Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/186

 trembled; attentions,  which  were  troublesome  to  him;  subjections, which, in  spite  of  himself,  still  divided  him  between  heaven  and the earth:  we  feel  little  regret  for  the  loss  of  what  we  have  never loved. From his  riches  and  wealth? Alas! his treasure  was  in heaven:  his  riches  had  been  the  riches  of  the  poor:  he  loses  them not; he  only  goes  to  regain  them  for  ever  in  the  bosom  of  God. From his  titles  and  his  dignities? Alas! it is  a  yoke  from  which he is  delivered. The only  title  dear  to  him  was  the  one  he  had received in  baptism,  which  he  now  bears  to  the  presence  of God,  and  which  constitutes  his  claim  to  the  eternal  promises. From his  relations  and  friends? Alas! he knows  he  only  precedes them  by  a  moment;  that  death  cannot  separate  those whom charity  hath  joined  upon  the  earth;  and  that,  soon  united together in  the  bosom  of  God,  they  shall  again  form  the  church and the  same  people,  and  shall  enjoy  the  delights  of  an  immortal society. From his  children? He leaves  to  them  the  Lord  as  a father;  his  example  and  his  instructions  as  an  inheritance;  his good wishes  and  his  blessing  as  a  final  consolation. And, like David, he  expires  in  intreating  for  his  son  Solomon,  not  temporal prosperities, but  a  perfect  heart,  love  of  the  law,  and  the  fear  of the  God  of  his  fathers. From his  body? Alas! from that  body which he  had  always  chastised,  crucified;  which  he  considered  as his  enemy;  which  kept  him  still  dependent  upon  the  senses  and the flesh;  which  overwhelmed  him  under  the  weight  of  so  many humiliating wants;  from  that  house  of  clay  which  confined  him prisoner; which  prolonged  the  days  of  his  banishment  and  his slavery, and  retarded  his  union  with  Jesus  Christ. Ah! like St. Paul,  he  earnestly  wishes  its  dissolution:  it  is  an  irksome  clothing from which  he  is  delivered;  it  is  a  wall  of  separation  from  his  God, which is  destroyed,  and  which  now  leaves  him  free  and  qualified  to take  his  flight  toward  the  eternal  mountains. Thus death  separates him  from  nothing,  because  faith  had  already  separated  him from all.

I do  not  add,  that  the  changes  which  take  place  on  the  bed  of death,  so  full  of  despair  to  the  sinner,  change  nothing  in  the  faithful soul. His reason,  it  is  true,  decays;  but,  for  a  long  time  past, he had  subjected  it  to  the  yoke  of  faith,  and  extinguished  its  vain lights before  the  light  of  God  and  the  profundity  of  his  mysteries. His expiring  eyes  become  darkened,  and  are  closed  upon  all  visible objects; but  long  ago  they  had  been  fixed  on  the  Invisible  alone. His tongue  is  immoveable;  but  he  had  long  before  planted  the guard of  circumspection  on  it,  and  meditated  in  silence  the  mercies of the  God  of  his  fathers. All his  senses  are  blunted  and  lose  their natural use;  but  for  a  long  time  past,  he  had  himself  interdicted their influence. He had  eyes  and  saw  not;  ears,  and  heard  not; taste, and  relished  only  the  things  of  heaven. Nothing is  changed, therefore, to  this  soul  on  the  bed  of  death. His body  falls  in pieces;  all  created  beings  vanish  from  his  eyes;  light  retires;  all nature returns  to  nothing;  and,  in  the  midst  of  all  these  changes, he alone  changeth  not;  he  alone  is  always  the  same.