray,
And lead me in Your perfect way."