Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/179

 "I," says  he  to  himself,  who  formerly  attracted  every  look,  "  I call  my  servants,  and  they  give  me  no  answer;  my  breath  is  corrupt; my  days  are  extinct;  the  grave  is  ready  for  me." — Job xix. 17.

Lastly, change  in  every  thing  which  surrounds  him. — His eyes seek some  resting-place,  some  object  of  comfort,  and  no  where  do they  find  but  the  dreary  representations  of  death. Yet even  still, the remembrance  of  the  past,  and  the  view  of  the  present,  would be little  to  the  expiring  sinner;  could  he  confine  himself  to  these, he would  not  be  so  completely  miserable;  but  the  thoughts  of  a futurity  convulse  him  with  horror  and  despair. That futurity,  that incomprehensible region  of  darkness,  which  he  now  approaches, conscience his  only  companion;  that  futurity,  that  unknown  land from which  no  traveller  has  ever  returned,  where  he  knows  not whom he  shall  find,  nor  what  awaits  him;  that  futurity,  that  fathomless abyss,  in  which  his  mind  is  lost  and  bewildered,  and  into which he  must  now  plunge,  ignorant  of  his  destiny;  that  futurity, that tomb,  that  residence  of  horror,  where  he  must  now  occupy  his place amongst  the  ashes  and  the  carcasses  of  his  ancestors;  that  futurity, that  incomprehensible  eternity,  even  the  aspect  of  which  he cannot  support;  that  futurity,  in  a  word,  that  dreadful  judgment to which,  before  the  wrath  of  God,  he  must  now  appear,  and  render account  of  a  life  of  which  every  moment  almost  has  been  occupied by  crimes. Alas! while he  only  looked  forward  to  this  terrible futurity,  at  a  distance,  he  made  an  infamous  boast  of  not  dreading it; he  continually  demanded,  with  a  tone  of  blasphemy  and  derision, who is  returned  from  it? He ridiculed  the  vulgar  apprehensions, and piqued  himself  upon  his  undaunted  courage. But from  the moment that  the  hand  of  God  is  upon  him;  from  the  moment  that death approaches  near,  that  the  gates  of  eternity  open  to  receive him, and  that  he  touches  upon  that  terrible  futurity,  against  which he seemed  so  fortified;  ah! he then  becomes  either  weak,  trembling, dissolved  in  tears,  raising  up  suppliant  hands  to  heaven,  or gloomy,  silent,  agitated,  revolving  within  himself  the  most  dreadful thoughts, and  no  longer  expecting  more  consolation  or  mercy,  from his weak  tears  and  lamentations,  than  from  his  frenzies  and  despair.

Yes, my  brethren,-  this  unfortunate  wretch,  who  had  always  lulled himself in  his  excesses;  always  flattered  himself,  that  one  good moment alone  was  necessary,  one  sentiment  of  compunction  before death, to  appease  the  anger  of  God,  despairs  then  of  his  clemency. In vain  he  is  told  of  his  eternal  mercies:  he  feels  to  what  a  degree he is  unworthy  of  them:  in  vain  the  minister  of  the  church  endeavours to  soothe  his  terrors,  by  opening  to  him  the  bosom  of  his divine mercy;  these  promises  touch  him  little,  because  he  knows well that  the  charity  of  the  church,  which  never  despairs  of  salvation for  its  children,  cannot,  however,  alter  the  awful  justice  of  the judgments of  God. In vain  is  he  promised  forgiveness  of  his crimes; a  secret  and  terrible  voice  resounds  from  the  bottom  of  his heart, and  tells  him  that  there  is  no  salvation  for  the  impious,  and that he  can  have  no  dependence  upon  promises  which  are  given  to his  miseries  rather  than  to  the  truth. In vain  is  he  exhorted  to apply  to  those  last  remedies  which  the  church  offers  to  the  dying: