III. Let us observe, in the next place, how all classes alike come to the grave.
The rich man in the parable died, and Lazarus died also. Different and divided as they were in their lives, they had both to drink of the same cup at the last. Both went to the house appointed for all living. Both went to that place where rich and poor meet together. Dust they were, and unto dust they returned. (Gen. iii. 19.)
This is the lot of all men. It will be our own, unless the Lord shall first return in glory. After all our scheming, and contriving, and planning, and studying,—after all our inventions, and discoveries, and scientific attainments,—there remains one enemy we cannot conquer and disarm, and that is death. The chapter in Genesis which records the long lives of Methuselah and the rest who lived before the flood, winds up the simple story of each by two expressive words: "he died." And now, after 4,800 years, what more can be said of the greatest among ourselves? The histories of Marlborough, and Washington, and Napoleon, and Wellington, arrive at just the same humbling conclusion. The end of each, after all his greatness is just this,—"he died."
Death is a mighty leveller. He spares none, he waits for none, and stands on no ceremony. He will not tarry till you are ready. He will not be kept out by moats, and doors, and bars, and bolts. The Englishman boasts that his home is his castle, but with all his boasting, he cannot exclude death. An Austrian nobleman forbade death and the smallpox to be named in his presence. But, named or not named, it matters little, in God's appointed hour death will come.
One man rolls easily along the road in the easiest and handsomest carriage that money can procure. Another toils wearily along the path on foot. Yet both are sure to meet at last in the same home.
One man, like Absalom, has fifty servants to wait upon him and do his bidding. Another has none to lift a finger to do him a service. But both are travelling to a place where they must lie down alone.
One man is the owner of hundreds of thousands. Another has scarce a shilling that he can call his own property. Yet neither one nor the other can carry one farthing with him into the unseen world.
One man is the possessor of half a county. Another has not so much as a garden of herbs. And yet two paces of the vilest earth will be amply sufficient for either of them at the last.
One man pampers his body with every possible delicacy, and clothes it in the richest and softest apparel. Another has scarce enough to eat, and seldom enough to put on. Yet both alike are hurrying on to a day when "ashes to ashes, and dust to dust," shall be proclaimed over them, and fifty years hence none shall be able to say, "This was the rich man's bone, and this the bone of the poor."
I know that these are ancient things. I do not deny it for a moment. I am writing stale old things that all men know. But I am also writing things that all men do not feel. Oh, no! if they did feel them they would not speak and act as they do.