The Prince of Preachers Charles Haddon
Spurgeon has been called England's greatest contribution to
the spread of the gospel in the 19th
century.
One of his contemporaries said that the chief
secret of Spurgeon's attractiveness was the fact that
in every sermon, no matter what the text
or the occasion, he explained the way of
salvation in simple terms.
Spurgeon's messages remain one of the great treasure
houses of Christian literature, still bringing the light
of the gospel and the comfort of the
scriptures to hungry souls long after the preacher
has passed into glory.
This is Charles Kelsch inviting you to listen
to a message from the Prince of Preachers.
Ch.
Spurgeon preached this message on December 25, 1859,
at the Exeter Hall.
It is entitled, A Christmas Question.
The text is found in Isaiah chapter 9
and verse 6.
For unto us a child is born.
Unto us a son is given.
Upon other occasions I have explained the main
part of this verse.
The government shall be upon his shoulders.
His name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, the
Mighty God.
If God shall spare me, on some future
occasion I hope to take the other titles,
the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.
But now this morning, the portion which shall
engage our attention is this.
Unto us a child is born.
Unto us a son is given.
The sentence is a double one, but it
has in it no tautology.
A careful reader will soon discover a distinction.
And it is not a distinction without a
difference.
Unto us a child is born.
Unto us a son is given.
As Jesus Christ is a child in His
human nature, He is born, begotten of the
Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary.
He is as truly born, as certainly a
child, as any other man that ever lived
upon the face of the earth.
He is thus in His humanity a child
born.
But as Jesus Christ is God's Son, He
is not born, but given, begotten of His
Father from before all worlds, begotten, not made,
being of the same substance with the Father.
The doctrine of the eternal affiliation of Christ
is to be received as an undoubted truth
of our holy religion.
But as to any explanation of it, no
man should venture thereon, for it remaineth among
the deep things of God, one of those
solemn mysteries indeed into which the angels dare
not look, nor do they desire to pry
into it, a mystery which we must not
attempt to fathom, for it is utterly beyond
the grasp of any finite being.
As well might a gnat seek to drink
in the ocean as a finite creature to
comprehend the eternal God.
A God whom we could understand would be
no God if we could grasp Him.
He could not be infinite.
If we could understand Him, then were He
not divine.
Jesus Christ, then, I say, as a Son
is not born to us, but given.
He is a boon bestowed on us, for
God so loved the world that He sent
His only begotten Son into the world.
He was not born in this world as
God's Son, but He was sent, or was
given, so that you clearly perceive that the
distinction is a suggestive one and conveys much
good truth to us.
Unto us a child is born.
Unto us a Son is given.
This morning, however, the principal object of my
discourse, and indeed the sole one, is to
bring out the force of those two little
words, unto us, for you will perceive that
here the full force of the passage lies.
For unto us a child is born.
Unto us a Son is given.
The divisions of my discourse are very simple
ones.
First, is it so?
Secondly, if it is so, what then?
Thirdly, if it is not so, what then?
In the first place, is it so?
Is it true that unto us a child
is born?
Unto us a Son is given?
It is a fact that a child is
born.
Upon that I use no argument.
We receive it as a fact, more fully
established than any other fact in history, that
the Son of God became man, was born
at Bethlehem, wrapped in swaddling clothes, and laid
in a manger.
It is a fact, too, that a Son
is given.
About that we have no question.
The infidel may dispute.
But we, professing to be believers in Scripture,
receive it as an undeniable truth that God
has given His only begotten Son to be
the Savior of men.
But the matter of question is this.
Is this child born to us?
Is He given to us?
This is the matter of anxious inquiry.
Have we a personal interest in the child
that was born at Bethlehem?
Do we know that He is our Savior,
that He has brought glad tidings to us,
that to us He belongs, and that we
belong to Him?
I say this is a matter of very
grave and solemn investigation.
It is a very observable fact that the
very best of men are sometimes troubled with
questions with regard to their own interest in
Christ, while men who are never troubled at
all about the matter are very frequently presumptuous
deceivers who have no part in this matter.
I have often observed that some of the
people about whom I felt most sure were
the very persons who were the least sure
of themselves.
It reminds me of the history of a
godly man named Simon Brown, a minister in
the olden times in the city of London.
He became so extremely sad in heart, so
depressed in spirit, that at last he conceived
the idea that his soul was annihilated.
