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Lord God of Sabaoth, from the blood stained cross of Calvary, where Jesus bowed His head, cried, "It is finished, and gave up the ghost." And these tears were shed for you and me -this blood was spilt for us. Shall we, then, who have so ungratefully sinned against the loving Saviour, shall we withhold our penitential tears, or longer turn away from His appeals when He calls us to His cross?

"He wept, that we might weep,

Each sin demands a tear;
In Heaven alone no sin is found,

And there's no weeping there."

Yes, sin and tears must, and ought to go together; if we do not weep over our sins now, we shall weep over them for ever in the outer darkness, for there there is weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth; no kindly hand to wipe our gushing eyes, no gentle voice to whisper comfort in our ears there. In that place of never-dying death, all will be grief and lamentation, the sacred ties of blood dissevered, mother will frown on child, and child will curse the mother; the son will turn upon his father, and say, "You led me to this place, and the first time you struck my mother in my presence, and taught me drunkenness and cruelty, I felt the first flushes of this quenchless flame." But, my fellow sinner, if you would escape this everlasting lamentation, shed you tears now; think of the foul ingratitude of all your sins, remember that each oath, each lie, each act of cruelty and wrong you ever did, drove a fresh nail into your Saviour's hands, plunged back the rankling spear into His side, and wreathed afresh the crown of thorns around His brow. I have often called to you before, in His dear name, to come and bring your sins and sorrows to His cross, and God grant it may not have been in vain! But supposing that it has been all in vain; supposing that I have pointed a blind and stiffnecked people to the Lamb of God; supposing none have listened hitherto to the voice of mercy and of love, let it not be so again to-day. By the tears of dying friends, by the tears of ruined souls, by the tears of guardian angels; and above all, by the tears of a crucified Redeemer, I implore you all to come to Jesus now. Come with a broken and a contrite heart; come thou outcast tenant of the roofless garret and the fœtid cellar; come, thou foulest of the foul-mouthed group who throng the alehouse hall; come ye weary and heavy laden, ye hungry, and ye thirsty starvelings in the Lazar-house of woe; come ye hardy sons of toil, and you ye care-worn victims of misfortune dire; come from your haunts of darkest revelry, and burst the enthralling chain, and twine your close embrace around the

Saviour's cross.

you

I invite you in His name, and in His name I promise you that shall not be cast out. I promise you that, once havened in the ample bosom of His love, that none shall pluck you from His hand. O! take a friend's advice, and make a friend of Christ; He will never leave you, He will never, no, never forsake you! Behold yon bright and white-robed army, winding their jocund course up to the pearly portals of the skies. They knock and the door is opened, and the only watchword that they give is Christ crucified, and as they enter in through the gates into the city, escorted to their starry thrones by angel hosts, they are met upon the jasper threshold by Christ crowned! Crowned! but no more with thorns, but diademed with blazing glory, and panoplied with light as with a garment; and you may join them too. You, too, may sit upon a throne in yonder realm of bliss; you too may wave a palm, and join the hallelujahs of the skies; you too may fall into those ranks, and wear the virgin uniform of free salvation. The powers of death and hell shall never keep you back though Satan marshal them in all their power, for Christ has vanquished Satan, and has abolished death. It is to life, eternal life, he calls you, and life and immortality are brought to light by His Gospel. My brother, will you come? Take up the blood-stained banner of His cross, and bear it on throughout this vale of tears, until you change it for the blood-bought crown, when God shall wipe all tears away.

Battle, in His might, with each opposing foe, and Victory shall attend your standard, and conquest crown your strife. Cry, God forbid that I should glory save in the cross of my Lord Jesus Christ; but God forbid that I should not glory in that cross, for it was that cross alone that bore me up, and brought me out of great tribulation, and it was that cross alone that dragged me from the yawning jaws of hell and death, and struck the manacles from off my fettered soul. O, sinner! methinks I see thee standing amidst the multitude that no man can number, robed in thy shining garment of salvation, and wreathed in the radiance of perpetual smiles, and this is the exultant legacy of praise you leave your children on the earth:"Praise to the Conqueror, O! tell of His love, In pity to mortals He came from above; Who shall re-build for the tyrant his prison The sceptre lies broken that fell from his hands His dominion has ended, the Lord has arisen, The helpless shall soon be released from their bands. Praise the Redeemer, Almighty to save,

Emmanuel has triumphed o'er Death and the Grave!"

