l at last it pushes him off forever.
I saw a man die with an oath between his teeth. Voltaire rose from
his dying pillow, and, supposing that he saw Christ in the room, cried
out, "Crush the wretch!" A celebrated officer during the last war fell
mortally wounded, and the only word he sent to his wife was: "Tell her
I fought like hell!"

There are thousands of men who are having all their moral nature
pulled down by the fiery fingers of this habit. At last, pinched,
shrivelled, and consumed, they will get down on their beds to die, and
at the step of the doctor in the hall, or the shutting of the front
door, they will start up, thinking they hear the sepulchral gates
creak open.

Who is this God that you should maltreat his name? Has he been
haunting you, starving you, or freezing you all your life? No! He is
your Father, patient and loving. He rocked your cradle with blessings,
from the time you were born. He clothes you now, and always has
clothed you. You never had a sickness but he was sorry for you. He has
brooded over you with wings of love. He has tried to press you to his
heart of kindness and compassion. He wants to forgive you. He wants to
help you. He wants to make you happy. He watched last night over your
pillow while you slept. He will watch to-night. He was your father's
God, and your mother's. He has housed them safe from the blast, and he
wants to shelter you. Do you trifle with his name? Do you smite him in
the face? Do you thrust him back by your imprecations?

Who is this Jesus Christ that I hear men swearing by? Who is he? Some
destroyer, that they so treat his name? What foul thing hath he done,
that our great cities speak his name in thousand-voiced jeer and
contempt? Who is he? A Lamb, whose blood simmered in the fires of
sacrifice, to save you. A Brother, who put down his crown of glory
that you might take it up. For many years he has been striving, night
and day, to win your affections. There is nothing in heaven that he
is not willing to give you. He came with blistered feet and streaming
eyes, with aching head and broken heart to relieve you. On the craft
of a doomed humanity he pushed out into the sea, to pick you off the
rock. Who will ever again malign his name? Is there a hand that will
ever again be lifted to wound him? If so, let that hand, blood-dipped,
be lifted now. Which one of my readers will ever again utter his
sacred name in imprecation? If any, now let them speak. Not one! No