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- C. H. Spurgeon - The Sweet Uses of Adversity
"The Sweet Uses of Adversity" by C. H. Spurgeon
 "Shew
me wherefore thou contendest with me." - Job 10:2
And will God contend with man? If God be angry, can he not take away
the breath of his nostrils, and lay him low in the dust of earth? If
the heart of the Almighty be moved unto hot displeasure, can he not
speak in his anger, and will not the soul of man sink into the
lowest hell? Will God contend—will he set himself in battle array
against his creature? and such a creature?—the creature of an hour—a
thing that is not, that is here to-day and gone to-morrow? Will the
Almighty contend with the nothingness of man? Will the everlasting
God take up the weapons of war, and go out to fight against the
insect of a day? Well might we cry out to him, "after whom is my
Lord the King gone forth? After a dead dog: after a flea?" Wilt thou
hunt the partridge on the mountains with an army, and wilt thou go
forth against a gnat with shield and spear? Shall the everlasting
God who fainteth not, neither is weary, at whose reproof the pillars
of heaven's starry roof tremble and start—will he become combatant
with a creature? Yet our text saith so. It speaks of God's
contending with man. Ah, surely, my brethren, it needs but little
logic to understand that this not a contention of anger, but a
contention of love. It needs, methinks, but a short sight for us to
discover that, if God contendeth with man, it must be a contention
of mercy. There must be a design of love in this. If he were angry
he would not condescend to reason with his creature, and to have a
strife of words with him; much less would he put on his buckler, and
lay hold on his sword, to stand up in battle and contend with such a
creature as man. You will all perceive at once that there must be
love even in this apparently angry word; that this contention must,
after all, have something to do with contentment, and that this
battle must be, after all, but a disguised mercy, but another shape
of an embrace from the God of love. Carry this consoling reflection
in your thoughts while I am preaching to you; and if any of you are
saying to-day, "Shew me wherefore thou contendest with me," the very
fact of God contending with you at all, the fact that he has not
consumed you, that he has not smitten you to the lowest hell, may
thus, at the very outset, afford consolation and hope.
Now, I propose to address myself to the two classes of persons who
are making use of this question. First, I shall speak to the tried
saint; and then I shall speak to the seeking sinner, who has been
seeking peace and pardon through Christ, but who has not as yet
found it, but, on the contrary, has been buffeted by the law, and
driven away from the mercy-seat in despair.
I. First, then, to THE CHILD OF GOD. I have—I know I have—in this
great assembly, some who have come to Job's position. They are
saying, "My soul is weary of my life; I will leave my complaint upon
myself; I will speak in the bitterness of my soul. I will say unto
God, Do not condemn me; shew me wherefore thou contendest with me."
Sometimes to question God is wicked. As the men of Bethshemesh were
smitten with death when they dared to lift up the lid of the ark and
look into its sacred mysteries, so is it often death to our faith to
question God. It often happens that the sorest plagues come upon us
on account of an impudent curiosity which longs to pry between the
folded leaves of God's great council-book, and find out the reason
for his mysterious providences. But, methinks this is a question
that may be asked. Inquiring here will not be merely curious: for
there will be a practical affect following therefrom. Tried saint t
follow me while I seek to look into this mystery and answer your
question, and I pray you, select that one of several answers which I
shall propound, which shall, to your judgment, enlightened by the
Holy Spirit, seem to be the right one. You have been tried by
trouble after trouble: business runs cross against you; sickness is
never out of your house; while in your own person you are the
continual subject of a sad depression of spirit. It seems as if God
were contending with you, and you are asking, "Why is this" 'Shew me
wherefore thou contendest with me.?'
