Mark 14:9 Truly I say to you, Wherever this gospel shall be preached throughout the whole world… Now, my friends, this woman made her offering to Christ; what offering have you to make to Jesus? She brought an alabaster box, and she brought ointment. Some of you have been sick. In the hours of loneliness and suffering you said: "Lord Jesus, let me get well this time, and I will be consecrated to Thee." The medicines did their work; the doctor was successful; you are well; you are here tonight. What offering have you to make to the Lord Jesus who cured you? Some of you have been out to Greenwood, not as those who go to look at the monuments and criticise the epitaphs, but in the procession that came out of the gate with one less than when you went in. And yet you have been comforted. The gravedigger's spade seemed to turn up the flowers of that good land where God shall wipe away the tears from you: eyes. For that Jesus who so comforted you, and so pitied you, what offering have you to make? Some of you have passed without any special trouble. Today, at noon, when you gathered around the table, if you had called the familiar names, they would have all answered. Plenty at the table, plenty in the wardrobe. To that Jesus who has clothed and fed you all your life long, to that Jesus who covered Himself with the glooms of death that He might purchase your emancipation, what offering of the soul have you to make? The woman of the text brought the perfumes of nard. You say: "The flowers of the field are all dead now, and we can't bring them." I know it. The flowers on the platform are only those that are plucked from the grim hand of death; they are the children of the hothouse. The flowers of the field are all dead. We saw them blooming in the valleys and mountains; they ran up to the very lips of the cave; they garlanded the neck of the hills like a May queen. They set their banquet of golden cups for the bee, and dripped in drops of honeysuckle for the humming bird. They dashed their anthers against the white band of the sick child, and came to the nostrils of the dying like spice gales from heaven. They shook in the agitation of the bride, and at the burial hour sang the silver chime of a resurrection. Beautiful flowers! Bright flowers! Sweet flowers! But they are all dead now. I saw their scattered petals on the foam of the wild brook, and I pulled aside the hedge, and saw the place where their corpses lay. We cannot bring the flowers. What shall we bring? Oh, from our heart's affections, tonight let us bring the sweet-smelling savour of a Christian sacrifice. Let us bring it to Christ, and as we have no other vase in which to carry it, let this glorious Sabbath hour be the alabaster box. Rawlins White, an old martyr, was very decrepit; and for years he had been bowed almost double, and could hardly walk; but he was condemned to death, and, on his way to the stake, we are told, the bonds of his body seemed to break, and he roused himself up as straight and exuberant as an athlete, and walked into the fire singling victory over the flames. Ah, it was the joy of dying for Jesus that straightened his body, and roused his soul! If we suffer with Him on earth we shall be glorified with Him in heaven. Choose His service; it is a blessed service. Let no man or woman go out of this house tonight unblest. Jesus spreads out both arms of His mercy. He does not ask where you came from, or what have been your sins, or what have been your wanderings: but He says, with a pathos and tenderness that ought to break you down: "Come unto Me all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Who will accept the offer of His mercy? (Dr. Talmage.) Parallel Verses KJV: Verily I say unto you, Wheresoever this gospel shall be preached throughout the whole world, this also that she hath done shall be spoken of for a memorial of her. |
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