The Spurgeon Series 1855 & 1856. Charles H. Spurgeon

great majority of mankind are always on the wing; they never settle; they never light on any tree to build their nest; but they are always flittering from one to the other. This tree is not green enough, that is not high enough; this is not beautiful enough, that is not picturesque enough; so they are ever on the wing, and never build a peaceful nest at all. The Christian builds his nest; and as the noble Luther said, “Like that little bird upon the tree, he has fed himself tonight — he does not know where his breakfast is tomorrow. He sits there while the winds rock the tree: he shuts his eyes, puts his head under his wing, and sleeps; and, when he awakens in the morning, sings,

      Mortals cease from toil and sorrow;

      God provides for the morrow.”

      How few there are who have that blessed contentment — who can say, “I want nothing else; I want but little here below — yes, I long for nothing more — I am satisfied — I am content.” You sung a beautiful hymn just now; but I suspect that many of you had no right to it, because you did not feel it.

      With your will I leave the rest,

      Grant me but this one request;

      Both in life and death to prove

      Tokens of your special love.

      Could you say there was nothing you wanted on earth, except Jesus? Did you mean that you are perfectly content — that you had the sleep of contentment? Ah! no. You, who were apprentices, are sighing until you shall be journeymen; you who are journeymen, are groaning to be masters; masters are longing until they shall retire from business, and when they have retired, they are longing that all their children shall be settled in life. Man always looks for a yet beyond; he is a mariner who never gets to port; an arrow which never reaches the target. Ah! the Christian has sleep. One night I could not rest, and in the wild wanderings of my thoughts I met this text and communed with it: — “So he gives his beloved sleep.” In my reverie, as I was on the border of the land of dreams, I thought I was in a castle. Around its massive walls there ran a deep moat. Watchmen paced the walls both day and night. It was a fine old fortress, bidding defiance to the foe; but I was not happy in it. I thought I lay upon a couch; but scarcely had I closed my eyes, before a trumpet blew, “To arms! To arms!” and when the danger was passed I lay down again. “To arms! To arms!” once more resounded, and again I started up. Never could I rest. I thought I had my armour on, and moved about perpetually clad in mail, {b} rushing each hour to the castle top, aroused by some fresh alarm. At one time a foe was coming from the west; at another, from the east. I thought I had a treasure somewhere down in some deep part of the castle, and all my care was to guard it. I dreaded, I feared, I trembled lest it should be taken from me. I awoke, and I thought I could not live in such a tower as that for all its grandeur. It was the castle of discontent, the castle of ambition, in which man never rests. It is ever “To arms! To arms! To arms!” There is a foe here or a foe there. His dearly loved treasure must be guarded. Sleep never crossed the drawbridge of the castle of discontent. Then I thought I would supplant it by another reverie. I was in a cottage. It was in what poets call a beautiful and pleasant place, but I did not care for that. I had no treasure in the world, except one sparkling jewel on my breast; and I thought I put my hand on that and went to sleep, nor did I awaken until morning light. That treasure was a quiet conscience and the love of God — “the peace that passes all understanding.” I slept, because I slept in the house of content, satisfied with what I had. Go you overreaching misers! Go you, grasping ambitious men! I do not envy your life of turmoil. The sleep of statesmen is often broken; the dream of the miser is always evil; the sleep of the man who loves gain is never hearty, but God “gives,” by contentment, “his beloved sleep.”

      11. IV. Once more: God gives his beloved the sleep of quietness of soul as to the future. Oh that dark future! that future! that future! The present may be well but ah! the next wind may wither all the flowers, and where shall I be? Clutch your gold, miser; for “riches make to themselves wings and flee away.” Hug that babe to your breast, mother; for the rough hand of death may rob you of it. Look at your fame and wonder at it, oh you man of ambition! But one slight report shall wound you to the heart, and you shall sink as low as ever you have been lifted high by the voices of the multitude. The future! All people have need to dread the future, except the Christian. God gives to his beloved a happy sleep with regard to the events of coming time.

      What may be my future lot,

      High or low concerns me not;

      This does set my heart at rest,

      What my God appoints is best.

      Whether I am to live or die is of no matter to me; whether I am to be the “offscouring of all things,” or “the man whom the king delights to honour,” matters not to me. All is alike, provided only if my Father gives it. “So he gives his beloved sleep.” How many of you have arrived at that happy point that you have no wish of your own at all? It is a sweet thing to have only one wish; but it is a better thing to have no wish at all — to be all lost in the present enjoyment of Christ and the future anticipation of the vision of his face. Oh my soul! what would the future be to you, if you did not have Christ? If it is a bitter and a dark future, what does it matters, as long as Christ your Lord sanctifies it, and the Holy Spirit still gives you courage, energy, and strength? It is a blessed thing to be able to say with Madame Guyon — {c}

      To me ’tis equal, whether love ordained,

      My life or death, appoint me pain or ease;

      My soul perceives no real ill in pain,

      In ease or health, no real good she sees.

      One good she covets, and that good alone,

      To choose your will, from selfish bias free,

      And to prefer a cottage to a throne,

      And grief to comfort, if it pleases thee.

      That we should bear the cross is your command —

      Die to the world, and live to sin no more;

      Suffer unmoved beneath the rudest hand,

      As pleased when shipwrecked, as when safe on shore.

      It is a happy condition to attain. “So he gives his beloved sleep.” Ah! if you have a self-will in your hearts, pray to God to uproot it. Have you self-love? Beseech the Holy Spirit to turn it out; for if you will always will to do as God wills, you must be happy. I have heard of some good old woman in a cottage, who had nothing but a piece of bread and a little water, and lifting up her hands, she said, as a blessing, “What! all this, and Christ too?” It is “all this,” compared with what we deserve. And I have read of some one dying, who was asked if he wished to live or die; and he said, “I have no wish at all about it.” “But if you might wish, which would you choose?” “I would not choose at all.” “But if God bade you choose?” “I would beg God to choose for me, for I would not know which to take.” Happy state! happy state! to be perfectly acquiescent —

      To lie passive in his hand,

      And know no will but his.

      “So he gives his beloved sleep.”

      12. V. In the fifth place: there is the sleep of security. Solomon slept with armed men around his bed, and thus slumbered securely; but Solomon’s father slept one night on the bare ground — not in a palace — with no moat around his castle wall, — but he slept quite as safely as his son, for he said, “I laid down and slept, and I awoke, for the Lord sustained me.” Now, some people never feel secure in this world at all; I query whether one half of my hearers feel themselves so. Suppose I burst out in a moment, and sing this —

      I to the end shall endure,

      As sure as the earnest is given;

      More happy, but not more secure,

      Are the glorified spirits in heaven.

      You would say, that is too high doctrine; and I would reply, very likely it is for you,