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SUBJECT: 26 MAT 12:20 Sweet Comfort for Feeble Saints
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Sweet Comfort for Feeble Saints
February 4, 1855
by
C. H. SPURGEON
"A bruised reed shall he not break, and smoking flax shall he not
quench, till he send forth judgment unto victory"-- Mat_12:20.
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 men 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 men made of brass or iron, and cast in a
rough mould. Fame caresseth Caesar, 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
men 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 that distilled from his
lips; or of Archbishop Leighton, of whom it was said, that he was
never out of temper in his life. She loves the rough granite peaks that
defy the storm-cloud: she does not care for the more humble stone in
the valley, on which the weary traveller resteth; she wants something
bold and prominent; something that courts popularity; something that
stands out before the world. She does not care for those who retreat in
shade. Hence it is, my brethren, that the blessed Jesus, our adorable
Master, has escaped fame. No one says much about Jesus, except his
followers. We do not find his name written amongst the great and
mighty men; though, in truth, he is the greatest, mightiest, holiest,
purest, and best of men that ever lived; but because he was "Gentle
Jesus, meek and mild," and was emphatically the man whose kingdom
is not of this world; because he had nothing of the rough about him, but
was all love; because his words were softer than butter, his utterances
more gentle in their flow than oil; because never man spake so gently
as this man; therefore he is neglected and forgotten. He did not come to
be a conqueror with his sword, nor a Mohammed with his fiery
eloquence; but he came to speak with a "still small voice," that melteth
the rocky heart; that bindeth up the broken in spirit, and that
continually saith, "Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy
laden;" "Take my yoke upon you and learn of me, for I am meek and
lowly of heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls." Jesus Christ was
all gentleness; and this is why he has not been extolled amongst men as
otherwise he would have been. Beloved! our text is full of gentleness; it
seems to have been steeped in love; and I hope I may be able to show
you something of the immense sympathy and the mighty tenderness of
Jesus, as I attempt to speak from it. There are three things to be
noticed: first, mortal frailty; secondly, divine compassion; and thirdly,
certain triumph--"till he send forth judgment unto victory."
I. First, we have before us a view of MORTAL FRAILTY
--bruised reed and smoking flax--two very suggestive metaphors, and
very full of meaning. If it were not too fanciful--and if it is I know you
will excuse me--I should say that the bruised reed is an emblem of a
sinner in the first stage of his conviction. The work of God's Holy
Spirit begins with bruising. In order to be saved, the fallow ground
must be ploughed up; the hard heart must be broken; the rock must be
split in sunder. An old divine says there is no going to heaven without
passing hard by the gates of hell--without a great deal of soul-trouble
and heart-exercise. I take it then that the bruised reed is a picture of the
poor sinner when first God commences his operation upon the soul; he
is as a bruised reed, almost entirely broken and consumed; there is but
little strength in him. The smoking flax I conceive to be a backsliding
Christian; one who has been a burning and a shining light in his day,
but by neglect of the means of grace, the withdrawal of God's Spirit,
and falling into sin, his light is almost gone out--not quite--it never can
go out, for Christ saith, "I will not quench it;" but it becomes like a
lamp when ill supplied with oil--almost useless. It is not quite
extinguished--it smokes--it was a useful lamp once, but now it has
become as smoking flax. So I think these metaphors very likely
describe the contrite sinner as a bruised reed, and the backsliding
Christian as smoking flax. However, I shall not choose to make such a
division as that, but I shall put both the metaphors together, and I hope
we may fetch out a few thoughts from them.
And first, the encouragement offered in our text applies to weak ones.
What in the world is weaker than the bruised reed, or the smoking flax?
