Page:SermonsFromTheLatins.djvu/57

 Scripture, the  Church  in  her  liturgy,  and  Nature  with a thousand  tongues,  proclaim  that  man  is  dust  and shall return  to  dust. Yet will  such  warning  make  no deeper  or  more  lasting  impression  on  your  soul  than do the  Lenten  ashes  on  your  forehead? Damocles, they say,  though  crowned  as  king  and  seated  at  a royal  banquet,  failed  to  enjoy  himself  because  above his head  there  hung  suspended  by  a  single  hair  a naked  sword, — and  you — will  you  revel  in  forbidden pleasures within  the  very  swing  of  death's  fierce scythe? Afloat in  a  frail  bark  on  the  sea  of  life,  you cannot but  feel  that  but  an  inch  divides  you  from  the ocean of  eternity,  and  can  you,  notwithstanding winds and  waves,  still  sleep  the  sleep  of  sin? Jonas voyaging to  Tharsis  in  defiance  of  God,  and  Jesus  on the  sea  of  Galilee — each  slept  amid  the  storm,  but neither Jonas'  despair  nor  the  conscious  sanctity  of Christ  can  be  the  secret  of  your  unconcern. Your indifference is  founded  on  the  hope  that  the  fates have allotted  you  length  of  days. Ah! remember that the  thread  of  life  that  Clotho  spins  and  Lachesis directs must  pass  between  the  busy  shears  of  Atropos. To John  in  Patmos  death  appeared  as  a  sickly  knight on a  jaded  horse,  but  that  vision  of  death  is  that  of  a saint  desiring  to  be  dissolved  and  be  with  God. To sinners such  as  you,  death  is  an  invincible  warrior  on a  flying  steed,  armed  with  a  spear  to  slay  the  weak, and arrows  to  kill  from  afar  the  unsuspecting  strong. Aye, and  on  his  heel  is  a  spur  that  you  yourselves  have buckled there  to  hasten  his  approach — the  spur  of  sin. " For,"  says  Scripture,  "  by  sin  death  comes  into