1. My first answer on God's part, my brother, is this—it may be that
God is contending with thee that he may show his own power in
upholding thee. God delighteth in his saints; and when a man
delights in his child, if it be a child noted for its brightness of
intellect, he delights to see it put through hard questions, because
he knows that it will be able to answer them all. So God glories in
his children. He loves to hear them tried, that the whole world may
see that there is none like them on the face of the earth, and even
Satan may be compelled before he can find an accusation against
them, to resort to his inexhaustible fund of lies. Sometimes God on
purpose puts his children in the midst of this world's trials. On
the right, left, before, behind, they are surrounded. Within and
without the battle rages. But there stands the child of God, calm
amidst the bewildering cry, confident of victory. And then the Lord
pointeth joyously to his saint, and he saith, "See, Satan, he is
more than a match for thee. Weak though he is, yet through my power,
he all things can perform." And sometimes God permits Satan himself
to come against one of his children; and the black fiend of hell in
dragon's wings, meets a poor Christian just when he is faint and
weary from stumblings in the valley of humiliation. The fight is
long and terrible, and, well it may be, for it is a worm combating
with the dragon. But see what that worm can do. It is trodden under
foot, and yet it destroys the heel that treads upon it. When the
Christian is cast down he utters a cry, "Rejoice not over me, O mine
enemy, for though I fall yet shall I rise again." And so God
pointeth to his child and with, "See there! see what I can do: I can
make flesh and blood more mighty than the most cunning spirit; I can
make poor feeble foolish man, more than a match for all the craft
and might of Satan." And what will you say to this third proof that
God puts us through? Sometimes God doth as it were, himself enter
into the lists; oh, let us wonder to tell it. God to prove the
strength of faith, sometimes himself makes war on faith. Think not
that this is a stretch of the imagination. It is plain simple fact.
Have ye never heard of the brook Jabbok, and of that angel-clothed
God who fought with Jacob there, and permitted Jacob to prevail?
What was this for? It was this: thus had God determined, "I will
strengthen the creature so much, that I will permit it to overcome
its Creator." Oh, what noble work is this, that while God is casting
down his child with one hand, he should be holding him up with the
other: letting a measure of omnipotence fall on him to crush him,
while the like omnipotence supports him under the tremendous load.
The Lord shows the world—"See what faith can do! "Well does Hart
sing of faith—
"It treads on the world and on hell;
It vanquishes death and despair;
And, O! let us wonder to tell,
It overcomes heaven by prayer."
This is why God contends with thee: to glorify himself, by showing
to angels, to men, to devils, how he can put such strength into poor
puny man, that he can contend with his Maker, and become a
prevailing prince like Israel, who as a prince had power of God, and
prevailed. This, then, may be the first reason.
2. Let me give you a second answer. Perhaps, O tried soul! the Lord
is doing this to develope thy graces. There are some of thy graces
that would never be discovered if it were not for thy trials. Dost
thou not know that thy faith never looks so grand in summer weather,
as it does in winter? Hast thou not heard that love is too often
like a glow-worm, that showeth but little light except it be in the
midst of surrounding darkness? And dost thou not know that hope
itself is like a star—not to be seen in the sunshine of prosperity,
and only to be discovered in the night of adversity? Dost thou not
understand that afflictions are often the black foils in which God
doth set the jewels of his children's graces, to make them shine the
better. It was but a little while ago that on thy knees thou west
saying, "Lord, I fear I have no faith: let me know that I have
faith." But dost thou know thou wast praying for trials, for thou
canst not know that thou hast faith, until thy faith be exercised.
Our trials, so to speak, are like wayfarers in a wood. When there is
no intruder in the silent glades of the forest, the hare and the
partridge lie; and there they rest, and no eye sees them. But when
the intruding footstep is heard, then you see them start and run
along the green lane, and you hear the whirr of the pheasant as it
seeks to hide itself. Now, our trials are intruders upon our heart's
rest; our graces start up and we discover them. They had lain in
their lair, they had slept in their forms, they lead rested in their
nests, unless these intruding trials had startled them from their
places. I remember a simple rural metaphor used by a departed
divine. He says he was never very skillful at birds' nesting in the
summer time, but he could always find birds' nests in the winter.