A reed that groweth in the fen or marsh, let but the wild duck light
upon it, and it snaps; let but the foot of man brush against it and it is
bruised and broken; every wind that comes howling across the river
makes it shake to and fro, and well nigh tears it up by the roots. You
can conceive of nothing more frail or brittle, or whose existence
depends more upon circumstances that a bruised reed. Then look at
smoking flax--what is it? It has a spark within it, it is true, but it is
almost smothered; an infant's breath might blow it out; or the tears of a
maiden quench it in a moment; nothing has a more precarious existence
than the little spark hidden in the smoking flax. Weak things, you see,
are here described. Well, Christ says of them, "The smoking flax I will
not quench; the bruised reed I will not break." Let me go in search of
the weaklings. Ah! I shall not have to go far. There are many in this
house of prayer this morning who are indeed weak. Some of God's
children, blessed be his name, are made strong to do mighty works for
him; God hath his Samsons here and there who can pull up Gaza's
gates, and carry them to the top of the hill; he hath here and there his
mighty Gideons, who can go to the camp of the Midianites, and
overthrow their hosts; he hath his mighty men, who can go into the pit
in winter, and slay the lions; but the majority of his people are a timid,
weak race. They are like the starlings that are frightened at every
passer by; a little fearful flock. If temptation comes, they fall before it;
if trial comes, they are overwhelmed by it; their frail skiff is danced up
and down by every wave; and when the wind comes, they are drifted
along like a sea-bird on the crest of the billows; weak things, without
strength, without force, without might, without power. Ah! dear
friends, I know I have got hold of some of your hands now, and your
hearts too; for you are saying, "Weak! Ah, that I am. Full often I am
constrained to say, I would, but cannot sing; I would, but cannot pray; I
would, but cannot believe." You are saying that you cannot do
anything; your best resolves are weak and vain; and when you cry,
"My strength renew," you feel weaker than before. You are weak, are
you? Bruised reeds and smoking flax? Blessed be God, this text is for
you then. I am glad you can come in under the denomination of weak
ones, for here is a promise that he will never break nor quench them,
but will sustain and hold them up. I know there are some very strong
people here--I mean strong in their own ideas. I often meet with
persons who would not confess any such weakness as this. They are
strong minds. They say, "Do you think that we go into sin, sir? Do you
tell us that our hearts are corrupt? We do not believe any such thing;
we are good, and pure, and upright; we have strength and might." To
you I am not preaching this morning; to you I am saying nothing; but
take heed--your strength is vanity, your power is a delusion, your might
is a lie--for however much you may boast in what you can do, it shall
pass away; when you come to the real contest with death, you shall
find that you have no strength to grapple with it: when one of these
days of strong temptation shall come, it will take hold of you, moral
man, and down you will go; and the glorious livery of your morality
will be so stained, that though you wash your hands in snow water, and
make yourselves never so clean, you shall be so polluted that your own
clothes shall abhor you. I think it is a blessed thing to be weak. The
weak one is a sacred thing; the Holy Ghost has made him such. Can
you say, "No strength have I?" Then this text is for you.
Secondly, the things mentioned in our text are not only weak, but
worthless things. I have heard of a man who would pick up a pin as he
walked along the street, on the principle of economy; but I never yet
heard of a man who would stop to pick up bruised reeds. They are not
worth having. Who would care to have a bruised reed--a piece of rush
lying on the ground? We all despise it as worthless. And smoking flax,
what is the worth of that? It is an offensive and noxious thing; but the
worth of it is nothing. No one would give the snap of a finger either for
the bruised reed or smoking flax. Well, then, beloved, in our estimation
there are many of us who are worthless things. There are some here,
who, if they could weigh themselves in the scales of the sanctuary, and
put their own hearts into the balance of conscience, would appear to be
good for nothing--worthless, useless. There was a time when you
thought yourselves to be the very best people in the world--when if any
one had said that you had more than you deserved, you would have
kicked at it, and said, "I believe I am as good as other people." You
thought yourselves something wonderful--extremely worthy of God's
love and regard; but you now feel yourselves to be worthless.
Sometimes you imagine God can hardly know where you are, you are
such a despicable creature--so worthless--not worth his consideration.