It was all in vain to talk to
the good man.
You could not persuade him that he had
a soul.
But all the time he was preaching, praying,
and working more like a man that had
two souls than none.
When he preached, his eyes poured forth plenteous
floods of tears.
And when he prayed, there was a divine
fervor and a heavenly prevalence in every petition.
Now so it is with many Christians.
They seem to be the very picture of
godliness.
Their life is admirable, and their conversation heavenly.
But yet they are always crying.
"'Tis a point I long to know."
Oft it causes anxious thought.
"'Do I love the Lord, or no?
Am I His, or am I not?' So
does it happen that the best of men
will question, while the worst of men will
presume.
Ay, I have seen the men about whose
eternal destiny I had serious questioning, whose inconsistencies
in life were palpable and glaring, who have
prated concerning their sure portion in Israel and
their infallible hope, as though they believed others
to be as easily duped as themselves.
Now what reason shall we give for this
foolhardiness?
Learn it from this illustration.
You see a number of men riding along
a narrow road upon the edge of the
sea.
It is a very perilous path, for the
way is rugged, and a tremendous precipice bounds
the pathway on the left.
Let but the horse's foot slip once, and
they dash downwards to destruction.
See how cautiously the riders journey, how carefully
the horses place their feet.
But do you observe, yon rider, at what
a rate he dashes along as if he
were riding a steeplechase with Satan.
You hold up your hands in an agony
of fear, trembling lest every moment his horse's
foot should slip and he should be dashed
down.
And you say, why so careless a rider?
The man is a blind rider on a
blind horse.
They cannot see where they are.
He thinks he is on a sure road,
and therefore is it that he rides so
fast.
Or to vary the picture, sometimes when persons
are asleep, they take to walking, and they
will climb where others will not think of
venturing.
Giddy height that would turn our brain seems
safe enough to them.
So there be many spiritual sleepwalkers in our
midst who think that they are awake, but
they are not.
Their very presumption in venturing to the high
places of self-confidence proves that they are
somnambulists, not awake, but men who walk and
talk in their sleep.
It is then, I say, really a matter
of serious questioning with all men who would
be right at last as to whether this
child is born to us and this son
given to us.
I shall now help you to answer the
question.
If this child who now lies before the
eyes of your faith, wrapped in swaddling clothes
in Bethlehem's manger, is born to you, my
hearer, then you are born again.
For this child is not born to you
unless you are born to this child.
All who have an interest in Christ are
in the fullness of time by grace converted,
quickened and renewed.
All the redeemed are not yet converted, but
they will be.
Before the hour of death arrives, their nature
shall be changed, their sins shall be washed
away, and they shall pass from death unto
life.
If any man tells me that Christ is
his Redeemer, although he has never experienced regeneration,
that man utters what he does not know.
His religion is vain, and his hope is
a delusion.
Only men who are born again can claim
the babe in Bethlehem as being theirs.
But, says one, how am I to know
whether I am born again or not?
Answer this question also by another.
Has there been a change effected by divine
grace within you?
Are your loves the very opposite of what
they were?
Do you now hate the vain things you
once admired, and do you seek after that
precious pearl which you at one time despised?
Is your heart thoroughly renewed in its object?
Can you say that the bent of your
desire is changed, that your face is Zionward,
and your feet set upon the path of
grace, that whereas your heart once longed for
deep draughts of sin, it now longs to
be holy?
And whereas you once loved the pleasures of
the world, they have now become a chaff
and dross to you, for you only love
the pleasures of heavenly things, and are longing
to enjoy more of them on earth, that
you may be more prepared to enjoy a
fullness of them hereafter.
Are you renewed within?
For mark, my hearer, the new birth does
not consist in washing the outside of the
cup and platter, but in cleansing the inner
man.
It is all in vain to put up
the stone upon the sepulchre, wash it extremely
white, and garnish it with the flowers of
the season.
The sepulchre itself must be cleansed.
The dead man's bones that lie in that
charnel house of the human heart must be
cleansed away.
Nay, they must be made to live.
The heart must no longer be a tomb
of death, but a temple of life.
Is it so with you, my hearer?
For recollect, you may be very different in
the outward, but if you are not changed
in the inward, this child is not born
to you.
But I put another question.
Although the main matter of regeneration lies within,
yet it manifests itself without.
