[Footnote 244: Heb. ix. 27.]
Because we are living, therefore we must die. Adam in Paradise might have escaped death if he would, but since Adam's sin and our loss of integrity, the sentence of death has passed upon all. There is no reflection which a man can make more certainly true than this: I must die. The time is fixed. There shall come to me a day that knows no setting, a night that knows no dawn. The lights shall be lit in the church; the pall spread over the bier; the priest singing Mass at the altar. My body shall lie under that pall, and my name be mentioned in that Mass. From the church my body shall be carried to the grave, and my soul be happy or miserable according to the deeds it hath done on earth. I do not know when I shall die. Youth is no protection against death. Health is no protection against death. I do not know where I shall die. No corner of the earth can hide me from His summons. I do not know how I shall die, whether at home, among my friends, with the rites of the Church, with my reason, with a quiet mind—or abroad, or suddenly, or without the last sacraments, or with a heavy load of sin on my soul, or in a state of insensibility. All these things are uncertain; this only is certain, that I must die—that I must die, that my turn shall come; and others shall speak of me as I speak now of those already dead.
But some of you may say, why tell us this? Life is short at the best, why vex ourselves with thinking of that which we cannot prevent. We have got many projects in hand, many pleasures in prospect, and we do not want to paralyze our energies and sadden our days by meditating always on death. No, my brethren, I do not ask you to think of death in order to paralyze your energies, but to direct them aright; not to sadden your days, but to make them calm and tranquil. I know that a celebrated modern writer has made it a matter of reproach against Christianity that it sends men to learn the solemn lessons of the grave. But surely this reproach is unreasonable. It cannot be denied that men do die. The earth has already many times seen an entire generation of her inhabitants pass away. There are many more sleeping in the ground than live on its surface. Now, if this be so, if death is an inevitable fact in our history, and a fact on which much depends—if this life is not all, but after this life there is an Eternity dependent on our conduct here, it is plain that reason requires us to think of death, and he is foolish who forgets it. Besides, the thought of death is enjoined upon us by the Almighty, as a sure means of salvation: "In all thy works remember thy last end, and thou shalt never sin." [Footnote 245]
[Footnote 245: Eccles. vii. 36.]
And I will say more. The thought of death really contributes to our comfort, because it is the only way of getting rid of the fear of death. Suppose you do refuse to listen to the warnings which Death suggests, are you therefore free from anxiety? Is there no trouble in your conscience? Is there nothing frightful to you in a sleepless night, or a sickbed? would you hear with equanimity that you had a hopeless disease? No, it is the coward that will not think of death, who "all his life through fear of death is subject to slavery." Act like a man. Face this King of Terrors, and you disarm him. His countenance is stern, but his words are kind and friendly. Listen to him, and you will find that he can relax his grim features and smile upon you; and there is nothing can give you such comfort, as for death to come to you with a smiling face. The sting of death is sin: be careful to avoid sin, and then at his coming you can exclaim: "O death, where is thy victory! O death, where is thy sting!" [Footnote 246]
[Footnote 246: I. Cor. xv. 55.]
Oh, it is a shame and a disgrace that Christians think so little about death. Why, death is our best friend and our wisest counsellor. A London anatomist once placed over his dissecting-rooms this inscription: "Hic mors juvat succurrere vitæ;" "Here death helps to succor life." You see the meaning. The physician takes a dead body and studies it, spends days and nights over it, repulsive as it is, in order to learn the secrets of the living frame and how to minister to its complaints. So let the Christian look at death and learn from it how to keep his soul in health, how to secure its everlasting life. It is nothing very terrible that death has to tell us now. The time will come, if we refuse to hear him now, when his words will be terrible; but now, though solemn, though calculated to make us serious and thoughtful, they need not make us gloomy. He says, you have a great work to do, and little time to do it in—time enough, but none to spare. He says to the young: Look at me, look into my face, and see the value of beauty and of pleasure. He says to the proud: Come and see how kings and beggars lie side by side in my dominion. He says to the covetous: Come, open a grave, and see what a man carries away with him when he dies. And he says to all, you must die alone; what you are, what you have made yourself, so must you appear before God, to receive a just and final sentence. This is the sermon of Death, that he has been preaching from the beginning. It never grows old. It has converted more sinners than all missionaries and preachers by any other means. It has made more saints, induced more to embrace a religious life, sent more souls to heaven than any other sermon ever did. Oh! Death is a great preacher. There is no answer to his reasonings, no escape from his appeal. He speaks not, but his silence is eloquent. He makes no gestures, but that motionless arm of his is more expressive than the most impassioned action. There is a story told of a certain man named Guerricus, which shows how powerfully death preaches. This man was a Christian, but one who loved the world too well, and one evening he strayed into a church when the monks were singing matins. The hour, the place, all invited to reflection, and as he stood and listened, one of the monks came forth, and in a loud, clear voice sang the lesson of the day. It was as follows: "And all the time that Adam lived, came to nine hundred and thirty years, and he died. And Seth lived after he begat Enos eight hundred and seven years, and all the years of Seth were nine hundred and twelve years, and he died. And Enos begat Cainan. And all the years of Enos were nine hundred and five years, and he died. And all the days of Cainan were nine hundred and ten years, and he died." [Footnote 247]
[Footnote 247: Gen. v. 5.]