But the prominent point of the text is, that the day is the time for work; the brief period set apart for labour; the chosen opportunity, the short time in which it is our sacred privilege to be doing something for God and man—something to bring man nearer to God, and something to bring down God’s blessing in larger abundance upon man. Thus our various positions in life correspond with the various periods of the day. There is the little child, with its mind just opening and intelligence just dawning, like the sun rising in the east. There is the young man, entering life full of energy, hope, and power, with all his work before him, corresponding to the morning period, when the risen sun is summoning mankind to labour. There is the middle-aged man, with the advantage of half a life’s experience, and scarcely yet feeling the symptoms of decay, like the sun at its height in the fulness of his meridian splendour. And there is the aged Christian, with the grey hairs coming on upon his head, with his strength diminishing, but wisdom deepening and hope brightening, with the greater part of life already past, and an earnest desire that the short remainder should be well occupied for God,—corresponding to the gradual closing in of evening. And then, at last, there is the bright conclusion, when the soul is lighted up at the immediate prospect of his Lord’s presence; when rest is taking the place of labour, and triumph that of conflict; so that there is all the beauty of a glorious Christian sunset.
“And when he comes nearer to finish his race,
Like a fine setting sun he looks richer in grace,
And gives a new hope at the end of his days
Of rising in brighter array.”
II. The night.
Our Lord says, “The night cometh.”
Now, there is something inexpressibly solemn in such a thought to the unconverted and unprepared; for the night, in such a case, is the deep, dark, cheerless night, that settles down on the wicked; a night of black darkness, and without one ray of light or hope; a night in which there is not even one star visible, nor the least encouragement from the most distant hope of morning. “To what end,” saith the Prophet, “is the day of the Lord to you? The day of the Lord is darkness and not light.” Oh! that every unconverted man would consider well what is his own prospect when his sun sets, and would make haste in seeking that blessed Lord who can turn darkness into light, and death into immortality and life!
But how different is the night to the believer,—to such an one as we are now called to mourn! When the evening was closing in, and the sun just setting, she was not aware of her great danger, and still thought she had strength to recover; but when a dear friend thought it her duty to inform her that the time of separation was very nearly come, her reply was that of calm faith and full submission,—“Let us then obediently receive it.” The truth was realized, and accepted at the hand of God. There is no real night in such a case; or, if there be, it is like the night in the Arctic summer, in which the sun is always visible; for such are never separate from Him who is both light and life.
“Sun of my soul, thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if thou art near.”
Or it is like the night in the height of summer, when the twilight of evening waits to welcome the dawn of morning, and it is almost difficult to discover whether it is the past sunset or the coming sunrise that sheds a soft brightness over the heavens. So, throughout the believer’s night-time, there is continuous light till the morning dawns. And then what a morning will it be! The morning of resurrection, the morning of righteousness, the morning of joy, the morning of the Redeemer’s triumph! “Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” Every tear will then be dry; every anxious soul will then be satisfied; every aching heart will then be healed, and every care forgotten in the sweet peace of uninterrupted union with Christ.
Such is the night of the believer; and therefore it appears only to deserve the name of night because it is the close of this world’s working season. Angels, not men, do the work of heaven; and they are sent forth to minister to them that shall be heirs of salvation. But to the believer, the characteristic of the heavenly state is rest. The interval between death and the resurrection is a period of holy, happy, peaceful, intelligent rest. “They rest from their labours, and their works do follow them.” When the late lamented Bishop Weeks was entering on his most laborious mission at Lambeth, and when it was remarked to him that he would have hard work to carry out his plans, his reply was,—“But there will be plenty of rest at the end.” It is well to dwell on that blessed hope of rest; it is well, when the heart grows weary, to know that there is repose in prospect. That, however, is not the great lesson to be learned, but rather this. If that be the time for rest, then this is the day for work; and we must all make haste to seize the opportunity in its rapid flight. I remember to have seen a card in the study of a friend, on which it was written, “Lost between the hours of sunrise and sunset a golden hour, set in sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered for their recovery, for they are lost for ever.” Oh, let not the precious time which God has given us be lost, but rather at the close of each day let us each one put the question, and put it honestly—What has been done this day for God? I had the great privilege of visiting the late Mrs. Fry in her dying illness, and she then said to me, “I believe I can safely say that, since the time of my conversion, my first thought on awaking has been, what can I do this day for God?” Would that all of us lived in such a spirit, with a more constant thoughtfulness for our Master’s service! For is it possible to imagine anything more deeply affecting, than to see a man at the close of life with no effort made for Him who has redeemed him by his blood? There he is with his race nearly run, and his opportunity almost over. He has passed through life with time and talents; with friends, servants, children, under his influence, and now what has he done? He may have made his fortune, acquired a reputation, and filled his home with comforts; he may have done well for himself, and perhaps done well for his family; but for his God, for his blessed Lord who has done all for him, who has shed his own most precious blood that his sins might be blotted out—for Him he has done nothing. His day is almost over, and he has spent it for himself; his life is nearly run out, and he has lived it for himself. And now he is about to lie down and die; but still all in himself, with his hope in himself, his strength in himself; and that hope all vanity, that strength all weakness.
How different is the end of him, who when his sun sets is found well at work for God! Who can look back on the whole pilgrimage, and though he discovers countless defects, and is compelled to come before God with the prayer, “Pardon the iniquity of my holy things;” is yet found in his harness—not rusting out, but working out, with the loins girt, and the lamp burning, and the whole man conscientiously consecrated to God!