Procrastination Sermon Illustrations

Procrastination Sermon Illustrations

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Our Most Dangerous Enemy

Said J. L. Ralston: "Our most dangerous enemy on this side of the Atlantic is the idea that we have plenty of time." This is equally true in the matter of preparedness for eternity—as well as for our country! Because we know not when we may lose the use of our faculties, because we have no lease of our lives, because we know not when the Lord Jesus will come again, and because the Word commands it, we should act NOW.—Now.

Coming! Coming!

The turnpike stood on a quiet country road, and, especially at night, the traffic was not very great. So the old turnpike man used to shut his gate when darkness descended on wood and moor, and retire to bed.

One night, when the rain was falling, and neither stars nor moon dispelled the blackness in which trees and road and heather disappeared, a horseman cautiously approached the gate, dismounted, and knocked for the turnpike keeper.

"Gate! gate!" he cried.

"Coming!" replied the old man.

Out there in the pitiless rain and the silence and the gloom the horseman remembered his cozy home, and became impatient to be gone. So he knocked again.

"Gate! gate!" he cried.

"Coming! coming!" repeated the voice.

After another long delay, during which he felt the rain penetrating his clothes, he again banged at the door.

"Gate! gate !" he cried more impatiently.

"Coming! coming!" was the reply.

But still the turnpike man did not ap­pear, and the horseman became quite angry.

He opened the door, and, putting in his head, demanded—

"Why do you say, `Coming, coming,' this twenty minutes, and yet you never appear?"

"Who is there?" asked the old man in a sleepy voice. "Oh! I ask your pardon, sir, but I get so used to hearing 'em knock, that I answers, `Coming, coming,' in my sleep, then I takes no more notice."

How many there are who have become so accustomed to the sound of the Gospel that they hear without listening, and without understanding! How many have said, again and again, when they have heard God's call, "Coming, coming," and have never meant it at all!—Glad Tidings.

The greatest stumbling block in any man's path is not laziness or fear, but a low-necked, short-skirted, rose-scented, diamond-decked hussy named "Procrastination."—Scandal Sheet, Graham, Texas Rotary Club

My friend, have you heard of the town of Yawn, on the banks of river Slow, where blooms the Waitawhile flower fair, where the Sometimerother scents the air, and the Softgoeasys grow?

It lies in the valley of Whatstheuse, in the province of Letherslide; that tired feeling is native there—it's the home of the listless Idon'tcare, where the Putitoffs abide.—Lockport, N. Y., Baptist News

A gentleman standing by Niagara saw an eagle swoop down upon a frozen lamb encased in a piece of floating ice. The eagle stood upon it as it drifted towards the rapids. Every now and then the eagle would proudly lift its head into the air to look around him, as much as to say: 'I am drifting on towards danger. I know what I am doing. I shall fly away and make good my escape before it is too late.'

When he reached the edge, he stooped, spread his powerful wings, and leaped for flight; but alas! while he was feeding on the carcass, his feet had frozen to its fleece. He leaped and shrieked, and beat upon the ice with his wings until he went over into the chasm and darkness below.

(Job. 36. 18; Matt. 3.7; Acts 24. 25; 2 Cor. 6.2)

There is a Russian folk-song that narrates how a man, wishing to build a house, kept putting off commencing the building, after all the materials had been collected, until he came to die, when it was too late.

And there in solemn silence stood
The piles of stone and piles of wood,
Till Death, who in his vast affairs
Ne'er puts off things as men do theirs,
Winked at our hero as he passed:
`Your house is finished, Sir, at last
A narrow cell, a house of clay,
Your mansion for an endless day.'

(Luke 12. 19, 20; 2 Cor. 6. 2)

`To-morrow', he promised his conscience,
`Tomorrow I mean to believe.
Tomorrow I'll think as I ought to,
Tomorrow my Saviour receive.
Tomorrow I'll conquer the habits
That hold me from Heaven away.'
And ever his conscience repeated
One word, and one only—`Today!'
Tomorrow! tomorrow! tomorrow!
Thus day after day it went on.
Tomorrow! tomorrow! tomorrow!
Till youth with its vision was gone,
Till age and his passions had written
The message of fate on his brow,
And forth from the shadows came Death
With the pitiless syllable, 'Now!'

(Prov. 27. 1; Heb. 3. 7, 8, 15; 4. 7)

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