Sabbath audience in the Brooklyn Tabernacle, and all to whom these words shall come on both sides the sea, notice here the tremendous alternative:  it is not whether you live in Pierrepont Street or Carlton Avenue, walk Trafalgar Square or the “Canongate;” nor whether your dress shall be black or brown; nor whether you shall be robust or an invalid; nor whether you shall live on the banks of the Hudson, the Shannon, the Seine, the Thames, the Tiber; but it is a question whether you will love Christ or suffer banishment; whether you will give yourselves to Him who owns you or fall under the millstone; whether you will rise to glories that have no terminus or plunge to a depth which has no bottom.  I do not see how you can take the ten-thousandth part of a second to decide it, when there are two worlds fastened at opposite ends of a swivel, and the swivel turns on one point, and that point is now, now.  Is it not fair that you love Him?  Is it not right that you love Him?  Is it not imperative that you love Him?  What is it that keeps you from rushing up and throwing the arms of your affection about His neck?

My text pronounces Anathema Maranatha upon all those who refuse to love Christ.  Anathema—­cut off.  Cut off from light, from hope, from peace, from heaven.  Oh, sharp, keen, sword-like words!  Cut off!  Everlastingly cut off!  Behold, therefore, the goodness and severity of God:  on them which fell, severity; but toward thee, goodness, if thou continue in His goodness; otherwise thou also shalt be cut off.  Maranatha—­that is the other word.  “When he comes” is the meaning of it.

Will He come?  I see no signs of it.  I looked into the sky as I rode down to church.  I saw no signs of the coming.  No signal of God’s appearance.  The earth stands solid on its foundation.  No cry of welcome or of woe.  Will He come!  He will.  Maranatha!  Hear it ye mountains, and prepare to fall.  Ye cities, and prepare to burn.  Ye righteous, and prepare to reign.  Ye wicked, and prepare to die.  Maranatha!  Maranatha!

But, oh, my brother, I am not so aroused by that coming as I am by a previous coming, and that is the coming of our death hour, which will fix everything for us.  I can not help now, while preaching, asking myself the question—­Am I ready for that?  If I am ready for the first I will be ready for the next.  Are you ready for the emergency?  Shall I tell you when your death hour will come?  “Oh, no,” says some one, “I don’t want to know.  I would rather not know.”  Some one says:  “I would rather know, if you can tell me.”  I will tell you.  It will be at the most unexpected moment, when you are most busy, and when you think you can be least spared.  I can not exactly say whether it will be in the noon, or at the sundown when people are coming home, or in the morning when the world is waking up, or while the clock is striking twelve at night.  But I tell you what I think, that with some of you it will be before next Saturday night.