and sins. These are ugly facts, my friends, but they are true, and
well worth our laying to heart in these religious, ungodly days. I
am afraid if Jesus Christ came down into England this day as a
carpenter's son, He would get--a better hearing, perhaps, than the
Jews gave him, but still a very bad hearing--one dare hardly think
of it.

And yet I believe we ought to think of it, and, by God's help, I
will one day preach you a sermon, asking you all round this fair
question:--If Jesus Christ came to you in the shape of a poor man,
whom nobody knew, should YOU know him? should you admire him, fall
at his feet and give yourself up to him body and soul? I am afraid
that I, for one, should not--I am afraid that too many of us here
would not. That comes of thinking more of religion than we do of
godliness--in plain words, more of our own souls than we do of Jesus
Christ. But you will want to know what is, after all, the
difference between religion and godliness? Just the difference, my
friends, that there is between always thinking of self and always
forgetting self--between the terror of a slave and the affection of
a child--between the fear of hell and the love of God. For, tell
me, what you mean by being religious? Do you not mean thinking a
great deal about your own souls, and praying and reading about your
own souls, and trying by all possible means to get your own souls
saved? Is not that the meaning of religion? And yet I have never
mentioned God's name in describing it! This sort of religion must
have very little to do with God. You may be surprised at my words,
and say in your hearts almost angrily, 'Why who saves our souls but
God? therefore religion must have to do with God.' But, my friends,
for your souls' sake, and for God's sake, ask yourselves this
question on your knees this day:--If you could get your souls saved