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The first sad harvest is the harvest of death. We are ali living, and what for? For the grave. I have sometimes sat me down, and had a reverie like this: I have thought-man, what is he? He grows, he grows, till he comes to his prine, and when he is forty-five, if God spare him, perhaps he has then gained the prime of life. What does he do then? He continues where he is a little while, and then he goes down the hill; and if he keeps on living, what is it for? To die But there are many chances to one, as the world has it, that he will not live to be seventy. He dies very early. Do not we all live to die? But none shall die till they are ripe Death never reaps his corn green; he never cuts his corn till it is ripe. The wicked die; but they are always ripe for hell when they die: the righteous die; but they are always ripe for heaven when they die. That poor thief there, who had not believed in Jesus perhaps an hour before he died, he was as ripe as a seventy years' saint. The saint is always ready for glory whenever death, the reaper, comes; and the wicked are always ripe for hell whenever God pleases to send for them. O, that great reaper! he sweeps through the earth, and mows his hundreds and thousands down. It is all still; death makes no noise about his movements, and he treads with velvet footfall over the earth-that ceaseless mower, none can resist him. He is irresistible, and he mows, and mows, and cuts them down. Sometimes he stops and whets his scythe; he dips his scythe in blood, and then he mows us down with war; then he takes his whetstone of cholera, and mows down more than ever. Still he cries, More! more! more! Ceaseless that work keeps on. Wondrous mower! Wondrous reaper! O, when thou comest to reap me, I can not resist thee; for I must fall like others: when thou comest,

I shall have nothing to say to thee. Like a blade of corn, 1 must stand motionless, and thou must cut me down! But, O! may I be prepared for thy scythe! May the Lord stand by me, and comfort me, and cheer me; and may I find that death is an angel of life—that death is the portal of heaven; that it is the outward porch of the great temple of eternity; that it is the vestibule of glory!

There is a second sad harvest, and that is the harvest that

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the wicked man has to reap. Thus saith the voice of inspira tion, "Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap." Now, there is a harvest that every wicked man has to reap this world. No man ever sins against his body without reaping a harvest for it. The young man says, I have sinned with impunity stay, thou young man! go there, to that hospital, and see the beings writhing in their disease. See that staggering, bloated wretch, and I tell thee, Stay thy hand, lest thou become like him! Wisdom bids thee stop; for thy steps lead down to hell. If thou enterest into the house of the strange woman, thou shalt reap a harvest. There is a harvest that every man reaps if he sins against his fellows. The man who sins against his fellow-creature shall reap a harvest. Some men walk through the world like knights, with spurs on their heels, and think they may tread on whom they please; but they shall find their mistake. He who sins against others, sins against himself—that is, nature. It is a law in nature, that a man can not hurt his fellows without hurting himself. Now, you who cause grief to others' minds, do not think the grief will end there: you will have to reap a harvest even here.

Again, a man can not sin against his estate without reaping the effects of it. The miserly wretch who hoards up his gold, he sins against his gold. It becomes cankered, and from those golden sovereigns he will have to reap a harvest; yes, that miserly wretch, sitting up at night, and straining his weary eyes to count his gold, that man reaps his harvest. And so does the young spendthrift: he will reap his harvest when all his treasure is exhausted. It is said of the prodigal, that " no man gave unto him"-none of those that he used to entertain

and so the prodigal shall find it: no man shall give any thing unto him. Ah! but the worst harvest will be that of those who sin against the church of Christ. I would not that a man should sin against his body; I would not that a man should sin against his estate; I would not that a man should sin against his fellows; but most of all, I would not have him touch Christ's church. He that touches one of God's people, touches the apple of his eye. When I have read of some people finding fault with the servants of the Lord, I have thought within myself, I would not do so. It is the greatest

nsult to a man to speak ill of his children. You speak ill of God's children, and you will be rewarded for it in everlasting punishment. There is not a single one of God's family that God does not love, and if you touch one of them, he will have vengeance on you. Nothing puts a man on his mettle like touching his children; and if you touch God's church, you will have the direst vengeance of all. The hottest flames of hell are for those who touch God's children. Go on, sinner! laugh at religion if thou pleasest; but know that it is the blackest of sins in all the catalogue of crime. God will forgive any thing sooner than that; and though that is not unpardonable, yet, if unrepented of, it will meet the greatest punishment. God can not bear that his elect should be touched; and if you do so, it is the greatest crime you can commit.

