NO. 4.] FOR APRIL, 1828. DIVINITY. == [VOL. 11. CHRIST RAISING THE WIDOW'S SON: A SERMON,* BY THE REV. SAMUEL DOUGHTY, OF THE PHILADELPHIA CONFERENCE. And it came to pass the day after, that he went into a city called Nain; and many of his disciples went with him, and much people. Now when he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow; and much people of the city was with her. And when the Lord saw her he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not. And he came and touched the bier; and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee arise. And he that was dead sat up and began to speak. And he delivered him unto his mother.-Luke vii, 11-15. THE Bible is an extraordinary book. The greatness of its designs; the grandeur of the agency, the instrumentality, and the scenery it discloses; the utility, purity, and efficacy of its doctrines; the multitude of its subjects; the richness of its variety; all justly entitle it to the appellation "THE BIBLE," that is, The Book: though to be thus distinguished is the humblest praise which can be given to it. The unaffected simplicity and unadorned loveliness with which its wonderful and sublime transactions are exhibited, recommend it to our profound attention, and give additional strength to the conviction that its origin is divine. The ornamented and high wrought productions of men may possess their respective merits, and produce their proper effects: they may contribute to the embellishment of many a mind, and the virtuous improvement of many a heart: they may frequently be perused, and greatly and justly admired; but their beauties will cease to attract, and their loveliness to charm; and the heart may finally become insensible, at least indifferent, to merits which once it highly esteemed and lauded. But the Bible is a rich and lovely mine, which may be repeatedly explored, and yet will ever produce some new and valued treasure. There is a depth-a profoundness in its contents, which the highest intelligences cannot completely fathom; a fulness which can never be exhausted. There is even in its style, a beauty which the thoughtless and the superficial may overlook, but which has exercised a captivating influence over the greatest of minds. The passage selected for the basis of this discourse, is one among the many where the beautiful and the sublime-where unaffected simplicity and overwhelming grandeur, mingle their contrasting yet harmonious characters, to awaken in the bosom of the pious a tumult of indescribable yet pleasing emotions. Here we perceive *This sermon was written for an esteemed, but afflicted friend, to the circumstances of whose case the subject was thought, in some degree, to be applicable. VOL. XI. April, 1828. 13 the solemn funereal train slowly, and with measured step, attending a fellow mortal to the grave. We look upon the cold and motionless body, and discover that it is the vigour of manhood, and the freshness of youth, over which death has triumphed. Our eyes are rivetted upon a forlorn and sorrowing female, whose soul is bowed down with grief; and we are told that she is a mother widowed and childless-bereft and broken hearted. And now while we contemplate, and our hearts are catching the inspiration of her sorrows, behold! the Saviour draws nigh, and moved at her distress, bids her "weep not." The bier becomes motionless beneath his touch; death flies from his rebukes; the bloom of life spreads its healthful flushes over the young man's deathly limbs ; his lips no longer speechless, distil their honied accents on his mother's delighted ear, and he is delivered to her enraptured embraces. A holy fear steals over the hearts of the astonished assembly, and they acknowledge the omnipotent finger of God; while the rumour of the wondrous deed, echoed from lip to lip, rapidly spreads throughout the land of Judea. But where is the admiration of the sacred historian? Why slumbers his feeling, and why are his praises silent? He tells this wondrous story with the greatest simplicity, and does not even call the attention of the reader to the greatness of the deed. Man may praise the deeds of men; he may extol the glorious works of God, and sink under their overwhelming grandeur: but God can never be surprised at the greatness of his performances. The power which raised the young man from the dead, and the spirit which inspired the historian, were both of God. This interesting passage furnishes us with several useful topics of discussion, which we will endeavour to improve for our mutual benefit. Observe, in the first place, how extensive are the operations of death. In our own country we have frequently witnessed the solemn scenes of death. We have heard the appalling groans, and beheld the convulsions of the dying: we have seen the fading eye, the sunken cheek, the quivering lip, and the fearful gasp, which render terrible the departure of an immortal spirit from its tenement of clay. We have followed to their last humble home, the exanimated remains of many of our fellow mortals; and where they have been committed to the earth, we have seen many a swelling mound that told us human dust lay there, and marked the extensive dominion of the king of terrors. Occupied with our own. sorrows, or influenced by the imposing solemnities of the awful scene, perhaps we thought the reign of death was local: we knew not that, at that self same moment, similar scenes were transacting in distant parts of the earth, and death was adding other chaplets to his gloomy laurels. The empire of death is universal. Not