Now, it often happens that when a man has but little grace, you can
scarcely see it when the leaves of his prosperity are on him; but
let the winter's blast come and sweep away his withered leaves, and
then you discover his graces. Depend upon it, God often sends us
trials that our graces may be discovered, and that we may be
certified of their existence. Besides, it is not merely discovery,
it is real growth that is the result of these trials. There is a
little plant, small and stunted, growing under the shade of a brood
spreading oak; and this little plant values the shade which covers
it, and greatly does it esteem the quiet rest which its noble friend
affords. But a blessing is designed for this little plant. Once upon
a time there comes along the woodman, and with his sharp axe he
fells the oak. The plant weeps, and cries, "My shelter is departed:
every rough wind will blow upon me, and every storm will seek to
uproot me." "No, no," saith the angel of that flower, "now will the
sun get at thee; now will the shower fall on thee in more copious
abundance than before; now thy stunted form shall spring up into
loveliness, and thy flower, which could never have expanded itself
to perfection, shall now laugh in the sunshine, and men shall say,
'How greatly hath that plant increased! how glorious hath become its
beauty through the removal of that which was its shade and its
delight!'" See you not, then, that God may take away your comforts
and your privileges to make you the better Christians? Why, the Lord
always trains his soldiers, not by letting them lie on feather beds,
but by turning them out and using them to forced marches and hard
service He makes them ford through streams, and swim through rivers,
and climb mountains, and walk many a long march with heavy knapsacks
of sorrow on their backs. This is the way in which he makes
soldiers—not by dressing them up in fine uniforms, to swagger at the
barrack gates, and to be fine gentlemen in the eyes of the loungers
in the park. God knows that soldiers are only to be made in battle;
they are not to be grown in peaceful times. We may grow the stuff of
which soldiers are made, but warriors are really educated by the
smell of powder, in the midst of whizzing bullets, and roaring
cannonades—not in soft and peaceful times. Well, Christian, may not
this account for it all? Is not thy Lord bringing out thy graces and
making them grow? This is the reason why he is contending with you.
3. Another reason may be found in this. It may be the Lord contends
with thee because thou hast some secret sin which is doing thee sore
damage. Dost thou remember the story of Moses? Never a man better
beloved than he of the Lord his God, for he was faithful in all his
house as a servant. But dost thou remember how the Lord met him on
the way as he was going to Egypt, and strove with him? find why?
Because he had in his house an uncircumcised child. This child was,
so long as it had not God's seal upon it, a sin in Moses; therefore
God strove with him till the thing was done. Now, too often we have
some uncircumcised thing in our house, some joy that is evil, some
amusement that is sinful, some pursuit that is not agreeable to his
will. And the Lord meets us often as he did Moses, of whom it is
written—"The Lord met him by the way in the inn, and sought to kill
him."—Exodus 4:24. Now search and look, for if the consolations of
God be small with thee, there is some secret sin within. Put it
away, lest God smite thee still more sorely, and vex thee in his hot
displeasure. Trials often discover sins—sins we should never have
found out if it had not been for them. We know that the houses in
Russia are very greatly infested with rats and mice. Perhaps a
stranger would scarcely notice them at first, but the time when you
discover them is when the house is on fire; then they pour out in
multitudes. And so doth God sometimes burn up our comforts to make
our hidden sins run out; and then he enables us to knock them on the
head and get rid of them. That may be the reason of your trial, to
put an end to some long-fostered sin. It may be, too, that in this
way God would prevent some future sin, some sin hidden from thine
own eyes into which thou wouldst soon fall if it were not for his
troubling thee by his providence. There was a fair ship which
belonged to the great Master of the seas; it was about to sail from
the port of grace to the haven of glory. Ere it left the shore the
great Master said, "Mariners, be brave! Captain, be thou bold! for
not a hair of your head shall perish; I will bring you safely to
your desired haven. The angel of the winds is commissioned to take
care of you on your way." The ship sailed right merrily with its
streamers flying in the air. It floated along at a swift rate with a
fair wind for many and many a day. But once upon a time there came a
hurricane which drove them from the course, strained their mast
until it bent as if it must snap in twain. The sail was gone to
ribbons; the sailors were alarmed and the captain himself trembled.
They had lost their course. "They were out of the right track," they
said; and they mourned exceedingly. When the day dawned the waves
were quiet, and the angel of the winds appeared; and they spoke unto
him, and said, "Oh angel, wast thou not bidden to take charge of us,
and preserve us on our journeys?" He answered, "It was even so, and
I have done it. You were steering on right confidently, and you knew
not that a little ahead of your vessel lay a quicksand upon which
she would be wrecked and swallowed up quick. I saw that there was no
way for your escape but to drive you from your course. See, I have
done as it was commanded me: go on your way." Ah, this is a parable
of our Lord's dealings with us. He often drives us from our smooth
course which we thought was the right track to heaven. But there is
a secret reason for it; there is a quicksand ahead that is not
marked in the chart. We know nothing about it; but God seeth it, and
he will not permit this fair vessel, which he has himself insured,
to be stranded anywhere; he will bring it safely to its desired
haven.
