I look off in one direction, and they are dead.  I look off in another direction, and they are dead.  Who will bring them to life?  Who shall rouse them up?  If I should halloo at the top of my voice I could not wake them.  Wait a moment!  Listen!  There is a rustling.  There is a gale from heaven.  It comes from the north, and from the south, and from the east, and from the west.  It shuts us in.  It blows upon the slain.  There a soul begins to move in spiritual life; there, ten souls; there, a score of souls; there, a hundred souls.  The nostrils throbbing in divine respiration, the hands lifted as though to take hold of heaven, the tongue moving as in prayer and adoration.  Life! immortal life coming into the slain.  Ten men for God—­fifty—­a hundred—­a regiment—­an army for God!  Oh, that we might have such a scene here to-day!  In Ezekiel’s words, and in almost a frenzy of prayer, I cry:  “Come from the four winds, O Breath! and breathe upon the slain.”

You will have to surrender your heart to-day to God.  You can not take the responsibility of fighting against the Spirit in this crisis which will decide whether you are to go to heaven or to hell—­to join the hallelujahs of the saved, or the lamentations of the lost.  You must pray.  You must repent.  You must this day fling your sinful soul on the pardoning mercy of God.  You must!  I see your resolution against God giving way, your determination wavering.  I break through the breach in the wall and follow up the advantage gained, hoping to rout your last opposition to Christ, and to make you “ground arms” at the feet of the Divine Conqueror.  Oh, you must!  You must!

The moon does not ask the tides of the Atlantic Ocean to rise.  It only stoops down with two great hands of light, the one at the European beach, and the other at the American beach, and then lifts the great layer of molten silver.  And God, it seems to me, is now going to lift this audience to newness of life.  Do you not feel the swellings of the great oceanic tides of Divine mercy?  My heart is in anguish to have you saved.  For this I pray, and preach, and long, glad to be called a fool for Christ’s sake, and your salvation.

Some one replies:  “Dear me, I do wish I could have these matters arranged with my God.  I want to be saved.  God knows I want to be saved; but you stand there talking about this matter, and you don’t show me how.”  My dear brother, the work has all been done.  Christ did it with His own torn hand, and lacerated foot, and bleeding side.  He took your place, and died your death, if you will only believe it—­only accept Him as your substitute.

What an amazing pity that any man should go from this house unblessed, when such a large blessing is offered him at less cost than you would pay for a pin—­“without money and without price.”  I have driven down to-day with the Lord’s ambulance to the battle-field where your soul lies exposed to the darkness and the storm, and I want to lift you in, and drive off with you toward heaven.  Oh, Christians, by your prayers help to lift these wounded souls into the ambulance!  God forbid that any should be left on the field, and that at last eternal sorrow, and remorse, and despair should come up around their soul like the bandit Philistines to the field of Gilboa, stripping the slain.