You can understand how he can look upon an animalcule in a drop of
water, or upon a grain of dust in the sunbeam, or upon the insect of the
summer evening; but you can hardly tell how he can think of you, you
appear so worthless--a dead blank in the world, a useless thing. You
say, "What good am I? I am doing nothing. As for a minister of the
gospel, he is of some service; as for a deacon of the church, he is of
some use; as for a Sabbath-school teacher, he is doing some good; but
of what service am I?" But you might ask the same question here. What
is the use of a bruised reed? Can a man lean upon it? Can a man
strengthen himself therewith? Shall it be a pillar in my house? Can you
bind it up into the pipes of Pan, and make music come from a bruised
reed? Ah! no; it is of no service. And of what use is smoking flax? the
midnight traveller cannot be lighted by it; the student cannot read by
the flame of it. It is of no use; men throw it into the fire and consume it.
Ah! that is how you talk of yourselves. You are good for nothing, so
are these things. But Christ will not throw you away because you are of
no value. You do not know of what use you may be, and you cannot
tell how Jesus Christ values you after all. There is a good woman there,
a mother, perhaps, she says, "Well, I do not often go out--I keep house
with my children, and seem to be doing no good." Mother, do not say
so, your position is a high, lofty, responsible one; and in training up
children for the Lord, you are doing as much for his name as yon
eloquent Apollos, who so valiantly preached the word. And you, poor
man, all you can do is to toil from morning till night, and earn just
enough to enable you to live day by day, you have nothing to give
away, and when you go to the Sabbath-school, you can just read, you
cannot teach much--well, but unto him to whom little is given of him
little is required. Do you not know that there is such a thing as
glorifying God by sweeping the street crossing? If two angels were sent
down to earth, one to rule an empire, and the other to sweep a street,
they would have no choice in the matter, so long as God ordered them.
So God, in his providence, has called you to work hard for your daily
bread; do it to his glory. "Whatsoever ye do, whether ye eat or drink,
do all to his honor." But, ah! I know there are some of you here who
seem useless to the Church. You do all you can; but when you have
done it, it is nothing; you can neither help us with money, nor talents,
nor time, and, therefore, you think God must cast you out. You think if
you were like Paul or Peter you might be safe. Ah! beloved, talk not so;
Jesus Christ saith he will not quench the useless flax, nor break the
worthless bruised reed; he has something for the useless and for the
worthless ones. But mark you, I do not say this to excuse laziness--to
excuse those that can do, but do not; that is a very different thing.
There is a whip for the ass, a scourge for idle men, and they must have
it sometimes. I am speaking now of those who cannot do it; not of
Issacher, who is like a strong ass, crouching down between two
burdens, and too lazy to get up with them. I say nothing for the
sluggard, who will not plough by reason of the cold, but of the men and
women who really feel that they can be of little service--who cannot do
more; and to such, the words of the text are applicable.
Now we will make another remark. The two things here mentioned are
offensive things. A bruised reed is offensive, for I believe there is an
allusion here to the pipes of Pan, which you all know are reeds put
together, along which a man moves his mouth, thus causing some kind
of music. This is the organ, I believe which Jubal invented, and which
David mentions, for it is certain that the organ we use was not then in
use. The bruised reed, then, would of course spoil the melody of all the
pipes; one unsound tube would so let the air out, as to produce a
discordant sound, or no sound at all, so that one's impulse would be to
take the pipe out and put in a fresh one. And, as for smoking flax, the
wick of a candle or anything of that kind, I need not inform you that the
smoke is offensive. To me no odour in all the world is so abominably
offensive as smoking flax. But some say, "How can you speak in so
low a style?" I have not gone lower than I could go myself, nor lower
than you can go with me; for I am sure you are, if God the Holy Ghost
has really humbled you, just as offensive to your own souls, and just as
offensive to God as a bruised reed would be among the pipes, or as
smoking flax to the eyes and nose. I often think of dear old John
Bunyan, when he said he wished God had made him a toad, or a frog,
or a snake, or anything rather than a man, for he felt he was so
offensive. Oh! I can conceive a nest of vipers, and I think that they are
obnoxious; I can imagine a pool of all kinds of loathsome creatures,
breeding corruption, but there is nothing one half so worthy of
abhorrence as the human heart. God spares from all eyes but his own
that awful sight--a human heart; and could you and I but once see our
heart, we should be driven mad, so horrible would be the sight. Do you
feel like that? Do you feel that you must be offensive in God's sight--
that you have so rebelled against him, so turned away from his
commandments, that surely you must be obnoxious to him? If so, my
text is yours.
