SUCH was the last and touching request of one of the passengers on the ill-fated Scotch Express, which was wrecked near Thirsk, on one of the early mornings of November, 1892. Wakened rudely out of a broken sleep by the awful collision, and thrown all in a heap amidst shattered boards, twisted iron, and shivered glass, he was extricated by kind and friendly hands. Brandy was being applied to his lips, if perchance by its aid he might be for the moment stimulated, when these plaintive words—so deeply expressive of the poor sufferer’s inmost wish—were feebly uttered, “Don’t let me die.”
But they were hardly spoken when he passed away, and all was over. Those who had come to render him what succor they could, had to turn their attention to others equally in need, and he was left, lying amid the wreckage, a corpse.
His call was sudden, as was that of many others on the same sad occasion.
Ah, how important it is to be ready! Who can tell how or when his own call may come?
What may have been the meaning of this poor fellow’s request cannot be said. He may have thought of urgent business yet unsettled, or perhaps of a wife and family dependent on him at home, or perhaps he felt he was unprepared for an immediate call into the presence of God.
None can tell what may have troubled his mind at that supreme moment, but his words were painfully suggestive— “Don’t let me die.”
Alas! the two men who had befriended him were unable to carry out his desire. They did what they could, but neither their stimulants nor their strong arms could ward off the unwelcome claimant. In presence of death man is powerless.
But did you never see a case where its power carried no terror, and where the sufferer could say in triumph, “O death, where is thy sting?”
There lay on her dying bed, in the same month of the same year, a wife and mother. She was passing away too. The fact of her approaching death had to be gently broken to her by a brother.
On receiving the news, she remained as calm as if she had been told of a speedy recovery. Death had no terror for her. And why? Because, as she said, “It is eighteen years ago since I was saved.” For all these years she had known and enjoyed the way of salvation and of peace. She had known the Lord. Oh, what a difference that makes in life and in death and in eternity! True, tender links had to be severed and ties unloosed, but she did not say “Don’t let me die.”
She was ready.
Now, dear reader, it may seem like harping on an old chord, but never mind, I must ask you the question, Are you ready? If not, why not?
You are allowing these years to fly quickly past, and your day must come. Now, face the fact boldly, What is to be done?
Shall you slip on as you are, in your sins, into the grave and judgment and hell?
A rude awakening awaits you, then your cry will not be “Don’t let me die;” but “Don’t let me be damned.” But then your cry is too late—death is past; the grave has disgorged you, the judgment-seat has condemned you, and now nothing but the “lake of fire” awaits you. Fearful prospect! Taken out of the grave, placed in resurrection under the condemning verdict of the great white throne, you must pass away into outer darkness and eternal punishment. That is the result of living and dying in sin and unbelief. Can you bear the very thought? Your harvest is past, your summer is ended, and you are not saved, nay, you are lost and damned. “He that is unjust, let him be unjust still.”
Make your cry heard now. Escape from death and damnation now. Get saved by faith in the blood of Christ now.
J. W. S.