It is impossible, too, not to perceive the gross impropriety of devoting that time only to the service of our Maker, which is the most inefficient, and of the least value in our existence. In pouring out the cup of life, shall we set apart the dregs only for the great Master of the feast? Shall our evil days alone be dedicated to that bounty from which all the days of our years are derived, and no part of our pleasant days also? Is it thus that our Creator ought to be remembered? and can so preposterous a scheme of religion lead to any thing like consistent happiness? In vain, then, my brethren, will you attempt to postpone those duties which are ever soliciting your attention, or to defer, till "a more convenient season," that service in which you can never be too early engaged, and which, when you are heartily engaged in it, you will indeed feel to be "perfect freedom."

SERMON XXVII.

ON REDEEMING TIME*.

46

EPHESIANS, v. 16.

Redeeming the time, because the days are evil."

THERE are times, my brethren, when the solemn admonitions of religion fall upon our minds with a peculiar force. Such, for instance, is the season of affliction, when we are made feelingly to apprehend the instability of all human enjoyments. When the days of our lives are evil, we become detached from the common delusions which betray us, and are disposed to listen to the voice from heaven, which calls upon us to "redeem the time," and to regulate the remainder of our days on the principles of virtue and of wisdom.

It is not, however, in the hour of affliction alone, that our minds are awakened to sober and serious thought. There are times interposed by the bounty of Providence, when, without the severe discipline of suffering, the most thoughtless are naturally called to reflection; when the young check, for a moment, the boundless career of hope, and when the old rouse themselves from the

* Preached January 1st, 1808.

slumber of forgetfulness, in which the long habit of existence has involved them. Such is the season of the departing year, when an unbroken portion of time, through which we have lately passed, is at once presented to our view; and when our thoughts run back to the recollection of the similar periods which were formerly allotted us, and forward to the uncertain anticipation of those which we may yet hope to enjoy, before the termination of our course upon earth. The moment, my brethren, is one of tender feeling, and of serious reflection; and the state of mind which it produces is favourable to those exalted sentiments which detach us from mortality, and invigorate our steps in that sublime path, the termination of which is in heaven. I need not, therefore, apologize for requesting your attention, at this time, to a few of those reflections which moments such as the present call forth.

One of the first recollections which presents itself to us, when we look back upon the years that are past, is the remembrance of those friends and companions, whose society constituted their principal charm. From some of these we have since been separated, by their or our misconduct; from others by absence, and the different accidents of human life; from more, perhaps, by death. Those among us who have lived the longest in the world, must have the greatest number of such melancholy, but tender recollections; and, from the summit of their advanced years, must behold the fleeting forms of their dearest connections passing in shadowy review before them. To the youngest among us, however, some such remembrances must occur; some youthful companion, or some venerable parent, of whom

death has deprived them for ever. They are, indeed, few who have advanced beyond the period of infancy, whose years have not carried them through some "evil days;" through some of those afflictions, which are the portion of our nature, which leave a deep trace in the heart, and which improve while they wound it. The recollections are mournful, my brethren, but they are salutary; they carry "healing on their wings," and they advance, with every revolving year, to restrain, with gentle force, the impetuosity of our passions, or to rouse the soul from its slumbers.

They tell us, first of all, that the kind affections of our nature are those which leave the most durable impressions; that all occupations in which these are not engaged, are in some respect foreign from our hearts, and do not voluntarily present themselves to our memory; and that it is only when he loves, and is beloved, that man accomplishes the purpose of his being. They tell us farther, that this purpose can never meet with its full accomplishment on earth; that the "time and chance which happen to all things," interrupt likewise the course of our tenderest affections; and that in the ruins of winter, with which the departing year surrounds him, man is not only called to mourn the decay of nature, but, it may be, the loss of all which kindled the glow of love in his heart. They tell us, finally, not to grieve, like those who have no hope: in the memory of departed love and virtue, the prophecy of immortality is involved; and when we call to mind the forms of those whose kind offices were the solace of our early years, or whose virtues animated our youthful emulation, we feel that we are not conversing with the dead, but with "the spirits

of the just made perfect." While these recollections inform us, that there is a winter of mortality over which our tears have fallen, they point at the same time to an eternal spring, when every tear shall be wiped away; and they leave us inspired with the high and holy ambition to "redeem the time" which we have lost, and to be no longer "slothful, but followers of them who through faith and patience have inherited the promises.”

In the second place, my brethren, when we look back upon our departed years, we naturally consider in what manner we have been employed in their course. review of this kind, the best among us will be conscious, that they have left undone many things which they ought to have done, and have done many things which they ought not to have done." They will wonder, indeed, at the apparent vacuity which they have left behind them; at the small number of good actions, which rise among the crowd of such as either are pernicious or insignificant. At the same time, they will feel that their good actions are those alone which they can have much satisfaction in recollecting; that they are as lamps which shed a consoling beam upon the darkness which surrounds them; and, while they would willingly forget some part of their conduct, and are indifferent to the recollection of the greater part, they can pause, with a tranquil sentiment of enjoyment, on those deeds of light which have distinguished their path. While the years that are past bring them the sad remembrance of friends whom they have lost, they bring them likewise the soothing information, that the good which they have done has made them other friends; and that, although the tenderest strings of their hearts may have been torn