view of our lives, or a minute inspection of our hearts, claim a part in the lot of the righteous; or assure ourselves of approbation from a just and pure God? Let us have a care lest we deceive ourselves in a matter so momentous-lest we cherish an error till it be utterly irretrievable. How rests the condition of OUR

spirits before God? How many presumptuous offences have the best to account for? how great is our frailty? how numerous are our faults? how often has our conduct been wayward? how negligently have we guarded our lips? how innumerable are our offences of the heart and of the thoughts, that have not seen the light, but will all-all be brought up against us in judgment! Even our better actions, on which we plume ourselves, and by virtue and power of which we boldly claim eternity;-have we probed them to their secret motives? Have we searched how much belongs to impulse, and how little to self-denial: how much to worldly selfishness, and how little to the pure love

of God? how much is glitter, and how little is fine gold? Though these things may have all passed slightly over our minds, though they have vanished from computation, and ceased to impress conscience; assuredly they are, every one, registered in the books of God. Well, then, might the man after God's own heart exclaim, " Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord; for in thy sight shall no man living-not the holiest, not the purest-be justified." Where then is the strength of what we vainly call our virtues! where is the confidence of our hopes of eternal bliss! How, knowing ourselves, can we dare to prate of merit, or to look even in our best estate for recompense! There is a law of moral justice against us;—and that law is the sting of death; the sting, even where it is known and fully allowed that death leads to immortality. It is only under Christianity, it is only under the doctrine of the cross, that man can re-assure himself, and sing the dying song,-O death, where is thy sting! O grave, where is thy

victory! There was a sting in death, but it is extracted; there was a rigorous law, but it hath lost its terrors: thanks be unto God, which giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ.

By this reliance, obedience though imperfect is sanctified, and life while drooping is cheered. The penitent, who distrusts and disclaims his own merit, sees the salvation of God, and learns to depart in peace.

I shall now, in conclusion, set before you two portraits; the one, that of a sinner departing, either without the knowledge of a Saviour, or without daring to expect the benefit of redemption: the other, that of the righteous man, looking up with modest confidence, to the Saviour in whom he hath trusted, and the God whom he hath loved.

First, then, contemplate the transgressor at the hour of death. His guilty pleasures, his ill-gotten gains, the honours, to attain which, he hath stained the true honour of man ;-must now, in a little

while, be left behind. Let us convey ourselves to the chamber, where, at length, the son of disobedience reaches the term of all those checquered joys, for which he has made a barter of his soul. You shudder at the dismal gloom of an apartment, where the gleam of red embers, or the feeble glimmering of a taper, imperfectly displays to view the ghastly countenance of the dying man. An hireling attendant sits in silence by his side. Friends, too conscious of his past misconduct, regard one another with looks of speaking dismay; unable to dispel or to suppress their apprehensions, as to the dreadful issue of impending dissolution.

On entering this abode of stillness and sadness, you behold all around, the unavailing apparatus of medical skill; the range of labelled and half-exhausted vials; the simmering drink that may allay the thirst of fever; the delicate viand that has been but tasted and loathed. No sound disturbs the mournful domain of death, save the dull register of existence,

whose strokes, like a death-watch, taking note of the gliding moments, give dismal warning to the patient, that his last hour is about to strike;--and remind him, how little he has profited under the sun; while precious, irretrievable, feather-footed time, hath stolen away in these apparently insignificant portions. If, on witnessing this spectacle, you recoil appalled,-if the blood courses, chilled, within your veins; how will you reflect on the terrors which beset the departing transgressor, on perceiving himself arrived at the latter end of a life, misused, and not to be recalled: on the brink of a dark abyss wherein he is about to be precipitated, into an eternity wherein he has every thing to apprehend? Now, perhaps, some friend, with illjudged indulgence, approaches to soften down crimes into infirmities; some bold religious guide, invited to the couch of death, promises with full assurance, a peace that may be imaginary; and pours the balm of FALSEHOOD on the soul that is ready to perish. Heaven forbid that in