See the importance of religion, when other things, even the most estimable, are brought in competition with it. Form life’s estimate agreeably to the pursuits and plans of its greatest admirers, and throw into the scale whatever weighs heaviest in the opinion of the sons of opulence and of dissipation. Load the balance with riches, honors, pomp, and pleasures, the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life. This is the whole aggregate of terrestrial good. But what can all this avail, to shield the sinner from the terrors of the law, the clamors of conscience, or the wrath of Heaven? to give him tranquillity of mind under the pain of inward reproaches, or afford him confidence in the hour of dissolution. “Riches profit not in the day of wrath; but righteousness delivereth from death.” Prov. xi. 4. For how short a season are riches possessed! How many thorny cares, and ensnaring temptations, are connected with that possession to imbitter and make it dangerous. That inward peace which religion inspires, is so far from being the companion of opulence, that the wealthy and the great are in general strangers to its heaven-born influence. The happiness that flows from it, quits the mansions of vicious pomp and earthly magnificence, and takes up its abode in the dwellings of poverty and dependence, where grace teaches contentment, and opens through Christ the prospect of final deliverance from every trouble, in its root and effects. Examine more closely these opposite conditions, with the characters respectively which they include. Fancy a sinner, full of wealth and bold in sin. He lives “as without God in the world,” indulges his pride, and feeds his lusts with the provision, which might be used to the noblest purposes. Accustomed to the tribute of flattery and homage from unfortunate and fawning dependants, his heart drinks in the luscious poison, which feeds his self-consequence, but at the same time renders him more sensible of mortification from the affronts of superiors, and impatient under the afflictive hand of Providence. His heart swells and says, “Who is the Lord that I should obey him?” and his life more emphatically speaks the insolent question. In his family, in his closet, in his conversation, in his thoughts, God has no place, religion is not allowed to enter; except when infidelity fills the scorner’s chair, profaneness animates “the song of the drunkard,” or Satan suggests the bold imprecation, the vulgar oath, or immodest jest. That is, religion is never introduced but to be _ridiculed_, nor suffered admission for a moment, but to be driven out again with disgrace by the scourge of the infidel’s tongue. Thus he lives independent of the Being, who gave him life, and rebellious against the mercy that spares it. But mercy will not always spare, nor life always last. See him on his death-bed. The farce of life is ending; the curtain about to be drawn on all its pleasurable scenes; and the dismal