Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/176

 covery: they  deceive  him,  in  order  that  he  may  deceive  himself. The Scriptures  must  be  fulfilled:  the  sinner  must  be  taken  by  surprise in  this  last  moment. Thou hast  said  it,  O  my  God! and thy words are  the  words  of  truth.

His surprises. — Abandoned by  all  the  succours  of  art,  delivered up alone  to  anguish  and  disease,  he  still  cannot  persuade  himself that death  is  near. He flatters  himself;  he  still  hopes:  the  justice of God,  it  would  seem,  leaves  him  a  remnant  of  reason,  for  the  sole purpose of  seducing  himself. From his  terrors,  his  astonishment, his inquietudes,  we  see  clearly  that  he  still  comprehends  not  the necessity of  death. He torments,  he  agitates  himself,  as  if  by these  means  he  could  escape  death:  but  his  agitations  are  only occasioned by  regret  for  the  loss  of  life,  and  are  not  the  effects  of grief  for  having  wickedly  spent  it. The blinded  sinner  must  be  so to  the  end;  and  his  death  must  be  similar  to  his  life.

In a  word,  his  surprises. — He sees  now  that  the  world  has  all along deceived  him;  that  it  has  continually  led  him  from  illusion to illusion,  and  from  hope  to  hope;  that  things  have  never  taken place exactly  as  he  had  promised  himself;  and  that  he  has  always been the  dupe  of  his  own  errors. He cannot  comprehend  how  his blindness could  possibly  be  so  constant;  that  for  such  a  series  of years  he  could  obstinately  continue  to  make  such  sacrifices  for  a world,  for  masters,  whose  only  payment  has  been  vain  promises; and that  his  entire  life  has  been  one  continued  indifference  on  the part of  the  world  to  him,  and  an  intoxication  on  his  to  the  world. But what  overpowers  him  is,  the  impossibility  of  remedying  the mistake; that  he  can  die  only  once;  and  that,  after  having  badly run his  race,  he  can  no  more  recall  the  past,  or,  by  retracing  his  steps, undertake a  new  trial. Thou art  just,  O  my  God! and thou  wiliest that the  sinner  should  in  advance  pronounce  against  himself,  in order  that  he  may  afterward  be  judged  from  his  own  mouth.

The surprises  of  the  dying  sinner  are,  therefore,  overwhelming; but the  separations  which  take  place  in  that  last  moment  are  not less so  for  him. The more  he  was  attached  to  the  world,  to  life, to all  its  works,  the  more  does  he  suffer  when  a  separation  becomes inevitable. Every tie  which  must  now  be  broken  asunder,  becomes a wound  which  rankles  in  his  heart;  every  separation  becomes  a new  death  to  his  mind.

Separation from  the  riches  which,  with  such  constant  and  laborious attention  he  had  accumulated,  by  means,  perhaps,  repugnant to salvation;  in  the  possession  of  which  he  obstinately  persisted, in spite  of  all  the  reproaches  of  his  conscience,  and  which  he  had cruelly refused  to  the  necessities  of  his  brethren. — They now,  however, escape  from  him;  the  mass  of  earth  is  dissipated  before  his eyes; his  love,  his  regret  for  their  loss,  and  the  guilt  of  having  acquired them,  are  the  only  remaining  proofs  that  they  were  once  in his  possession.

Separation from  the  magnificence  which  surrounds  him;  from his proud  edifices,  in  whose  stately  walls  he  once  fondly  believed he had  erected    an    asylum  against  death;    from  the  vanity  and