Oh, it is high time that some here present were saved. In a short time you must be in another world. Hard by that column, on my right in yonder gallery, in that next pew, there have usually sat two attentive hearers, husband and wife, who early this morning were suffocated by the smoke of their own burning house, just under these eaves. I little thought that they would be preachers to us tonight — but they are so. The calamity, sudden and mysterious, which has removed them from our midst, sets “the uncertainty of life,” and the “preparation for departure,” so vividly before us, that we cannot refrain our emotions or restrain our sympathies. Their absence should speak loudly to those who occupy the seat they have vacated, asking them whether they are ready to depart. Not less loudly should it speak to all sitting here, raising the question in the hearts of some of you who are careless about your souls, how you could bear to pass out of this world if the arrow of death should overtake you unawares.
A trifling, accident may prove fatal, a slight illness may be the precursor of speedy dissolution. Can you imagine your own remorse as you glance backwards at the gospel you have listened to but never embraced — the blood of sprinkling you have heard of, but has never been applied to your conscience — the Savior whom you passed by with indifference when he passed by you, ready to be gracious, and you would not be his disciple? Ah! ye may turn from such questions with a faint smile now — ere long you will turn to them with a pale shudder. Are there any here present anxious to be saved? Let me have their solemn, earnest, and devout attention. I pray God that what I speak simply may just strike their consciences and touch their hearts. If they want their judgments informed, may the word come with light to their spirits, and in that light may they behold Christ and find salvation.
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