The ungodly “are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.” Where—where—where? Where are they driven? The man is in health, the sun shines, the sky is calm, the world is still about him. Suddenly there is seen a little cloud the size of a man’s hand. A little signal overtakes him. The hurricane begins to rise, but first it is only a faint breath.
The wicked man feels the cold air blowing on him, but he screens it with the physician, and he thinks that surely he shall live. The storm is on. God hath decreed it, and man cannot stay it. The breath becomes a wind, the wind a storm, the storm a howling hurricane. His soul is swept away.
To go to Heaven on angels wings is a glorious thing; but to be swept out of this world with the wicked is an awful thing—to be carried, not on wings of cherubs, but on the eagle wings of the wind; to be borne, not by yon songsters up to their feathered seats, but to be carried away in the midst of a howling tempest by grim fiends.—SPURGEON.