Say then, has there been a change in
you in the exterior?
Do you think that others who look at
you would be compelled to say, this man
is not what he used to be?
Do not your companions observe a change?
Have they not laughed at you for what
they think to be your hypocrisy, your puritanism,
your sternness?
Do you think now that if an angel
should follow you into your secret life, should
track you to your closet and see you
on your knees, that he would detect something
in you which he could never have seen
before?
For mock, my dear hearer, there must be
a change in the outward life, or else
there is no change within.
In vain you bring to me the tree
and say that the tree's nature is changed.
If I still see it bringing forth wild
grapes, it is a wild vine still.
And if I mark upon you the apples
of Sodom and the grapes of Gomorrah, you
are still a tree accursed and doomed, notwithstanding
all your fancied experience.
The proof of the Christian is in the
living.
To other men the proof of our conversion
is not what you feel, but what you
do.
To yourself your feelings may be good enough
evidence, but to the minister and others who
judge of you, the outward walk is the
main guide.
At the same time, let me observe that
a man's outward life may be very much
like that of a Christian, and yet there
may be no religion in him at all.
Have you ever seen two jugglers in the
street with swords, pretending to fight with one
another?
See how they cut and slash and hack
at one another, till you're half afraid that
there'll be murder done soon.
They seem to be so very much in
earnest that you're half in mind to call
in the police to part them.
See with what violence that one is aimed
a terrific blow at the other one's head,
which his comrade dexterously warded off by keeping
a well-timed guard.
Just watch them a minute, and you will
see that all these cuts and thrusts come
in a prearranged order.
There is no heart in the fighting, after
all.
They do not fight so roughly as they
would if they were real enemies.
So sometimes I have seen a man pretending
to be very angry against sin, but watch
him a little while, and you will see
it is only a fencer's trick.
He does not give his cuts out of
order.
There is no earnestness in his blows.
It is all pretense.
It is only mimic stage play.
The fencers, after they have ended their performance,
shake hands with one another and divide the
coppers which the gaping throng had given them.
And so does this man do.
He shakes hands with the devil in private,
and the two deceivers share the spoil.
The hypocrite and the devil are very good
friends, after all.
They mutually rejoice over their profits, the devil
leering because he has won the soul of
the professor, and the hypocrite laughing because he
has played his part.
Take care, then, that your outward life is
not a mere stage play, but that your
antagonism to sin is real and intense, and
that you strike right and left as though
you meant to slay the monster and cast
its limbs to the winds of heaven.
I will just put another question.
If thou hast been born again, there is
another matter by which to try thee.
Not only is thy inward self altered and
thy outward self too, but the very root
and principle of thy life must become totally
new.
When we are in sin, we live to
self.
But when we are renewed, we live to
God.
While we are unregenerate, our principle is to
seek our own pleasure, our own advancement.
But that man is not truly born again
who does not live with a far different
aim from this.
Change a man's principles, and you change his
feelings.
You change his actions.
Now grace changes the principles of a man.
It lays the axe at the root of
the tree.
It does not saw away at some big
limb.
It does not try to alter the sap.
But it gives a new root and plants
us in fresh soil.
The man's inmost self, the deep rocks of
his principles upon which the topsoil of his
actions rest, the soul of his manhood is
thoroughly changed, and he is a new creature
in Christ.
But, says one, I see no reason why
I should be born again.
Ah, poor creature!
It is because thou hast never seen thyself.
Didst thou ever see a man in the
looking-glass of the word of God?
What a strange monster he is!
Do you know a man by nature has
his heart where his feet ought to be?
That is to say, his heart is set
upon the earth, whereas he ought to be
treading it beneath his feet.
And stranger mystery still, his heels are where
his heart should be.
That is to say, he is kicking against
the God of heaven when he ought to
be setting his affections on things above.
Man by nature, when he sees clearest, only
looks down, can only see that which is
beneath him.
He cannot see the things which are above.
Strange to say, the sunlight of heaven blinds
him.
Light from heaven he looks not for.
He asks for his life in darkness.
The earth is to him his heaven, and
he sees suns in its muddy pools, and
stars in its filth.
He is, in fact, a man turned upside
down.
The fall has so ruined our nature that
the most monstrous thing on the face of
the earth is a fallen man.
The ancients used to paint griffins, dragons, chimeras,
and all kinds of hideous things.
