This cannot be overlooked. It is the height of folly for anyone to attempt to ignore or to make light of it. For an immortal being--one who has a boundless eternity stretching away before him--to neglect the solemn question of his conversion, is the wildest fatuity of which anyone can possibly be guilty. In comparison with this most weighty subject, all other things dwindle into utter insignificance. The various objects that engage the thoughts and absorb the energies of men and women in the busy scene around us, are but as the small dust of the balance in comparison with this one grand, momentous question of the soul's conversion to God. All the speculations of commercial life, all the schemes of money-making, the absorbing question of profitable investment, all the pursuits of the pleasure hunter--the theatre, the concert, the ball-room, the billiard-room, the card-table, the dice-box, the race-course, the hunting-ground, the drinking saloon--all the numberless and nameless things that the poor unsatisfied heart longs after, and grasps at--all are but as the vapor of the morning, the foam on the water, the smoke from the chimney-top, the withered leaf of autumn--all vanish away, and leave an aching void behind. The heart remains unsatisfied, the soul unsaved, because unconverted. And what then? Ah, yes; what then! Tremendous question! What remains at the end of all this scene of commercial excitement, political strife and ambition, money-making and pleasure-hunting? Why, then the man has to face death! "It is appointed unto men once to die." There is no getting over this. There is no discharge in this war. All the wealth of the universe could not purchase one moment's respite at the hand of the ruthless foe. All the medical skill which earth affords, all the fond solicitude of affectionate relatives and friends, all their tears, all their sighs, all their entreaties cannot stave off the dreaded moment, or cause the king of terrors to sheathe his terrible sword. Death cannot be disposed of by any art of man. The moment _must_ come when the link is to be snapped which connects the heart with all the fair and fascinating scenes of human life. Fondly loved friends, charming pursuits, coveted objects, all must be given up. A thousand worlds could not avert the stroke. Death must be looked at straight in the face. It is an awful mystery--a tremendous fact--a stern reality. It stands full in front of every unconverted man, woman, and child beneath the canopy of heaven; and it is merely a question of time--hours, days, months, or years,--when the boundary line must be crossed which separates time, with all its empty, vain, shadowy pursuits, from eternity with all its stupendous realities.