that choir? Will your heart share in that joy, and your voice mingle in that melody?

But the victory, though not complete till then, commences sooner. It commences in conversion, when sin is pardoned, God pacified towards the sinner, and the dominion of sin in him destroyed. That moment the sting of death is taken away, though the terror of death may remain, and that fear has always torment. Then it loses not all its power to frighten the imperfect and unassured believer, but all its power materially to injure him. Then death becomes his; and ever after that it is gain for him to die. Dost thou with all thy heart believe in Jesus? Art thou through him reconciled to God? Is he, as thy Saviour, precious to thee? Art thou liv ing to him? Then thou mayest say, yea, sing, ay shout, "Oh! death, where is thy sting?" It is not premature to strike this high note even now. On thy bed by night, and all along thy path by day, this may be thy song; no lower strain than this need be sung by thee. Even now when death puts multiplies his trophies, and draws near with his unwonted weapon, inspiring terror in hearts not used to dread him, even now, this time, when it may be said, "This is the hour and power of death," it is thy privilege to apostrophise him in this exulting language, "Oh! death, where is thy sting?"*

on new terrors, and

at

But, again, this victory is realized in the death of the saints, and sometimes most illustriously. Multitudes in dying have said and felt, "Oh! death,

* Preached just before the ravages of cholera in our country,

where is thy sting?" No true Christian ever feels the sting of death, though some may long and even late fear the feeling of it. "Is this dying?" said one, "how have I dreaded as an enemy, this smiling friend!" "If this be the dark valley," said another, "it is all light to me. I find no darkness in it." To such the bitterness of death is past before they die. I have seen death with the sting, and death without the sting, and the difference was greater than between death and life. The former is indeed to be dreaded, death with the sting. The latter has often been and should be an object of desire. Death, without the sting, is the soul's release from all that has annoyed its peace, and marred its beauty, and its introduction to everlasting life and glory.

But what is the sting of death? That part of this inexpressibly sublime and glorious discourse which informs us what it is, strikes me as the finest part of all, as even sublimer than the apostrophe to death, as that which crowns the climax, "the sting of death is sin;" and still he rises, "and the strength of sin is the law;" and rises higher, "but thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." This is the point of highest elevation; and thence how graceful the descent, "therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord." The sting of death, that which gives poignancy and power to it, is sin. Many give a different account of the matter. If the question were asked of each of you, "What is the sting of death ?" all would not answer sin. Some would, perhaps, say that the

pain of the conflict with the king of terrors, the agony of the dying strife, the mysterious anguish, attendant on the separation of soul and body, constitutes the sting of death; but it don't. Some have said that they cared for nothing but the pain of death. It is the part of it that is least to be regarded. Sometimes the sting of death is where the pain is not; and many a painful death is without the sting. Some may suppose that the sting of death consists in its prematurity; that to die in the days of one's youth, to fade as a flower of the morning, to go and leave all life's pleasures behind, is to feel the sting of death. But it is not so, for then all the young would feel the sting of death; whereas none more gloriously triumph over it than some who enter early into the combat with it. And it would follow, too, that none of the aged feel it; whereas it is notorious that many of them do feel the deepest piercings of this sting. It would follow that time has power to extract it, which we know is not the case. Nor, again, is it the suddenness of death that arms it with a sting. There is, indeed, something awful in being summoned suddenly and unwarned away from earth, and time, and men, to eternity and God. There is much that is terrific in the idea of being here one day in blooming health and buoyant spirits, and the next day dead. But it is awful to the living rather than to the dead. To the prepared, this circumstance of death is no aggravation of it. In being hurried to heaven, there is nothing awful. Again, it is not in the power of any particular disease, however fearful, to infix a sting into death. Precious in

the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints, whatever be the mode of their death. Some of the most glorious servants of God have fallen victims to pestilence. The Christian need not fear to die any kind of death. Christian.

Death even by cholera is gain to the

It is not the disappointment occasioned by death that constitutes its sting. To be called away from the midst of every thing which can make earth agreeable and life desirable, from domestic happiness and worldly prosperity is not always to be stung by death. Nor is the sting of death the thought of leaving behind a family helpless and unprotected, for it is the privilege of some who have to do that, to leave all to God. To his care and providence they can confidently commit them, assured that no charge which his saints commit to him, will he fail to assume.

No; not any one of these is the sting of death; but sin is the sting of death. There would be no death but for sin. Sin is the cause of death, and no wonder it should be its sting also. To prove that sin is the sting of death, just consider what death would be without sin, if it may be supposed to exist without it. There would be no darkness attached to it. The light of the divine countenance makes it perpetual sunshine wherever sin is not. There would be no unwillingness to die; but a ready and perfect submission in this as in every thing to the will of God. Even now to the imperfect Christian, how easy is death, when he can say with his whole heart, "Thy will be done." He is willing that God

should determine the time, the manner, the circum

stances, every thing. In his judgment it matters little, how, when, or where he dies, so he but die in the faith and hope of the Gospel and sleep in Jesus. There would be but for sin in every case of death a divine fortitude supporting the subject of it. The everlasting arms would be underneath, and every one coming to the entrance of the valley of the shadow of death, would be able to say, "Though I walk through it, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me." Who cannot go any where without fear, if the presence of God go with him? Who can fear evil with omnipotence to shield him from it? It is no matter what are our burdens and our trials, if the promise "My grace is sufficient for you," be fulfilled to us. A poor woman recently died in this city of a most painful disease, who said that her days of greatest bodily anguish were her happiest days; for that then her spiritual consolations most abounded, and she desired no alleviation of her pain, because in proportion to her pain, was her joy in God. There would be no uncertainty as to the result of death, but for sin. It is sin that causes doubts and fears; but for it, the dying person would have the fullest assurance of immediate and unspeakable glory as awaiting him. He would know that to die is gain. In dying he would feel all the while how much better it is to depart and be with Christ. If for a moment his thoughts should be drawn to this world, the superior attractions of heaven would immediately draw them back to it. He would forget what he is going from, in the thought of what he is going to. There would be no disap