But if a skillful hand could paint man
accurately, none of us would look at the
picture, for it is a sight that none
ever saw except the lost in hell.
And that is one part of their intolerable
pain, that they are always compelled to look
upon themselves.
Now then, see you not that ye must
be born again?
And unless ye are so, this child is
not born to you.
But I go forward.
If this child is born to you, you
are a child.
And the question arises, are you so?
Man grows from childhood up to manhood naturally.
In grace, men grow from manhood down to
childhood.
And the nearer we come to true childhood,
the nearer we come to the image of
Christ.
For was not Christ called a child even
after He had ascended up to heaven?
Thy holy child, Jesus!
Brethren and sisters, can you say that you
have been made into children?
Do you take God's word just as it
stands, simply because your heavenly Father says so?
Are you content to believe mysteries without demanding
to have them explained?
Are you ready to sit in the infant
class and be a little one?
Are you willing to hang upon the breast
of the church and suck in the unadulterated
milk of the word, never questioning for a
moment what your divine Lord reveals, but believing
it on His own authority, whether it seem
to be above reason or beneath reason, or
even contrary to reason?
Now, except ye be converted and become as
little children, this child is not born to
you.
Except like a child you are humble, teachable,
obedient, pleased with your Father's will and willing
to assign all to Him, there is a
grave matter of question whether this child is
born to you.
But what a pleasing sight it is to
see a man converted and made into a
little child!
Many times has my heart leaped for joy
when I have seen a giant infidel who
used to reason against Christ, who had not
a word in his dictionary bad enough for
Christ's people, come by divine grace to believe
the gospel.
That man sits down and weeps, feels the
full power of salvation, and from that time
drops all his questionings, becomes the very reverse
of what he was.
He thinks himself meaner than the meanest believer.
He is content to do the meanest work
for the church of Christ and takes his
station, not with Locke or Newton as a
mighty Christian philosopher, but with Mary as a
simple learner, sitting at Jesus' feet to hear
and learn of Him.
If ye are not children, then this child
is not born to you.
And now let us take the second sentence
and put a question or two upon that.
Is this Son given to us?
I pause a moment to beg your personal
attention.
I am trying, if I may, so to
preach that I may make you all question
yourselves.
I pray you, let not one of you
exempt himself from the ordeal, but let each
one ask himself, Is it true that unto
me a Son is given?
Now if this Son is given to you,
you are a son yourself.
For as many as received Him, to them
gave He power to become the sons of
God.
Christ became a Son that in all things
He might be made like unto His brethren.
The Son of God is not mine to
enjoy, to love, to delight in, unless I
am a son of God too.
Now, my hearer, have you a fear of
God before your eyes, a filial fear, a
fear which a child has lest it should
grieve its parent?
Say, have you a child's love to God?
Do you trust to Him as your Father,
your Provider and your Friend?
Have you in your breast the spirit of
adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father?
Are there times with you when on your
knees you can say, My Father and my
God?
Does the Spirit bear witness with your spirit
that you are born of God?
And while this witness is born, does your
heart fly up to your Father and to
your God in ecstasy of delight to clasp
Him who long ago hath clasped you in
the covenant of His love, in the arms
of His effectual grace?
Now, mark, my hearer, if thou dost not
sometimes enjoy the spirit of adoption, if thou
art not a son or daughter of Zion,
then deceive not thyself.
This Son is not given to thee.
And then, to put it in another shape,
if unto us a son is given, then
we are given to the Son.
Now, what say you to this question also?
Are you given up to Christ?
Do you feel that you have nothing on
earth to live for but to glorify Him?
Can you say in your heart, Great God,
if I be not deceived, I am wholly
Thine.
Are you ready today to write over again
your consecration vow?
Canst thou say, Take me, all that I
am and all I have shall be forever
Thine.
I would give up all my goods, all
my powers, all my time, and all my
hours, and Thine I would be, wholly Thine.
Ye are not your own.
Ye are bought with a price.
And if this Son of God be given
to you, you will have consecrated yourself wholly
to Him, and you will feel that His
honor is your life's object, that His glory
is the one great desire of your panting
spirit.
Now, is it so, my hearer?
Ask thyself the question, I pray thee, and
do not deceive thyself in the answer.
I will just repeat the four different proofs
again.
If unto me a child is born, then
I have been born again.
