I know it has been said—“Don’t tell me how men died, tell me how they lived.” But where the death is but the proper fruiting-out of the life it is right that we should mark it. “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints,” and precious should they be in our sight. The ‘end’ of our departed friend’s conversation was one to be considered. It was just what might have been expected. It _was_ perfect peace; it _is_ present rest; it _will be_ perfect glory. The Lord was faithful and loving to His servant, and sustained him to the last. “Grace” and “Christ” were the two words oftenest on his lips—testifying at once to the source of his hope, and the security of his standing. It was an end which left nothing to be desired, as the end of a saint of God. Calm, settled, unbroken confidence; devout prayerfulness; holy self-abasement; loving consideration for and remembrance of others; loving messages to you, his poorer brethren, loving words for you the children in the school—of whom he said, “I love them all”—these things and more than these marked that end. “He was happy,” he said, “happy, but only in Christ; not in myself, nor from myself, but only in _Jesus Christ_.” And so he passed away. “Being (to use the descriptive words of a writer of old day) high in his communion with God, holy and unblameable in his walkings with God—it was still day with his soul. He lived and died in the joys and comforts of the Holy Ghost. And now that his sun is set, his glass out, his work, done, his race over, he rests in the everlasting arms of Divine love.” And now, brethren, what remains for us? What for me but to speak home to your consciences? What for you but to act upon what may be spoken to the point? I say then—Remember the charge here given, and consider the life of God’s servant and its end. He has been God’s gift to His church—God’s gift to us in this neighbourhood, that through him our souls might be helped on to salvation—God’s name become more abundantly honoured. Shall we not take this view of him? Consider this, _you that are Christless_—consciously without Christ—without a well-grounded hope—what effect should this life and death have on you? You have watched the one, you have heard of the other. You know in your heart of hearts that there has been no sham, not a shadow of unreality. If ever a real Christian was to be seen, you have seen one in him. There is no doubt in your minds that he believed no lie, followed no shadow. You _know_ that he has found all, and more than all, that he expected to find in Christ. You feel convinced that he chose wisely when he chose for God—because he chose a _certainty_. With some here this is no new conviction. As friend, or neighbour, or tenant, or servant, or labourer, you have felt him to be in the right, and have wished to be as he was.