Now, I can imagine some woman here this morning who has departed
from the paths of virtue; and, while she is standing in the throng up
there, or sitting down, she feels as if she had no right to tread these
hallowed courts, and stand among God's people. She thinks that God
might almost make the chapel break down upon her to destroy her, she
is so great a sinner. Never mind, broken reed and smoking flax!
Though thou art the scorn of man, and loathsome to thyself, yet Jesus
saith to thee, "Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more, lest a
worse thing come unto thee." There is some man here who hath
something in his heart that I know not of--who may have committed
crimes in secret, that we will not mention in public; his sins stick like a
leech to him, and rob him of all comfort. Here you are young man,
shaking and trembling, lest your crime should be divulged before high
heaven; you are broken down, bruised like a reed, smoking like flax.
Ah! I have a word for thee too. Comfort! comfort! comfort! Despair
not; for Jesus saith he will not quench the smoking flax, he will not
break the bruised reed.
And yet, my dear friends, there is one thought before I turn away from
this point. Both of these articles, however worthless they may be, may
yet be of some service. When God puts his hand to a man, if he were
worthless and useless before, he can make him very valuable. You
know the price of an article does not depend so much upon the value of
the raw material to begin with--bruised reeds and smoking flax; but by
Divine workmanship both these things become of wondrous value. You
tell me the bruised reed is good for nothing; I tell you that Christ will
take that bruised reed and mend it up, and fit it in the pipes of heaven.
Then when the grand orchestra shall send forth its music, when the
organs of the skies shall peal forth their deep-toned sounds, we shall
ask, "What was that sweet note heard there, mingling with the rest?"
And some one shall say, "It was a bruised reed." Ah! Mary
Magdalene's voice in heaven, I imagine, sounds more sweet and liquid
than any other; and the voice of that poor thief, who said "Lord,
remember me," if it is a deep bass voice, is more mellow and more
sweet than the voice of any other, because he loved much, for he had
much forgiven him. This reed may yet be of use. Do not say you are
good for nothing; you shall sing up in heaven yet. Do not say you are
worthless; at last you shall stand before the throne among the blood-
washed company, and shall sing God's praise. Ay! and the smoking
flax too, what good can that be? I will soon tell you. There is a spark in
that flax somewhere; it is nearly out, but still a spark remaineth. Behold
the prairie on fire! See you the flames come rolling on? See you stream
after stream of hot fire deluging the plain till all the continent is burnt
and scorched--till heaven is reddened with the flame. Old night's black
face is scarred with the burning, and the stars appear affrighted at the
conflagration. How was that mass ignited? By a piece of smoking flax
dropped by some traveller, fanned by the soft wind, till the whole
prairie caught the flame. So one poor man, one ignorant man, one weak
man, even one backsliding man, may be the means of the conversion of
a whole nation. Who knows but that you who are nothing now, may be
of more use than those of us who appear to stand better before God,
because we have more gifts and talents? God can make a spark set a
world on fire--he can light up a whole nation with the spark of one
poor praying soul. You may be useful yet; therefore be of good cheer.
Moss groweth upon gravestones; the ivy clingeth to the mouldering
pile; the mistletoe groweth on the dead branch; and even so shall grace,
and piety, and virtue, and holiness, and goodness, come from smoking
flax and bruised reeds.
II. Thus, then, my dear friends, I have tried to find out the parties for
whom this text is meant, and I have shown you somewhat of mortal
frailty;
Now I mount a step higher--to DIVINE COMPASSION.
"The bruised reed he will not break, the smoking flax he will not
quench."
Notice what is first of all stated, and then let me tell you that Jesus
Christ means a great deal more than he says. First of all, what does he
say? He says plainly enough that he will not break the bruised reed.
There is a bruised reed before me--a poor child of God under a deep
sense of sin. It seems as if the whip of the law would never stop. It
keeps on, lash, lash, lash; and though you say, "Lord, stop it, and give
me a little respite," still comes down the cruel thong, lash, lash, lash.