4. I have now another reason to give, but it is one which some of
you will not understand; some however will. Beloved, ye remember
that it is written, that we "must bear the image of the heavenly,"
namely, the image of Christ. As he was in this world even so must we
be. We must have fellowship with him in his sufferings, that we may
be conformable unto his death. Hast thou never thought that none can
be like the Man of Sorrow unless they have sorrows too? How can you
be like unto him, who sweat as it were great drops of blood, if you
do not sometimes say, "My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto
death." Think not, O well-beloved, that thou canst be like the
thorn-crowned head, and yet never feel the thorn. Canst thou be like
thy dying Lord, and yet be uncrucified? Must thy hand be without a
nail, and thy foot without a wound? Canst thou be like him, unless
like him thou art compelled to say, "My God, my God, why hast thou
forsaken me?" God is chiselling you—you are but a rough block—he is
making you into the image of Christ; and that sharp chisel is taking
away much which prevents your being like him. Must he who is our
head be marred in his visage by reason of grief, and must we for
ever rejoice and sing? It cannot be.
"The heirs of salvation, I know from his word,
Through much tribulation must follow their Lord."
Sweet is the affliction which gives us fellowship with Christ.
Blessed is the plough that ploughs deep furrows, if the furrows be
like his. Blessed is the mouth that spits upon us, if the spittle be
from the same cause as that which defiled his face. Blessed are the
nails and thorns, and vinegar and spear, if they but make us
somewhat like to him, in whose glory we shall be partakers when we
shall see him as he is. This is a matter which all cannot
understand, for it is a path which no unhallowed foot hath trodden,
and no careless eye hath so much as seen it. But the true believer
can rejoice therein, for he has had fellowship with Christ in his
sufferings.
5. To the child Of God I shall give only one more reason. The Lord,
it may be, contendeth with thee, my brother, to humble thee. We are
all too proud; the humblest of us do but approach to the door of
true humility. We are too proud, for pride, I suppose, runs in our
very veins, and is not to be gotten out of us any more than the
marrow from our bones. We shall have many blows before we are
brought down to the right mark; and it is because we are so
continually getting up that God is so continually putting us down
again. Besides, don't you feel, in looking back on your past
troubles, that you have after all been best when you have had
troubles? I can truly say, there is a mournfulness in joy, and there
is a sweet joy in sorrow. I do not know how it is, but that bitter
wine of sorrow, when you once get it down gives such a warmth to the
inner man as even the wine of Lebanon can scarce afford. It acts
with such a tonic influence upon the whole system, that the very
veins begin to thrill as the blood leaps therein. Strange influence!
I am no physician, but yet I know that my sweet cup often leaves
bitterness on the palate, and my bitter cup always leaves a sweet
flavour in the mouth. There is a sweet joy in sorrow I cannot
understand. There is music in this harp with its strings all
unstrung and broken. There are a few notes I hear from this mournful
lute that I never get from the loud-sounding trumpet. Softness and
melody we get from the wail of sorrow, which we never get from the
song of joy. Must we not account for this by the fact that in our
troubles we live nearer to God? Our joy is like the wave as it
dashes upon the shore—it throws us on the earth. But our sorrows are
like that receding wave which sucks us back again into the great
depth of Godhead. We should have been stranded and left high and dry
upon the shore if it had not been for that receding wave, that
ebbing of our prosperity, which carried us back to our Father and to
our God again. Blessed affliction! it has brought us to the mercy
seat; given life to prayer; enkindled love; strengthened faith;
brought Christ into the furnace with us, and then brought us out of
the furnace to live with Christ more joyously than before.
Surely, I cannot answer this question better. If I have not hit upon
the right reason, search and look my dearly beloved; for the reason
is not far off if ye but look for it—the reason why he contendeth
with you.
II. I have thus done with the saints; I shall now turn myself to
address THE SEEKING SINNER, who is wondering that he has found no
peace and comfort. By the way—running a little apart from the
subject—I heard a brother saying the other evening in describing his
experience, that before he was converted he Was never sick, never
had an affliction at all, but from the very hour when he became
converted, he found that trials and troubles came upon him very
thick. I have been thinking of that ever since, and I think I have
found a reason for it. When we are converted, it is the time of the
singing of birds; but do you know the time of the singing of birds
is the time of the pruning of vines, and as sure as the time of the
singing of birds is come the time of the pruning of vines is come
also. God begins to try us as soon as he begins to make our soul
sing. This is not running away from the subject. I thought it was.