Who's that Knocking at the Door?

A LECTURE

BY THE REV. A. MURSELL,

IN THE

FREE TRADE HALL, DECEMBER 6TH, 1857.

I FEEL rather more disposed to apologise to you than I used to do for offering you such an ad captandum title, for I am bold enough to hope that you are quite as much disposed to listen to a lecture with a sensible title as a ridiculous one.

I used this topic once before, as a sort of means of knocking at the sympathies of working men, and persuading them to come out; but now that these sympathies are gained, I resort with more reluctance to these means. But I hope the address itself may be repeated with advantage, and that the title will be excused.

Now for our subject, "Who's that knocking at the door?" This question has been often asked by a great many people, under a great many different circumstances. There are few sounds which can more effectually bring a person's heart into his mouth than a knock at the door. There is eloquence and meaning in other things than words. Ask poor Mobbles, who every evening, when he leaves the warehouse, goes all round by Cheetham Hill, before he goes to his lodgings in Old Trafford, in order to cast his eye up at a particular chamber window, and to lay his right hand over his left waistcoat pocket, and murmur to himself, "sweet Marianne; " ask him if there is not eloquence and meaning in the back of a looking-glass, and in the distant view of a bed-post. Ask the swell with the red moustache and sandy whiskers, who walks in light French boots, to the violent irritation of his favourite corn, round and round St. Ann's Square, between one and two o'clock on a summer's afternoon (they call that morning in polite circles), ask him if there is not eloquence and meaning in the toss of a bonnet, the sweep of a crinoline, or rustle of a petticoat. Ask the lover who splits his trowsers twice a-week in going on his knees before the idol of his affections,

if there is not eloquence and meaning in a glance of the eye, or the curl of a lip. Ask the school boy who has got his thin summer jacket on, and has forgotten to stick a copy book up his back, if there is not eloquence and meaning in a stripe of the birch, or a cut of the caue. Ask the poor beggar boy, who faints for want of bread, if there is not eloquence and meaning in the chink of a copper on the pavement. Ask the pauper in the Union, if there is not eloquence and ineaning in every button on the beadle's coat, and every pimple on his bottle-nose. Ask the little street urchin, if there is not eloquence and meaning in a policeman's tread, long before he shakes the collar of his jacket and tells him to "move on." Oh, yes, there is a language in other things than words, a language in a sigh-a language in a tear-a language in a footstep-a language in a look;-but in nothing is there a more telling, startling, and effective language than in a knock at the door.

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We have alluded to our red-whiskered friend, out a-walking, let us just peep through the key-hole at him when he is in his lodgings at home. He looks very restless and uneasy, very impatient and disturbed, for he is anxiously expecting a new coat from the tailor's, and some doeskin pantaloons. They ought to have been home two hours ago, and he is growing angry and fidgety. At length there is a sound, and the street door opens and shuts. Our nervous friend rings the bell. "Mary, who was that knocking at the door?" Please, sir, it was only the milk, and then somebody who wanted to know if Mr. Swipes lived here." Exit Mary. Another knock, and he goes to the door himself; it is the washerwoman with his last week's washing. Aw, my linen, is it? Come in Mrs. Soapsuds." And then, of course, follows a protracted conversation about bleaching and clear starching, and a good deal of swearing on the part of the -owner of the red whiskers, relative to a slight crease which he has discovered in the tail of one of his shirts. Another knock, and it is the tailor himself. Of course he is fearfully abused for his want of punctuality, and receives his lecture with all becoming meekness and resignation. We will not stay to assist at the toilet of our friend, but leave him to dress himself with the assistance of Mr. Snip, and to revel in the full effect of his irresistible garments.

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Turn to another scene, perhaps equally illustrative of the power of a knock at the door. Two young gentlemen lodge together in the same house, on whom we will confer the names of Jones and Robinson. Jones has got a cold in his head, and determines to go to bed and have some gruel at ten o'clock. Just

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