SERMON XXXIII.

ON THE DEATH OF CHILDREN.

2 SAMUEL, xii. 22, 23.

"While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept; for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me, that the child may live? But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.”

WE have in this chapter one of the most beautiful and

affecting narratives which the sacred volume contains. A parent, even David, the good king of Israel, is introduced, fasting and weeping, beseeching God for his child, grievously sick. Oppressed with unutterable woe, the distressed father lies all night upon the earth, and is unable to eat bread. His fears are realized; the child dies. Filled with compassion for their royal master, the servants "feared to tell him that the child was dead; for they said, While the child was yet alive we spake unto him, and he would not hearken to our voice; how will he then vex himself, if we tell him that the child is dead?" But their sadness and stillness spoke more than words to the anticipating eye of parental anxiety. "David perceived that the child was dead." What now is his conduct? He arises from the earth, washes and anoints himself, and changes his apparel; he goes "into the house of the Lord and worships;" returned to his own house, he takes the sustenance which nature requires, and exhibits a fine model of resignation to his wondering family, in the memorable words of my text: "While the

child was yet alive, I fasted and wept; for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me, that the child may live? But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, bu the shall not return to me."

I will not detain you to enlarge upon the fact, that it was the hand of the Lord which struck David's child with the sickness that terminated in death. Whoever believes in his providence, and is acquainted with his word, must know that all diseases act by his permission, and are under his control. It would be utterly irreconcileable with the truth of his being and government, to suppose that the lives of any of his creatures are given a prey to chance, and that he, uninterested and unmoved, beholds their destruction. A sparrow falls not to the ground without his notice; and, surely, his intelligent children are "of more value than many sparrows."

Nor need I stay long to illustrate the propriety of David's conduct in betaking himself to God in behalf of his child while it yet lingered on this side of the grave. It is obvious to the least reflection, that to continue life as well as to give it, is the prerogative of the Almighty. Prayer, therefore, should be made to him whenever in our own case, or in the case of others for whom we are concerned, we need the intervention of his omnipotent hand. Right it is, "and our bounden duty,” that whenever sickness endangers life, we should have recource to the skill and means with which he hath of his abundant mercy furnished the earth for our use. But for their efficacy, they are dependent upon his blessing. He only, to whose power all the productions of nature owe their virtues, from the "cedar of Lebanon, to the hysop which springeth out of the wall," can render their application effectual to the recovery of departed health. It is he who sendeth forth the destroying angel for the accomplishment of his purposes; and he only can interrupt his progress, and say, "It is enough; stay now thy hand."

Suffice it to have said thus much upon the agency of the divine hand, in allotting us sickness or health, and upon the

propriety of applying to the Most High as the ablest physician in the day of disease. It may often happen that his will may be averse to our wishes. But as the righteous do always offer supplications with perfect submission to the divine wisdom, this should not be an occasion of grief. On the contrary, when we have been faithful in our prayers, and faithful in the use of such means as skill and prudence have directed, we should acquiesce in the issue, whatever it may be.

Which leads me to fix your attention upon the beautiful picture of reasonable and holy resignation which the closing scene in the sacred narrative offers to your contemplation. Here are two things worthy of our particular consideration; the reasons of David's resignation, and the manner in which it manifested itself.

We will first advert to the grounds of his resignation: "Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me." The good Psalmist had done as every pious parent will do in similar circumstances; he had bowed himself before the Most High God, and besought him right humbly for his child. Death had signified it to be the divine pleasure that the child should be taken to another state of existence. To resist would be vain, to repine would be fruitless. Our grief may unman ourselves; it may distress our friends; it may unfit us for the discharge of the duties of life; it may offend our God; but it can never call back from the tomb the beloved objects upon whom death hath once fixed his unrelenting hand. They hear not our sighs; they regard not our tears. Though rivers of waters should run down our cheeks, though we should give up all the pleasures and pursuits of life, and devote our days and nights to mourning, it would be of no avail. The spirit once fled, returns no more. We "cannot bring it back again." It is the appointment of that Being who will not condescend to dispute with us his right to the creatures of his hand. His will must be done. Reason, therefore, on this ground, combined her voice with religion's, in inducing the Psalmist to endure with manly submission, what he was unable to amend.

It is true it would be a melancholy fortitude which these

feelings produce, if it were not strengthened and cheered by another consideration. Though fate forbade David to call back to his embrace his departed child, was he separated from him forever? Was the spark of life which had been kindled in his babe, extinguished eternally? Was the little offspring of his body, struck out of all being, born only to die, fated to a shorter and more joyless existence than the idle gossamer that floats upon the air? Verily, to the tender heart of the affectionate king, the thought had been insupportable. But he was consoled with far other expectations. The spark of being which the Almighty had kindled in his child, was kindled to burn forever. Messiah had consecrated it to immortality. "I shall go to him," though "he shall not return to me."

Even in the prospect of being joined to our departed friends in the noiseless tomb, nature finds a solace suited to the gloomy state of her feelings in the hour of her bereavement. But David had sung the happiness of walking "through the valley of the shadow of death, supported and comforted by God's rod and staff." He had proclaimed on his inspired harp the satisfaction which the faithful will find when they behold God's face in righteousness, and awake up from the sleep of death, created anew after his likeness. We may, therefore, presume that his views were elevated above the repose which he should find with his child in the peaceful grave. Faith, doubtless, carried his mind forward to another state, in which the beauteous bud that is removed from this inclement world before it is blown, expands in wonderful and unfading perfection. He thought of heaven. Hope, the inseparable companion of faith, refreshed his heart with the promise of a period in which he should find his little one in Abraham's bosom. It was not, therefore, a cause of dejection that he could not bring his child "back again." God's ways were perfect. It was enough, and he rejoiced that he could say "I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me."

A resignation grounded on such considerations as these, must have blessed and exalted the Psalmist's character. Let us

briefly notice the manner in which it manifested itself. Behold he, who careless of attire, lay weeping on the earth, arises and washes himself, and changes his apparel. He, whom no consideration could draw from the place where his child lay sick, goes forth spontaneously "into the house of the Lord, and worships." He, whom the elders of his house had entreated in vain to receive some sustenance, himself gives orders to set on bread. He, whom his servants "feared to tell that the child was dead," leaves their astonished minds below his fortitude, and discourses with them on the reasonableness and propriety of submission. How majestic in his affliction! What greatness and peace and resignation like this! There is nothing here of the coldness of the stoic, or of the disgusting hardihood of the unbeliever. David's heart was tender. We have seen, during the illness of his child, and may learn from many incidents of his life, that he felt most sensibly what only parents feel. But his acquiescence sprung from a sense of duty. It was the effort of a great mind, greatly endowed with divine grace, and anxious in all things to honour God.

It is worthy of particular observation, that the first step of the Psalmist, in the day of his sorrow, is to "the house of the Lord." As soon as he had attired himself in the garments of decency, he went into the temple. There, we may presume, he confessed his sins to his Maker, especially that unfortunate departure from the law of God which had been the occasion of the death of the child. There, we may suppose, he humbled himself in his prayer, and acknowledged the justice of the Almighty. There, we may believe, he sought the consolation and support of that grace which descendeth from heaven upon the afflicted soul, as the dew upon the grass when it languisheth. His conduct, my brethren, is worthy of imitation. I know not where the children of sorrow should go, if not to the house of their heavenly Father. It is in the holiness of the sanctuary that that "beauty" is found, which the prophet was to give instead of "ashes" to those "who mourned in Zion." It is in the sacred vessels of the temple that the "oil of joy" is