as Satan, though he were filthy as a fiend — whoever this night believes, shall have every sin forgiven, shall have every crime effaced, shall have every iniquity blotted out; shall be saved in the Lord Jesus Christ, and shall stand in heaven safe and secure. That is the glorious gospel. God apply it home to your hearts, and give you faith in Jesus!
We have listened to the preacher —
Truth by him has now been shown;
But we want a GREATER TEACHER,
From the everlasting throne:
APPLICATION
Is the work of God alone.
Sweet Comfort For Feeble Saints
No. 6-1:41. A Sermon Delivered On Sunday Morning, February 4, 1855, By C. H. Spurgeon, At New Park Street Chapel, Southwark.
A bruised reed he shall not break, and smoking flax he shall not quench, until he send forth judgment to victory. {Matthew 12:20}
1. Babbling fame always loves to talk of one man or another. There are some whose glory it trumpets forth, and whose honour it extols above the heavens. Some are her favourites, and their names are carved on marble, and heard in every land, and every clime. Fame is not an impartial judge; she has her favourites. Some men she extols, exalts, and almost deifies; others, whose virtues are far greater, and whose characters are more deserving of commendation, she passes by unheeded, and puts the finger of silence on her lips. You will generally find that those people beloved by fame are men made of brass or iron, and cast in a rough mould. Fame caresses Caesar, because he ruled the earth with a rod of iron. Fame loves Luther, because he boldly and manfully defied the Pope of Rome, and with knit brow dared laugh at the thunders of the Vatican. Fame admires Knox; for he was stern, and proven himself the bravest of the brave. Generally, you will find her choosing out the men of fire and mettle, who stood before their fellow creatures fearless of them; men who were made of courage; who were consolidated lumps of fearlessness, and never knew what timidity might be. But you know there is another class of people equally virtuous, and equally to be esteemed — perhaps even more so — whom fame entirely forgets. You do not hear her talk of the gentle minded Melancthon — she says very little of him — yet he did as much, perhaps, in the Reformation, as even the mighty Luther. You do not hear fame talk much of the sweet and blessed Rutherford, and of the heavenly words that distilled from his lips; or of Archbishop Leighton, of whom it was said, that he was never out of temper in his life. She loves the rough granite peaks that defy the storm cloud: she does not care for the more humble stone in the valley, on which the weary traveller rests; she wants something bold and prominent; something that courts popularity; something that stands out before the world. She does not care for those who retreat in shade. Hence it is, my brethren, that the blessed Jesus, our adorable Master, has escaped fame. No one says much about Jesus, except his followers. We do not find his name written among the great and mighty men; though, in truth, he is the greatest, mightiest, holiest, purest, and best of men who ever lived; but because he was “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,” and was emphatically the man whose kingdom is not of this world, because he had nothing of the rough about him, but was all love; because his words were softer than butter, his utterances more gentle in their flow than oil; because no man ever spoke as gently as this man; therefore he is neglected and forgotten. He did not come to be a conqueror with his sword, nor a Mohammed with his fiery eloquence; but he came to speak with a “still small voice,” that melts the rocky heart; that binds up the broken in spirit; and that continually says, “Come to me all you that are weary and heavy laden”; “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and lowly of heart, and you shall find rest to you souls.” Jesus Christ was all gentleness; and this is why he has not been extolled among men as otherwise he would have been. Beloved! our text is full of gentleness; it seems to have been steeped in love; and I hope I may be able to show you something of the immense sympathy and the mighty tenderness of Jesus, as I attempt to speak from it. There are three things to be noticed: first, mortal frailty; secondly, divine compassion; and thirdly, certain triumph — “until he send forth judgment to victory.”
2. I. First, we have before us a view of MORTAL FRAILTY — bruised reed and smoking flax — two very suggestive metaphors, and very full of meaning. If it were not too fanciful, and if it is I know you will excuse me, I should say that the bruised reed is an emblem of a sinner in the first stage of his conviction. The work of God’s Holy Spirit begins with bruising. In order to be saved, the fallow ground must be ploughed up; the hard heart must be broken; the rock must be split asunder. An old divine says there is no going to heaven without passing close by the gates of hell — without a great deal of soul trouble and heart exercise. I take it then that the bruised reed is a picture of the poor sinner when first God commences his operation upon the soul; he is a bruised reed, almost entirely broken and consumed; there is very little strength in him. The smoking flax I conceive to be a backsliding Christian; one who has been a burning and a shining light in his day, but by neglect of the means of grace, the withdrawal of God’s Spirit, and falling into sin, his light is almost gone out — not quite — it never can go out, for Christ says, “I will not quench it”; but it becomes like a lamp when poorly supplied with oil — almost useless. It is not quite extinguished — it smokes — it was a useful lamp once, but now it has become as smoking flax. So I think these metaphors very likely describe the contrite sinner as a bruised reed, and the backsliding Christian as smoking flax. However, I shall not choose to make such a division as that, but I shall combine both the metaphors together, and I hope we may dig out a few thoughts from them.
3. And first, the encouragement offered in our text applies to weak ones. What in the world is weaker than the bruised reed, or the smoking flax? A reed that grows in the fen or marsh, let only the wild duck light upon it, and it snaps; let only the foot of man brush against it and it is bruised and broken; every wind that comes howling across the river makes it shake to and fro, and almost tears it up by the roots. You can conceive of nothing more frail or brittle, or whose existence depends more upon circumstances than a bruised reed. Then look at smoking flax — what is it? It has a spark within it, it is true, but it is almost smothered; an infant’s breath might blow it out; or the tears of a maiden quench it in a moment; nothing has a more precarious existence than the little spark hidden in the smoking flax. Weak things, you see, are here described. Well, Christ says of them, “The smoking flax I will not quench; the bruised reed I will not break.” Let me go in search of the weaklings. Ah! I shall not have to go far. There are many in this house of prayer this morning who are indeed weak. Some of God’s children, blessed be his name, are made strong to do mighty works for him; God has his Samsons here and there who can pull up Gaza’s gates, and carry them to the top of the hill; he has here and there his mighty Gideons, who can go to the camp of the Midianites, and overthrow their hosts; he has his mighty men, who can go into the pit in winter, and slay the lions; but the majority of his people are a timid, weak race. They are like the starlings that are frightened at every passerby, a little fearful flock. If temptation comes, they fall before it; if trial comes, they are overwhelmed by it: their frail skiff is bounced up and down by every wave; and when the wind comes, they are blown along like a seabird on the crest of the billows; weak things, without strength, without force, without might, without power. Ah! dear friends, I know I have gotten hold of some of your hands now, and your hearts too; for you are saying, “Weak! Ah that I am. How often I am constrained to say, I would, but cannot sing; I would, but cannot pray; I would, but cannot believe.” You are saying that you cannot do anything; your best resolves are weak and vain; and when you cry, “My strength renew,” you feel weaker than before. You are weak, are you? Bruised reeds and smoking flax? Blessed be God, this text is for you then. I am glad you can come in under the denomination of weak ones, for here is a promise that he will never break nor quench them, but will sustain and hold them up. I know there are some very strong people here — I mean strong in their own ideas. I often meet with people who would not confess any such weakness as this. They are strong minds. They say, “Do you
