pears in the flesh. He appeals to them—He urges them—He invites them with tender words,—He points up, and declares and pictures to them the joys and blisses of that happy state above—if they will only turn and go up thither: He warns them of the wretchedness, the tortures of the horrid gulf below, towards which they are hastening. But they listen not—they heed Him not—they press by. "And ye will not come unto Me, that ye might have life," He tearfully exclaims. Still they heed not—stopping but to defy and abuse Him—they still press on. Alas! alas! it is hopeless—it is over.—"Jesus wept."
And well might He weep—for He knew to what a fate they were going. We, too, should weep for every wicked man, had we the same knowledge. He saw through the thousands, the millions, of years of futurity. He saw those hard-hearted Pharisees that accused Him—those wicked priests and others that were putting Him to death—He beheld those murderers existing a thousand ages from that time, in the wretched state which they had made for themselves—entombed in the sepulchre, which the "dead in trespasses and sins" have built for and around themselves. He saw them there sitting in eternal darkness, and gnashing their teeth with rage,—or striving to burst the bonds of their prison-house and rush forth, and tear down heaven if they could, and kill God Himself, as they had before put to death the humanity in which He had dwelt. But they cannot—their efforts are vain—for the wicked before the Divine are powerless, and "melt as wax before the fire;"—they fall back in despair—their frenzy rises higher and