And, moreover, I am now, in consequence of
that you birth, a child.
If again a son has been given to
me, then I am a son.
And again, I am given to that son
who is given to me.
I have tried to put these tests in
the way that the text would suggest them.
I pray you, carry them home with you.
If you do not recollect the words, yet
do recollect to search yourselves, and see, my
hearers, whether you can say, Unto me this
Son is given.
For, indeed, if Christ is not my Christ,
He is of little worth to me.
If I cannot say, He loved me and
gave Himself for me, of what avail is
all the merit of His righteousness, or all
the plenitude of His atonement?
Bread in the shop is well enough, but
if I am hungry and cannot get it,
I starve, although granaries be full.
Water in the river is well enough, but
if I am in a desert and cannot
reach the stream, if I can hear it
in the distance, and am yet lying down
to die of thirst, the murmuring rill or
the flowing of the river helps to tantalize
me, while I die in dark despair.
Better for you, my hearers, to have perished
as Hottentots, to have gone down to your
graves as dwellers in some benighted land, than
to live where the name of Christ is
continually hymned and where His glory is extolled,
and yet to go down to your tombs
without an interest in Him, unblessed by His
gospel, unwashed in His blood, unclothed of His
robe of righteousness.
God help you, that you may be blessed
in Him, and may sing sweetly, Unto us
a child is born, unto us a son
is given.
This brings me to my second head, upon
which I shall be brief.
Is it so?
If it is so, what then?
If it is so, why am I doubtful
today?
Why is my spirit questioning?
Why do I not realize the fact?
My hearer, if the Son is given to
thee, how is it that thou art this
day asking whether thou art Christ or not?
Why dost thou not labor to make thy
calling and election sure?
Why tarriest thou in the plains of doubt?
Get thee up, get thee up to the
high mountains of confidence, and never rest, till
thou canst say, without a fear that thou
art mistaken, I know that my Redeemer liveth.
I am persuaded that He is able to
keep that which I have committed to Him.
I may have a large number of persons
here to whom it is a matter of
uncertainty as to whether Christ is theirs or
not.
O my dear hearers, rest not content unless
you know assuredly that Christ is yours, and
that you are Christ's.
Suppose you should see in tomorrow's newspaper, although,
by the way, if you believed anything you
saw there, you would probably be mistaken.
But suppose you should see a notification that
some rich man had left you an immense
estate.
Suppose, as you read it, you were well
aware that the person mentioned was a relative
of yours, and that it was likely to
be true.
May be that you have prepared tomorrow for
a family meeting, and you are expecting brother
John and sister Mary and their little ones
to dine with you.
But I very much question whether you would
not be away from the head of the
table to go and ascertain whether the facts
were really so.
Oh, you would say, I am sure I
should enjoy my Christmas dinner all the better
if I were quite sure about this matter.
And all day, if you did not go,
you would be on the tiptoe of expectation.
You would be, as it were, sitting upon
pins and needles until you knew whether it
were the fact or not.
Now there is a proclamation gone forth today,
and it is a true one too, that
Jesus Christ has come into the world to
save sinners.
The question with you is whether He has
saved you, and whether you have an interest
in Him.
I beseech you, give no sleep to your
eyes and no slumber to your eyelids till
you have read your title clear to mansions
in the skies.
What, man, shall your eternal destiny be a
matter of uncertainty to you?
What, is heaven or hell involved in this
matter?
And will you rest until you know which
of these shall be your everlasting portion?
Are you content?
While it is a question whether God loves
you or whether He is angry with you,
can you be easy while you remain in
doubt as to whether you are condemned in
sin or justified by faith which is in
Christ Jesus?
Get thee up, man!
I beseech thee by the living God and
by thine own soul's safety.
Get thee up and read the records.
Search and look and try and test thyself
to see whether it be so or not.
For if it be so, why should we
not know it?
If the Son is given to me, why
should not I be sure of it?
If the child is born to me, why
should I not know it for a certainty
that I may even now live in the
enjoyment of my privilege, a privilege the value
of which I shall never know to the
full till I arrive in glory?
Again, if it be so, another question.
Why are we sad?
I am looking upon faces just now that
appear the very reverse of gloomy, but mayhap
the smile covers an aching heart.
Brethren, sister, why are we sad this morning?
If unto us a child is born, if
unto us a son is given, hark, hark
to the cry.
