Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/181

 himself, in  order  to  fly  from  death,  which  grasps  him,  or  at  least  to fly  from  himself:  from  his  expiring  eyes  issue  something,  I  know not what,  of  dark  and  gloomy,  which  expresses  the  fury  of  his  soul. In his  anguish  he  utters  words,  interrupted  by  sobs,  which  are  unintelligible, and  to  which  they  know  not  whether  repentance  or  despair gives  birth. He is  seized  with  convulsions  which  they  are ignorant whether  to  ascribe  to  the  actual  dissolution  of  his  body, or to  the  soul  which  feels  the  approach  of  its  Judge. He deeply sighs, and  they  know  not  whether  the  remembrance  of  his  past crimes, or  the  despair  of  quitting  life,  forces  from  him  such  groans of anguish. At last,  in  the  midst  of  these  melancholy  exertions, his eyes  fix,  his  features  change,  his  countenance  becomes  disfigured, his  livid  lips  convulsively  separate,  his  whole  frame  quivers, and, by  this  last  effort,  his  unfortunate  soul  tears  itself  reluctantly from that  body  of  clay,  falls  into  the  hands  of  its  God,  and  finds itself alone  at  the  foot  of  the  awful  tribunal.

My brethren,  in  this  manner  do  those  expire  who  forget  their Creator during  life. Thus shall  you  yourselves  die,  if  your  crimes accompany you  to  that  last  moment.

Every thing  will  change  in  your  eyes,  and  you  shall  not  change yourselves: you  shall  die,  and  you  shall  die  in  sin  as  you  have lived; and  your  death  will  be  similar  to  your  life. Prevent this misery, O  my  brethren! live the  fife  of  the  righteous,  and  your death, similar  to  theirs,  will  be  accompanied  with  joy,  peace,  and consolation. This is  what  I  mean  to  explain  in  the  second  part  of this  Discourse.

Part II. — I know,  that  even  to  the  most  upright  souls  there  is always  something  terrible  in  death. The judgments  of  God,  whose profound secrecy  they  dread, — the  darkness  of  their  own  conscience, in  which  they  continually  figure  to  themselves  hidden sfains, known  to  the  Almighty  alone, — the  loveliness  of  their  faith, and of  their  love,  which  in  their  own  sight  magnifies  their  smallest faults; in  a  word,  the  dissolution  itself  of  their  earthly  frame,  and the natural  horror  we  feel  for  the  grave, — all  these  occasion  death to be  attended  by  a  natural  sensation  of  dread  and  repugnance,  insomuch that  as  St.  Paul  says,  the  most  upright  themselves,  who anxiously long  to  be  clothed  with  that  immortality  promised  to them,  would  yet  willingly  attain  it  without  being  divested  of  the mortality which  encompasses  them.

It is  not  less  true,  however,  that  in  them  grace  rises  superior  to that  horror  of  death  which  springs  from  nature;  and  in  that  moment, whether  they  recall  the  past,  consider  the  present,  or  look forward to  the  future,  they  find  in  the  remembrance  of  the  past  the end of  their  troubles, — in  the  consideration  of  the  present  a  novelty which moves  them  with  a  holy  joy, — in  their  views  toward  the  future the  certainty  of  an  eternity  which  fills  them  with  rapture,  insomuch, that  the  same  situations  which  are  the  occasion  of  despair to the  dying  sinner,  become  then  an  abundant  source  of  consolation to the  faithful  soul.