It has just brought me to address the sinner. You have come here
this morning saying to yourself, "Sir, not long ago I was awakened
to a sense of my lost estate. As I was directed I went home and
sought mercy in prayer. From that day till now I have never ceased
to pray. But, alas! I get no comfort, sir; I grow worse than ever I
was before—I mean I grow more desponding, more sad. If you had asked
me before conviction, sir, whether the path to heaven was easy, I
should have said 'yes.' But now it seems to me to be strewn with
flints. That I would not mind but, alas! methinks the gate is shut
which lies at the end of the road; for I have knocked, and it has
never opened; I have asked, and I have not received; I have sought,
and I have not found. In fact, instead of getting peace I receive
terror. God is contending with me. Can you tell me, sir, why it is?
"I will try to answer the question, God helping me.
1. My first answer shall be this. Perhaps, my dear hearer, God is
contending with you for awhile, because as yet you are not
thoroughly awakened. Remember, Christ will not heal your wound till
he has probed it to its very core. Christ is no unqualified
physician, no foolish surgeon, who would close up a wound with proud
flesh in it; but he will take the lances, and cut, and cut, and cut
again crossways, and he will lay the sore open, expose it, look into
it, make it smart; and then after that, he will close up its mouth
and make it whole. Perhaps thou hast not as yet known thine own
vileness, thine own lost state. Now, Christ will have thee know thy
poverty before he will make thee rich. His Holy Spirit will convince
thee of sin, of righteousness, and of judgment to come. He will
strip thee, and though the pulling off of thy own righteousness be
like flaying thee and tearing off the skin from thy breast, yet he
will do it; for he will not clothe thee with the robe of his own
righteousness till every rag of thy own self-sufficiency is pulled
away. This is why God is contending with thee. Thou hast been on thy
knees. Go lower, man—go lower; fall flat on thy face. Thou hast
said, "Lord, I am nothing." Go lower, man; say, "Lord, I am less
than nothing and the very chief of sinners." Thou hast felt
somewhat; go ask that thou mayest feel more; may be yet more fully
convinced of sin—may learn to hate it with a more perfect hatred,
and to bewail thy lost estate with a wailing like that of Ramah,
when Rachel wept for her children and would not be comforted because
they were not. Seek to know the bottom of your case. Make it a
matter of conscience to look thy sins in the face, and let hell also
blaze before thee: realize the fact that thou deservest to be lost
for ever. Sit down often and take counsel with the Lord thy God,
whom thou hast grievously offended. Think of thy privileges, and how
thou hast despised them; recollect the invitations thou hast heard,
and how often thou hast rejected them; get a proper sense of sin,
and it may be that God will cease to contend with thee, because the
good is all obtained which he sought to give thee by this long and
painful contention.
2. Another answer I will give you is this: perhaps God contends with
thee in order to try thy earnestness. There are many Mr. Pliables,
who set out on the road to heaven for a little time, and the first
boggy piece of road they come to, they creep out on that side which
is nearest to their own house, and go back again. Now, God meets
every pilgrim on the road to heaven and contends with him. If you
can hold your own, and say, "Though he slay me yet will I trust in
him;" if you can dare to do it, and be importunate with God, and
say, "Though he never hear me, if I perish I will pray, and perish
only there;" then you have got the mastery and you shall succeed.
God's Spirit is teaching you how to wrestle and agonize in prayer. I
have seen a man, when he has become solemnly in earnest about his
soul, pray as though he was a very Samson, with the two gates of
mercy in his hand, rocking them to and fro as though he would sooner
pull them up—gates, and bar, and all—than he would go away without
obtaining a blessing. God loves to see a man mighty in prayer,
intent upon getting the blessing, resolved that he will have Christ,
or he will perish seeking him. Now, be in earnest. Cry aloud! spare
not! Rise in the night-watches! pour out your heart like water
before the Lord, for he will answer thee when he hath heard the
voice of thy crying; he will hearken to thy supplication and give
thee the desire of thy heart.
