The cross! Poets have sung its praise, and sculptors have attempted to commemorate it in marble, and martyrs have clung to it in fire, and Christians dying quietly in their beds have leaned their heads against it. M
ay all our souls embrace it with an ecstacy of affection. Lay hold of that cross, O dying sinner. Everything else will fail you. Without a strong grip of that you perish. Put your hand on that and you are safe, though the world swing from beneath your feet.
Oh I that I might engrave on your souls ineffaceably the three crosses, and that if in your waking moments you will not heed, then that in your dream to-night you might see on the hill back of Jerusalem the three spectacles—the right-hand cross showing unbelief, and dying without Christ—the left-hand showing what it is to be pardoned—while the central cross pours upon your soul the sunburst of Heaven as it says: “By all these wounds I plead for thy heart.
I have loved thee with an everlasting love. Rivers cannot quench it The floods cannot drown it!”—TALMAGE.