It is harvest home, harvest home.
See the maidens as they dance and the
young men as they make merry.
And why is this mirth?
Because they are storing the precious fruits of
the earth.
They are gathering together under their barns wheat
which will soon be consumed.
And what, brothers and sisters, have we the
bread which endureth to eternal life?
And are we unhappy?
Does the worldling rejoice when his corn is
increased, and do we not rejoice when unto
us a child is born, unto us a
son is given?
Hark yonder!
What means the firing of the tower guns?
Why all this ringing of bells in the
church steeples, as if all London were mad
with joy?
There is a prince born, therefore there is
this salute, and therefore are the bells ringing.
Ah, Christians, ring the bells of your hearts,
fire the salute of your most joyous songs,
for unto us a child is born, unto
us a son is given.
Dance, O my heart, and ring out peals
of gladness.
Ye drops of blood within my veins, dance,
every one of you.
Oh, all my nerves become harp strings, and
let gratitude touch you with angelic fingers.
Now my tongue shout, shout to his praise
who hath said to thee, Unto thee a
child is born, unto thee a son is
given.
Wipe that tear away.
Come, stop that sighing.
Hush, you murmuring.
What matters your poverty?
Unto you a child is born.
What matters your sickness?
Unto you a son is given.
What matters your sin?
For this child shall take the sin away,
and this son shall wash and make you
fit for heaven.
I say, if it be so, lift up
the heart, lift up the voice, rejoice aloud.
Ye saints, rejoice.
But once more, if it be so, what
then?
Why are our hearts so cold?
And why is it that we do so
little for him who has done so much
for us?
Jesus, art thou mine?
Am I saved?
How is it that I love thee so
little?
Why is it that when I preach I
am not more in earnest, and when I
pray I am not more intensely fervent?
How is it that we give so little
to Christ who gave himself for us?
How is it that we serve him so
sadly who served us so perfectly?
He consecrated himself holy.
How is it that our consecration is marred
and partial?
We are continually sacrificing to self and not
to him.
O beloved, yield yourselves up this morning.
What have you got in the world?
Oh, says one, I have nothing.
I am poor and penniless and all but
houseless.
Give thyself to Christ.
You have heard the story of the pupils
to a Greek philosopher.
On a certain day it was the custom
to give to the philosopher a present.
One came and gave him gold.
Another could not bring him gold but brought
him silver.
One brought him a robe and another some
delicacy for food.
But one of them came up and said,
O Solon, I am poor.
I have nothing to give to thee.
But yet I will give thee something better
than all these have given.
I give thee myself.
Now if you have gold and silver, if
you have aught of this world's goods, give
in your measure to Christ.
But take care above all that you give
yourself to him and let your cry be
from this day forth.
Do not I love thee, dearest Lord?
O search my heart and see and turn
each cursed idol out that dares to rival
thee.
Do not I love thee from my soul?
Then let me nothing love.
Dead be my heart to every joy when
Jesus cannot move.
Well, now I have all but done.
But give your solemn, very solemn attention while
I come to my last head.
If it is not so, what then?
Dear hearer, I cannot tell where thou art.
But wherever thou mayest be in this hall,
the eyes of my heart are looking for
thee that when they have seen thee, they
may weep over thee.
Ah, miserable wretch, without a hope, without Christ,
without God!
Unto thee there is no Christmas mirth.
For thee no child is born.
To thee no son is given.
Sad is the story of the poor men
and women who during the week before last
fell down dead in our streets through cruel
hunger and bitter cold.
But far more pitiable is thy lot.
Far more terrible shall be thy condition in
the day when thou shalt cry for a
drop of water to cool thy burning tongue,
and it shall be denied thee, when thou
shalt seek for death, for grim, cold death.
Seek for him as for a friend, and
yet thou shalt not find him.
For the fire of hell shall not consume
thee, nor its terrors devour thee.
Thou shalt long to die, yet shalt thou
linger in eternal death, dying every hour, yet
never receiving the much-coveted boon of death.
What shall I say to thee this morning?
O Master, help me to speak a word
in season now.
I beseech thee, my hearer, if Christ is
not thine this morning, may God the Spirit
help thee to do what I now command
thee to do.
First of all, confess thy sins, not into
my ear, nor into the ear of any
living man.
Go to thy chamber, and confess that thou
art vile.