Now we must conclude, by simply mentioning the third sad harvest; and that is the harvest of Almighty wrath, when the wicked at last are gathered in. In the 14th chapter of Revelation, you will see that God commanded the angel to gather the grapes, and they were all put into the wine-press together, and after that the angel came and trod them down until the blood ran out, so that it was up to the horses' bridles for the space of one hundred and twenty miles. Wonderful figure to express the wrath of God! Suppose, then, some great winepress, in which our bodies are put like grapes, and suppose a mighty giant comes and treads us all under foot, that is the idea that the wicked shall be cast together, and an angel shall crush them under foot until the blood runs out up to the horses' bridles. May God grant of his sovereign mercy that you and I may never reap such a harvest as that: that God may never reap us in that fearful harvest! but that rather we may be written among the saints of the Lord.

Concluding now, let me speak to the children of God once more; for that is the last thought I have upon my mind. You shall have a harvest in due season if you faint not. Sow on, brother-sow on, sister; and in due time thou shalt reap an abundant harvest. Let me tell you one thing before you go away, if the seed thou hast sown a long while has never come up. I was told once, "When you sow seeds in your garden, put them in a little water over night; they will grow all the

better for it." So, my brother, if thou hast been sowing thy seed, put them in tears, and it will make thy seed germinate the better. "They that sow in tears shall reap in joy." Steep your seed in tears, and then put it into the ground, and you shall reap in joy. No bird can devour that seed; no bird can hold it in its mouth. No worm can eat it, for worms never eat seeds that are sown in tears. Go thy way, and when thou weepest most, then it is that thou sowest best. When most cast down, thou art doing best. If thou comest to the prayer meeting, and hast not a word to say, keep on praying, do not give it up, for thou often prayest best when thou thinkest thou prayest worst. Go on, and in due season, by God's mighty grace, you shall reap, if you faint not

SERMON XVI.

SWEET COMFORT FOR FEEBLE SAINTS.

A bruised reed shall he not break, and smoking flax shall he not quench, till ho send forth judgment unto victory."-MATT., xii. 20.

BABBLING fame ever loves to talk of one man or another. Some there be whose glory it trumpets forth, and whose honor it extols above the heavens. Some are her favorites, and their names are carved on marble, and heard in every land, and every clime. Fame is not an impartial judge; she has her favorites. Some she extols, exalts, and almost deifies; others, whose virtues are far greater, and whose characters are more deserving of commendation, she passes by unheeded, and puts the finger of silence on her lips. You will generally find that those persons beloved by fame are made of brass or iron, and cast in a rough mold. Fame caresseth Cæsar, because he ruled the earth with a rod of iron. Fame loves Luther, because he boldly and manfully defied the Pope of Rome, and with knit brow dared laugh at the thunders of the Vatican. Fame admires Knox; for he was stern, and proved himself the bravest of the brave. Generally, you will find her choosing out the inen of fire and mettle, who stood before their fellow-creatures fearless of them; men who were made of courage; who were consolidated lumps of fearlessness, and never knew what timidity might be. But you know there is another class of persons equally virtuous, and equally to be esteemed-perhaps even more so- -whom fame entirely forgets. You do not hear her talk of the gentle-minded Melancthon; she says but little of him; yet he did as much, perhaps, in the Reformation, as even the mighty Luther. You do not hear fame talk much of the sweet and blessed Rutherford, and of the heavenly words

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