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bosom. ’T is true that sickness and disease are bitter to the
flesh of man when they pierce like a draught, inch by inch,
through every fibre of the body, and stretch the sinews till
they crack, when they burn like salted fire in the vitals,
and gnaw with dull teeth in the innermost marrow! But the
sufferings of hell are a raging storm racking every limb and
joint, a whirlwind of unthinkable woe, an eternal dance
of anguish; for as one wave rolls upon another, and is
followed by another and another in all eternity, so the
scalding pangs and blows of hell follow one another ever and
everlastingly, without end and without pause.”
The sick man looked around bewildered. “I won’t!”
he said, “I won’t! I’ve nothing to do with your heaven or
hell. I would die, only die and nothing more!”
“You shall surely die,” said the pastor, “but at the end
of the dark valley of death are two doors, one leading to the
bliss of heaven and one to the torments of hell. There is
no other way, no other way at all.”
“Yes, there is, pastor, there must be—tell me, is there
not?—a deep, deep grave hard by for those who went their
own way, a deep black grave leading down to nothing—to
no earthly thing?”
“They who went their own way are headed for the realm
of the devil. They are swarming at the gate of hell; high
and low, old and young, they push and scramble to escape
the yawning abyss, and cry miserably to that God whose
path they would not follow, begging Him to take them away.
The cries of the pit are over their heads, and they writhe in
fear and agony, but the gates of hell shall close over them
as the waters close over the drowning.”
“Is it the truth you’re telling me? On your word as an
honest man, is it anything but a tale?”
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