“We are all like trees marked for the axe….”
When in the forest there is heard the crash of a falling oak, it is a sign the the woodman is abroad, and every tree in the whole company may tremble lest tomorrow the sharp edge of the axe should find it out. We are all like trees marked for the axe, and the fall of one should remind us that for every one, whether as great as the cedar, or humble as the fir, the appointed hour is stealing on apace. I trust we do not, by often hearing of death, become callous to it. May we never be like the birds in the steeple, which build their nests when the bells are tolling, and sleep quietly when the solemn funeral peals are startling the air. May we regard death as the most weighty of all events, and be sobered by its approach. It ill behooves us to sport while eternal destiny hangs on a thread. The sword is out of its scabbard – let us not trifle; it is furbished, and the edge is sharp – let us not play with it. He who does not prepare for death is more than an ordinary fool, he is a madman.
Charles Haddon Spurgeon (1834 – 1892)
When in the forest there is heard the crash of a falling oak, it is a sign the the woodman is abroad, and every tree in the whole company may tremble lest tomorrow the sharp edge of the axe should find it out. We are all like trees marked for the axe, and the fall of one should remind us that for every one, whether as great as the cedar, or humble as the fir, the appointed hour is stealing on apace. I trust we do not, by often hearing of death, become callous to it. May we never be like the birds in the steeple, which build their nests when the bells are tolling, and sleep quietly when the solemn funeral peals are startling the air. May we regard death as the most weighty of all events, and be sobered by its approach. It ill behooves us to sport while eternal destiny hangs on a thread. The sword is out of its scabbard – let us not trifle; it is furbished, and the edge is sharp – let us not play with it. He who does not prepare for death is more than an ordinary fool, he is a madman.
Charles Haddon Spurgeon (1834 – 1892)