3. Yet, again, another matter. "May it not be, my dear hearers, that
the reason why God contends with you and does not give you peace is,
because you are harbouring some one sin" Now, I will not say what it
is; I have known a man solemnly under conviction of sin, but the
company which he kept on market-day was of such a caste, that until
he was separated entirely from his companions, it was not possible
he should have peace. I do not know what your peculiar besetting sin
may be. It may be a love for frivolity; it may be the desire to
associate with those who amuse you; it may be worse. But remember,
Christ and thy soul will never be one till thou and thy sins are
two. Thy desires and longings must make a clean sweep of the devil
and all his crew, or else Christ will not come and dwell with thee.
"Well," says one, "but I cannot be perfect." No, but you cannot find
peace till you desire to be. Wherever you harbour a sin, there you
harbour misery. One sin wilfully indulged in, and not forsaken by
true repentance, will destroy the soul. Sins given up are like goods
cast out at sea by the mariners in days of storm; they lighten the
ship, and the ship will never float till you have thrown all your
sins overboard. There is no hope whatever for you till you can truly
say,
"Whate'er consists not with thy love,
O help me to resign."
"The dearest idol I have known,
Whate'er that idol be,
Help me to tear it from its throne,
And worship only thee."
4. Then drawing near to a conclusion let me have your most solemn
attention while I give one more hint as to the reason why you have
not yet found peace. My dear hearers, perhaps it is because you do
not thoroughly understand the plan of salvation. I do feel that all
ministers,—and here perhaps, I am as great a sinner as any other,
and I condemn myself while I chastise others—we all of us do in some
way or other, I fear, help to dim the lustre of God's grace, as
manifested in the cross of Christ. Often am I afraid lest I should
prefer Calvinism to Calvary, lest I should put the sinner's sense of
need like a quickset hedge round the cross, and keep the poor sinner
from getting as near as he would to the bleeding Lamb of God. Ah, my
dear hearers, remember if you would be saved, your salvation comes
wholly and entirely from Jesus Christ, the dying Son of God. View
him yonder, sinner, sweating in the garden! See the red drops of
blood as they fall from that dear face! Oh, see him sinner, see him
in Pilate's hall. View the streams of gore as they gush from those
lacerated shoulders. See him, sinner, see him on his cross! View
that head still marked with the wounds with which the thorns pierced
his temples! Oh, view that face emaciated and marred! See the
spittle still hanging there—the spittle of cruel mockers! See the
eyes floating in tears with languid pity! Look, too, at those hands,
and view them as they stream like founts of blood! Oh, stand and
listen while he cries, "Lama Sabacthani!" Sinner, thy life is in him
that died; thy healing is in yonder wounds; thy salvation is in his
destruction. "Oh," says one, "but I cannot believe." Ah, brother,
that was once my mournful cry. But I will tell you how I came to
believe. Once upon a time, I was trying to make myself believe, and
a voice whispered, "Vain man, vain man, if thou wouldst believe,
come and see!" Then the Holy Spirit led me by the hand to a solitary
place. And while I stood there, suddenly there appeared before me
One upon his cross. I looked up, I had then no faith. I saw his eyes
suffused with tears, and the blood still flowing: I saw his enemies
about him hunting him to his grave; I marked his miseries
unutterable; I heard the groaning which cannot be described; and as
I looked up, he opened his eyes and said to me, "The Son of Man is
come into the world to seek and to save that which was lost." I
clapped my hands, and I said, "Jesus, I do believe, I must believe
what thou hast said, I could not believe before, but the sight of
thee has breathed faith into my soul. I dare not doubt—it were
treason, it were high treason to doubt thy power to save." Dissolved
by his agonies, I fell on the ground, and embraced his feet, and
when I fell, my sin fell also! And I rejoiced in love divine that
blots out sin and saves from death.
Oh my friend, you will never get faith by trying to make yourself
have it. Faith is the gift of Christ! go and find it in his veins.
There is a secret spot where faith is treasured up; it is in the
heart of Christ; go and catch it sinner as it flows therefrom. Go to
your chamber, and sit down and picture Christ in holy vision, dying
on the tree, and as your eye sees, your heart shall melt, your soul
shall believe, and you shall rise from your knees and cry, "I know
whom I may believe, and I am persuaded he is able to save that which
I have committed to him until that day."
And now, may the love of Christ Jesus, and the grace of his Father,
and the fellowship of his Spirit, be with you for ever and ever.
Amen and Amen.C. H. Spurgeon
November 13th, 1859
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