You feel your sins. Ah! I know what you are saying this morning: "If
God continues this a little longer my heart will break: I shall perish in
despair; I am almost distracted by my sin; if I lie down at night I cannot
sleep; it appears as if ghosts were in the room--ghosts of my sins--and
when I awake at midnight, I see the black form of death staring at me,
and saying, 'Thou art my prey, I shall have thee;' while hell behind
seems to burn." Ah! poor bruised reed, he will not break you;
conviction shall be too strong; it shall be great enough to melt thee, and
to make thee go to Jesus' feet; but it shall not be strong enough to break
thy heart altogether, so that thou shouldst die. Thou shalt never be
driven to despair; but thou shalt be delivered; thou shalt come out of
the fire, poor bruised reed, and shalt not be broken.
So there is a backslider here this morning; he is like the smoking flax.
Years gone by you found such happiness in the ways of the Lord, and
such delight in his service, that you said, "There I would for ever stay.
'What peaceful hours I then enjoyed;
How sweet their memory still!
But they have left an aching void,
The world can never fill.'"
You are smoking, and you think God will put you out. If I were an
Arminian, I should tell you that he would; but being a believer in the
Bible, and nothing else, I tell you that he will not quench you. Though
you are smoking, you shall not die. Whatever your crime has been, the
Lord says, "Return ye backsliding children of men, for I will have
mercy upon you." He will not cast thee away, poor Ephriam; only
come back to him--he will not despise thee, though thou hast plunged
thyself in the mire and dirt, though thou art covered from head to foot
with filthiness; come back, poor prodigal, come back, come back! Thy
father calls thee. Hearken poor backslider! Come at once to him whose
arms are ready to receive thee.
It says he will not quench--he will not break. But there is more under
cover than we see at first sight. When Jesus says he will not break, he
means more than that; he means, "I will take that poor bruised reed; I
will plant it hard by the rivers of waters, and (miracle of miracles) I
will make it grow into a tree whose leaf shall not wither; I will water it
every moment; I will watch it; there shall be heavenly fruits upon it; I
will keep the birds of prey from it; but the birds of heaven, the sweet
songsters of paradise shall make their dwellings in the branches."
When he says that he will not break the bruised reed, he means more;
he means that he will nourish, that he will help, and strengthen, and
support and glorify--that he will execute his commission on it, and
make it glorious for ever. And when he says to the backslider that he
will not quench him, he means more than that--he means that he will
fan him up to a flame. Some of you, I dare say, have gone home from
chapel and found that your fire had gone nearly out; I know how you
deal with it; you blow gently at the single spark, if there is one, and lest
you should blow too hard, you hold your finger before it; and if you
were alone and had but one match, or one spark in the tinder, how
gently would you blow it. So, backslider, Jesus Christ deals with thee;
he does not put thee out; he blows gently; he says, "I will not quench
thee;" he means, "I will be very tender, very cautious, very careful;" he
will put on dry material, so that by-and-by a little spark shall come to a
flame, and blaze up towards heaven, and great shall be the fire thereof.
Now I want to say one or two things to Little-Faiths this morning. The
little children of God who are here mentioned as being bruised reeds or
smoking flax are just as safe as the great saints of God. I wish for a
moment to expand this thought, and then I will finish with the other
head. These saints of God who are called bruised reeds and smoking
flax are just as safe as those who are mighty for their Master, and great
in strength, for several reasons. First of all, the little saint is just as
much God's elect as the great saint. When God chose his people, he
chose them all at once, and altogether; and he elected one just as much
as the other. If I choose a certain number of things, one may be less
than the rest, but one is as much chosen as the other; and so Mrs.