Tell him thou art a wretch undone without
his sovereign grace.
But do not think there is any merit
in confession.
There is none.
All your confession cannot merit forgiveness, though God
has promised to pardon the man who confesses
his sin and forsakes it.
Imagine that some creditor had a debtor who
owed him a thousand pounds.
He calls upon him and says, I demand
my money.
But, says the other, I owe you nothing.
That man will be arrested and thrown into
prison.
However, his creditor says, I wish to deal
mercifully with you.
Make a frank confession, and I will forgive
you all the debt.
Well, says the man, I do acknowledge that
I owe you two hundred pounds.
No, says he, that will not do.
Well, sir, I confess I owe you five
hundred pounds.
And by degrees he comes to confess that
he owes the thousand.
Is there any merit in that confession?
No.
But yet you could see that no creditor
would think of forgiving a debt which was
not acknowledged.
It is the least that you can do
to acknowledge your sin.
And though there be no merit in the
confession, yet, true to his promise, God will
give you pardon through Christ.
That is one piece of advice.
I pray you take it.
Do not throw it to the winds.
Do not leave it as soon as you
get out of Exeter Hall.
Take it with you, and may this day
become a confession day with many of you.
But next, when you have made a confession,
I beseech you, renounce yourself.
You have been resting perhaps in some hope
that you would make yourself better and so
save yourself.
Give up that delusive fancy.
You have seen the silkworm.
It will spin and spin and spin, and
then it will die where it has spun
itself a shroud.
And your good works are but a spinning
for yourself, a robe for your dead soul.
You can do nothing by your best prayers,
your best tears, or your best works to
merit eternal life.
Why, the Christian who is converted to God
will tell you that he cannot live a
holy life by himself?
If the ship in the sea cannot steer
itself aright, do you think the wood that
lies in the carpenter's yard can put itself
together and make itself into a ship and
then go out to sea and sail to
America?
Yet this is just what you imagine.
The Christian who is God's workmanship can do
nothing, and yet you think you can do
something.
Now give up self.
God help you to strike a black mark
through every idea of what you can do.
Then lastly, and I pray God help you
hear, my dear hearers, when thou hast confessed
thy sin and given up all hope of
self-salvation, go to the place where Jesus
died in agony.
Go then in meditation to Calvary.
There he hangs.
It is the middle cross of these three.
Methinks I see him now.
I see his poor face emaciated and his
visage more marred than that of any man.
I see the beady drops of blood still
standing round his pierced temples, marks of that
rugged thorn crown.
Ah!
I see his body naked, naked to his
shame.
We may tell all his bones.
See there his hands rent with the rough
iron and his feet torn with the nails.
The nails have rent through his flesh.
There is now not only the hole through
which the nail was driven, but the weight
of his body has sunken upon his feet,
and see the iron is tearing through his
flesh.
Now the weight of his body hangs upon
his arms, and the nails there are rending
through the tender nerves.
Hark!
Earth is startled.
He cries, Ali!
Ali!
Lama Sabachthani!
O sinner, was ever shriek like that?
God hath forsaken him.
His God has ceased to be gracious to
him.
His soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death.
But hark again he cries, I thirst.
Give him water.
Ye holy women, let him drink.
But no, his murderers torture him.
They thrust into his mouth the vinegar mingled
with gall, the bitter with the sharp, the
vinegar and the gall.
At last, hear him, sinner, for here is
your hope.
I see him bow his awful head.
The King of heaven dies.
The God who made the earth has become
a man, and the man is about to
expire.
Hear him.
He cries, It is finished.
And he gives up the ghost.
The atonement is finished.
The price is paid.
The bloody ransom counted down.
The sacrifice is accepted.
It is finished.
Sinner, believe in Christ.
Cast thyself on him.
Sink or swim, take him to be thy
all in all.
Throw now thy trembling arms around that bleeding
body.
Sit now at the feet of that cross
and feel the dropping of the precious blood.
And as you go out, each one of
you say in your hearts, a guilty, weak
and helpless worm, on Christ's kind arms I
fall.
He is my strength and righteousness, my Jesus
and my all.
God grant you grace to do so, for
Jesus Christ's sake.
May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ
and the love of God and the fellowship
of the Holy Ghost be with you all
forever and ever.
Amen and amen.
This message, A Christmas Question, was preached by
Charles Haddon Spurgeon on December 25, 1859.