men of this town, as far as

do say,

their life is concerned, "There is no God. There is no judgment. There is no responsibility to a higher power." I have asked more than once this question and I ask it of you again to-night.

Have you ever done this, gone around yourself to the different congregations of this place, or sent others for you, and ascertained how many unconverted people in this town do not attend religious services anywhere? There are many hundreds of men and women in this town that no more come to church than if there were no God at all. Now, I ask you if there is not a species of insanity in that? Suppose such a one to be at last in stress of circumstances, and after reflecting upon such a course, begins to see the vanity and littleness of it and to see how far short it falls of true manhood, as God intended manhood to be, and that man should come to himself, it would be as if he had waked up, as if heretofore he had been walking in his sleep, as if he had been acting under some enchantment, or delusion, or hallucination of some kind, that warped his judgment and caused him not to see things in their true light.

And when he began to think of the utter inadequacy of all the things which he was striving for to satisfy the cravings of his soul, he would then begin to say, "I perish here in want." Now, there is conviction, conviction resulting from reflection upon his past life and upon the folly of that life, a convic

tion which shows clearly to him that if his existence has any true goal commensurate with the powers and faculties of man, that he certainly has missed the mark. Now, under such a conviction as that, resolution comes into the heart. The man soberly thinks over the situation; it makes no difference whether these thoughts have come to him gradually or suddenly. It does make no difference about the manifestations of his grief. But has he been stirred up by the thoughts of them so that he determines to trifle no longer? Does his heart say, "This course means death to me? I see that it does and I will not go this road any longer. My mind is changed. I see that this is wrong, and if it is wrong I ought to confess it; I ought to say so. And not only ought I to say so, but God helping me, I will do that very thing."

Now, here is the substance of repentance: He comes to himself; he realizes the evil of himself toward God; and this is the conversion part of experience: "He arose and went to his father." What he had resolved to do he did. That resolution ripened into action. It was not one of those conclusions of the mind temporarily affecting the thought, to be followed by no fruit, but it did ripen into action. He not only said, "I will," but he went. He not only said, "I will confess," but he actually confessed.

Now, I will put the question to you who are disposed to think upon this subject. Assuming that

upon a review of your past life in its relation to a man, on a sober afterthought you become conscious that you have done him a wrong; that is the verdict of your own conscience, that you wronged him, then you are making great strides toward moral honesty when you admit that, when you will say within yourself, "I did do that man wrong." But you make a grander stride when you convert that sentence of your conscience into a fact, when you not only say within your heart, "I have wronged him," but when you resolve to rise up at once and go right along to him and look in his eyes and say, My friend, I have wronged you; I am sorry for it. I ask you to forgive me." So we apply the same line of thought and argument to our relations to God; when we ask you not merely to feel miserable and wretched over your life, to do more than to resolve, to do more than to become conscious of your need; it is to go to God. Go to him humbly, go to him penitently. Go to him and say, " Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight." No man's repentance can be regarded as having reached its fruition until it reaches what is called conversion; until he turns.

Let me illustrate this. Suppose here a path and on it a number of people walking with a great deal of satisfaction to themselves. They are young people and are not very thoughtful about directions and tendencies, but for the present with song and speech and gladness, they are going along down that road.

After a while their satisfaction in their way begins to diminish; it seems to head toward a darker and more desolate country, and later it seems to lead into danger, and dangers thicken, and at last the conviction begins to seize upon them that continuation in that course means death to them. Now, suppose that they turn around and look back and say, "It is too far back now. We regret that we ever started this way, and at some convenient time we will turn around and go back." Concede more, that they weep much over the folly of going that wrong road but stop at that; you know their death is certain unless they actually about face and go the other way.

I remember a case one night at a meeting I was holding, a man about sixty years of age heard a sermon that stirred him very much, so much that he actually cried out and wept like a child, and everybody was full of hope about him except myself. I had seen the same man stirred that way before. There was no argument needed to convince him that his life was sinful. He knew it. There was no question that in certain hours he was filled with compunctions of conscience for his wrong-doing. But often before I had called upon him not merely to weep but to turn about, he seemed to be satisfied with the fact that he had been sorry; so on this occasion he stopped at grief and died there. Soon after he died in just that condition. Do make the application. Many a time some of you have said within yourselves that there was unrighteousness in your life; many a time

you have said, "I am going to amend. I am going to change my course." But it has all ended in empty resolution. You said, "I will arise," but you did not arise. You said, "I will go to my Father," but you did not go to him. Perhaps some day when you were sick and so sick that all the gold in the world was nothing to you, when you were so sick that you could taste the bitterness of death, you said, “Oh, if I could be well one more time I would turn about. I would go to my Father. I would go humbly, and I would reform my life," and yet when the sickness passes you continue just as you had been doing before.

Now, the object of this meeting is not merely to make people think, though that is a portion of the design; it is not merely to convict people, though that is purposed; it is not merely to get people to resolve, though that is included. But its prime object is to induce them to convert thought, conviction and resolution into action; that is the principal object of it. And that is why we ask people to move. I have been told by some that what I ask people to do is too rigid, that it is too hard, that I ought not to ask a man to come up here and kneel down; that there is an actual pain in kneeling down and so remaining for any while. Let us be frank with each other that we may come to terms. If I be frank will you be frank and as fair?

Then I concede there is no virtue in the mere act of kneeling. I do not think there is any sort of