He was a mason by trade. I had often spoken to him about his soul, but he would not listen. I had asked others to call, but he had sent them away, either saying that he was all right or refusing to see them. And yet he was dying of consumption. His hectic cheeks and hollow cough told the sad story of his approaching end. So near to eternity and yet “without hope and without God in the world. Once when with him I knelt but could not pray. I opened my Bible, but could not read. I had no “message from God” for him, and I left him with an aching heart.
One day he sent me a note asking me to come and see him. The note was sent to my house at 12.30 in the afternoon. I did not get it till 1:30, as I was out visiting. I went at once to see him. When I reached the house I saw him lying on his bed dead, with his throat cut, the floor covered with blood. He had committed suicide in the presence of his child, eleven years old, having sent his wife out of the room on some pretext. His last hour had come. The rejecter of the gospel had passed to his account. He had been “led captive by the devil at his will.” The wages of sin were death, and he was dead. Poor lost soul! gone from the darkness of life to the darkness of eternal death. Sinner! your last hour will come. What will it be?