Look you, down there in the dark alleys of New York is a poor drunkard. If you want to get near hell, go to a poor drunkard’s home. Go to the house of that poor miserable drunkard. See the want and distress that reigns there. But hark! A footstep is heard at the door, and the children run and hide themselves.
The patient wife waits to meet him. The man has been her torment. Many a time she has borne about for weeks the marks of blows. Many a time that strong right hand has been brought down on her defenceless head. And now she waits, expecting to hear his oaths, and to receive his brutal treatment. He comes in and says to her: “I have been to the meeting, and I heard there, that if I will, I can be converted.
I believe that God is able to save me.” Go down to that house in a few weeks and see what a change! As you approach, you have some one singing. It is not the song of a reveller, but “The Bock of Ages.” The children are no longer afraid of him, but cluster around his knee. His wife is near him, her face lit up with a happy glow.
I can take you to thousands of homes made happy by such power of the religion of Christ. O ye slaves to drink, or sin of any kind, God will give you power to overcome temptation, and to lead a right life.—MOODY.