only in our own land and age, but in all countries and in all ages, death has been feared and felt. The land of Judea where this young man died,-though the ashes of unnumbered thousands were blended with its soil,-was not the only scene of death. May we inquire where are the countless generations which once occupied this earth? Our fathers-where are they? Ah! the oblivious current of death has passed over them, and they are gone. The eye unconsciously turns its weeping glance to the earth, in whose dreary chambers forgotten myriads take their final slumbers. And while inspired with these melancholy thoughts the very dust beneath our feet seems to be changed into the ashes of those that have fallen in death. "The mole that scoops with curious toil Thinks not she ploughs a human soil, But oh! where'er she turns the ground Once every atom of this mound Lived, breathed, and felt, like me." Alas! "death has passed upon all men, for that all have sinned." And he will continue his destructive reign, until the Prince of life "shall destroy death, and him that hath the power of it, that is the devil." Observe, secondly, how indiscriminate are the ravages of death. When we look abroad upon the works of nature, we seldom see them withering in their prime. The sturdy sapling sticks his roots deeper and deeper into the earth, and flings his vigorous branches abroad, waving them in proud defiance of the storm. The dews of more than a hundred years, and as many vernal suns, nourish the vital principle, until venerable with age, and hoary with clustering moss, his rugged limbs tell us the melancholy story of his approaching decay. Even the tender flower which expands its delicate and lovely bosom to the sun, and that seems to shrink from the blast that presses it too rudely, if it escape the merciless grasp of the spoiler, will bloom upon its parent bush until its days have completed their limited circle, and its leaves one after another drop to the ground withered and dead. The beasts of the field, and the fowls of the air, though exposed to all the rigours of inclement seasons, seldom pine with sickness, and die in the vigour of their days. But if we turn our eyes to man, the lordling of this lower world, how vastly inferior in this respect will he appear. Innumerable evils press upon him from his birth. Afflictions weigh him down, and "make his beauty to consume away like a moth." "He cometh forth like a flower and is cut down: he fleeth like a shadow and continueth not." All ranks and all ages alike experience one melancholy lot. The royal couch, and the lowly bed of a humble widow's son, are equally the scenes of suf fering. It is not upon the hoary head, only, that the killing arm of death descends in its resistless power;-ah! no: his desolating blast sweeps with destructive fury over the fairest and loveliest scenes. The piteous cries of helpless and lovely infancy, produce no relentings in the monster's breast: and the bloom and the vigour of youth stay not, for a single moment, the uplifted stroke. It would seem as if death scorned to try the strength of his dart upon the old and the infirm ;-that his delight is to bathe it in the life blood of the youthful, and the vigorous, and the manly. This widow's son was a young man, full of life and vigour;yet he died. He had surmounted the perils of childhood. The untimely frost blasted not the expanding blossom,--yet the fruit fell ere it ripened. Youth and health are no security against death; yet it is difficult to convince the young and the healthful that death is near. They flatter themselves with the enjoyment of a long and peaceful life, and know not that there is but a step between them and the grave. The hopes of this young man were as rational as the hopes of other youth, yet they perished. And, thoughtless, gay, and vigorous, as are the young, have we not seen them yielding to the might of death? We have beheld the rising sun ascend the morning sky, scattering the mists that would obscure his glory;-but the dark thick cloud passed over his disk and he was hidden from our view. We have seen the bow of promise glittering on the clouds of heaven; but even while we gazed, the glowing colours vanished. We have beheld the tree, beneath the influence of a vernal sun, opening its lovely blossoms, and rejoicing the heart with the promise of abundant fruit, but the untimely frost withered all its honours. Such, frequently, is the destiny of youth. "So flourishes and fades majestic man.' May this audience look into the grave, and think how soon it will be their home! Observe, thirdly, how death blights the hopes and desolates the prospects of the human heart. This young man was "the only son of his mother, and she was a widow." The sportive hopes and lovely prospects of youth; the murderous schemes of the ambitious; the ruinous designs of the sensual; the sordid pursuits of the avaricious; and all the darling plans of men, are blighted at once and for ever by the hand of death. But the eye weeps not often as the earthly monarch lays his royal power at the feet of the "king of terrors ;" and it is seldom that our tears will flow at the self entailed misery of the ambitious; and we behold, without any other interest than that of a transient pity, the lamp of the sensualist and the worldling go out in the darkness of the grave. But when we see the shadow of death spreading itself over a young man's prospects, and a humble widow's heart made desolate, every sympathy of the soul enlists upon their side, and the tear unbidden trembles in the eye. |