Fearing and Miss Despondency are just as much elected as Great-
Heart, or Old Father Honest. Again: the little ones are redeemed
equally with the great ones! the feeble saints cost Christ as much
suffering as the strong ones; the tiniest child of God could not have
been purchased with less than Jesus' precious blood; and the greatest
child of God did not cost him more. Paul did not cost any more than
Benjamin--I am sure he did not--for I read in the Bible that "there is no
difference." Besides, when of old they came to pay their redemption-
money, every person brought a shekel. The poor shall bring no less,
and the rich shall bring no more than just a shekel. The same price was
paid for the one as the other. Now then little child of God, take that
thought to thy soul. You see some men very prominent in Christ's
cause--and it is very good that they should be--but they did not cost
Jesus a farthing more than you did; he paid the same price for you that
he paid for them. Recollect again, you are just as much a child of God
as the greatest saint. Some of you have five or six children. There is
one child of yours, perhaps, who is very tall and handsome, and has,
moreover, gifts of mind; and you have another child who is the smallest
of the family, perhaps has but little intellect and understanding. But
which is the most your child? "The most!" you say; "both alike are my
children, certainly, one as much as the other." And so, dear friends, you
may have very little learning, you may be very dark about divine
things, you may but "see men as trees walking," but you are as much
the children of God as those who have grown to the stature of men in
Christ Jesus. Then remember, poor tried saint, that you are just as
much justified as any other child of God. I know that I am completely
justified.
His blood and righteousness
My beauty are, my glorious dress.
I want no other garments, save Jesus' doings, and his imputed
righteousness.
The boldest child of God wants no more; and I who am "less than the
least of all saints," can be content with no less, and I shall have no less.
O Ready-to-Halt, thou art as much justified as Paul, Peter, John the
Baptist, or the loftiest saint in heaven. There is no difference in that
matter. Oh! take courage and rejoice.
Then one thing more. If you were lost, God's honor would be as much
tarnished as if the greatest one were lost. A queer thing I once read in
an old book about God's children and people being a part of Christ and
in union with him. The writer says--"A father sitteth in his room, and
there cometh in a stranger; the stranger taketh up a child on his knee,
and the child hath a sore finger; so he saith, 'My child, you have a sore
finger;' 'Yes!' 'Well, let me take it off, and give thee a golden one!' The
child looketh at him and saith, 'I will not go to that man any more, for
he talks of taking off my finger; I love my own finger, and I will not
have a golden one instead of it.'" So the saint saith, "I am one of the
members of Christ, but I am like a sore finger, and he will take me off
and put a golden one on." "No," said Christ, "no, no; I cannot have any
of my members taken away; if the finger be a sore one, I will bind it
up; I will strengthen it." Christ cannot allow a word about cutting his
members off. If Christ lose one of his people, he would not be a whole
Christ any longer. If the meanest of his children could be cast away,
Christ would lack a part of his fullness; yea, Christ would be
incomplete without his Church. If one of his children must be lost, it
would be better that it should be a great one, than a little one. If a little
one were lost, Satan would say, "Ah! you save the great ones, because
they had strength and could help themselves; but the little one that has
no strength, you could not save him." You know what Satan would
say; but God would shut Satan's mouth, by proclaiming, "They are all
here, Satan, in spite of thy malice, they are all here; every one is safe;
now lie down in thy den for ever, and be bound eternally in chains, and
smoke in fire!" So shall he suffer eternal torment, but not one child of
God ever shall.
One thought more and I shall have done with this head. The salvation
of great saints often depends upon the salvation of little ones. Do you
understand that? You know that my salvation, or the salvation of any
child of God, looking at second causes, very much depends upon the
conversion of some one else. Suppose your mother is the means of
your conversion, you would, speaking after the manner of men, say,
that your conversion depended upon hers; for her being converted,
made her the instrument of bringing you in. Suppose such-and-such a
minister to be the means of your calling; then your conversion, in some
sense, though not absolutely, depends upon his. So it often happens,
that the salvation of God's mightiest servants depends upon the
conversion of little ones. There is a poor mother; no one ever knows
anything about her; she goes to the house of God, her name is not in
the newspapers, or anywhere else; she teaches her child, and brings
him up in the fear of God; she prays for that boy; she wrestles with
God, and her tears and prayers mingle together. The boy grows up.
What is he? A missionary--a William Knibb--a Moffat--a Williams. But
you do not hear anything about the mother. Ah! but if the mother had
not been saved, where would the boy have been? Let this cheer the
little ones; and may you rejoice that he will nourish and cherish you,
though you are like bruised reeds and smoking flax.
Now, to finish up, there is a CERTAIN VICTORY.
"Till he send forth judgment unto victory."
Victory! There is something beautiful in that word. The death of Sir
John Moore, in the Peninsular war, was very touching; he fell in the
arms of triumph; and sad as was his fate, I doubt not that his eye was
lit up with lustre by the shout of victory. So also, I suppose, that Wolfe
spoke a truth when he said, "I die happy," having just before heard the
shout, "they run, they run." I know victory even in that bad sense--for I
look not upon earthly victories as of any value--must have cheered the
warrior. But oh! how cheered the saint when he knows that victory is
his! I shall fight during all my life, but I shall write "vici" on my shield.
I shall be "more than conqueror through him that loved me." Each
feeble saint shall win the day; each man upon his crutches; each lame
one; each one full of infirmity, sorrow, sickness, and weakness, shall
gain the victory. "They shall come with singing unto Zion; as well the
blind, and lame, and halt, and the woman with child, together." So saith
the Scripture. Not one shall be left out; but he shall "send forth
judgment unto victory." Victory! victory! victory! This is the lot of each
Christian; he shall triumph through his dear Redeemer's name.
Now a word about this victory. I speak first to aged men and women.
Dear brethren and sisters, you are often, I know, like the bruised reed.
Coming events cast their shadows before them; and death casts the
shadow of old age on you. You feel the grasshopper to be a burden;
you feel full of weakness and decay; your frame can hardly hold
together. Ah! you have here a special promise. "The bruised reed I will
not break." "I will strengthen thee." "When thy heart and thy flesh
faileth, I will be the strength of thy heart and thy portion for ever."
Even down to old age, all my people shall prove
My sovereign, eternal, unchangeable love;
And when hoary hairs shall their temples adorn,
Like lambs they shall still in my bosom be borne.
Tottering on thy staff, leaning, feeble, weak, and wan; fear not the last
hour; that last hour shall be thy best; thy last day shall be a
consummation devoutly to be wished. Weak as thou art, God will
temper the trial to thy weakness; he will make thy pain less, if thy
strength be less; but thou shalt sing in heaven, Victory! victory!
victory! There are some of us who could wish to change places with
you, to be so near heaven--to be so near home. With all your
infirmities, your grey hairs are a crown of glory to you; for you are near
the end as well as in the way of righteousness.
A word with you middle-aged men, battling in this life's rough storm.
You are often bruised reeds, your religion is so encumbered by your
worldly callings, so covered up by the daily din of business, business,
business, that you seem like smoking flax; it is as much as you can do
to serve your God, and you cannot say that you are "fervent in spirit"
as well as "diligent in business." Man of business, toiling and striving
in this world, he will not quench thee when thou art like smoking flax;
he will not break thee when thou art like the bruised reed, but will
deliver thee from thy troubles, thou shalt swim across the sea of life,
and shalt stand on the happy shore of heaven, and shalt sing, "Victory"
through him that loved thee.
Ye youths and maidens! I speak to you, and have a right to do so. You
and I ofttimes know what the bruised reed is, when the hand of God
blights our fair hopes. We are full of giddiness and waywardness, it is
only the rod of affliction that can bring folly out of us, for we have
much of it in us. Slippery paths are the paths of youths, and dangerous
ways are the ways of the young, but God will not break or destroy us.
Men, by their over caution, bid us never tread a step lest we fall; but
God bids us go, and makes our feet like hind's feet that we may tread
upon high places. Serve God in early days; give your hearts to him, and
then he will never cast you out, but will nourish and cherish you.
Let me not finish without saying a word to little children. You who
have never heard of Jesus, he says to you, "The bruised reed I will not
break; the smoking flax I will not quench." I believe there is many a
little prattler, not six years old, who knows the Saviour. I never despise
infantile piety; I love it. I have heard little children talk of mysteries
that grey-headed men knew not. Ah! little children who have been
brought up in the Sabbath-schools, and love the Saviour's name, if
others say you are too forward, do not fear, love Christ still.
Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Still will look upon a child;
Pity thy simplicity,
And suffer thee to come to him.
He will not cast thee away; for smoking flax he will not quench, and
the bruised reed he will not break.
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