A Call To The Remnant

In our childhood many of us roamed through the native woods and seen some old fallen forest tree rotting where it lay. Through the decaying wood, the earthworms and insects burrow, and perhaps the adder has built its nest and raised its poisonous brood, so that we have feared to sit down on the old, putrefying mass, and have thought of it as a type of corruption and decay. That mass of putrefaction may well represent the ruin of our sinful nature. But have we not sometimes seen a little shoot of unsullied whiteness in the early spring growing up through the rotten wood, and rising out of the mass of corruption as undefiled as the sunny wing of a dove, or the gentle hand of a babe, beautiful and pure, and unstained even by the touch of corrupting elements around it, until it has grown into a tree and covered itself with luxurious green , and our hands have plucked from its branches the luscious berries of the summer woods? It was life in the midst of death, purity amid corruption, having no connection whatever with the soil in which it grew and incapable of mixture with its defilement. Precisely so is the life of holiness in the soul (A.B.Simpson)

Can you glimpse into the words of this dear old saint? He is talking about your sanctification. How out of death and corruption rises the holiness of God. The old man is decaying and dying and rotting where it lies as unattended death does. The dying and the death. The dying of the cross was a long business, it was designed to be so by those cruel Romans. They had perfected the art of having nailed a man to a tree but keeping him alive as long as they possibly can. This is the death of the cross. The flesh does not go quietly. It shouts and it screams its protests and we we hear it, dont we saints? We hear our flesh as it wars against our spirit. We long for its death to be done and even then for its body to be laid in the grave. Our spirit is willing and will live forever, but our flesh is weak and knows it already defeated but still it shall not go quietly, but go it shall.

In the natural the sicker someone becomes, the closer to death they get, the less that they can do. They can no longer climb a flight of stairs, no longer walk around the block, can barely bend over and if they sit down they have great difficulty getting back up. Old age and sickness robs the flesh of the strength that it once had. Yet, are you not glad that the Scripture tells us that the outer man may be perishing yet his spirit is being renewed each day. The dying of the flesh has no bearing on the life of the spirit, quite the opposite. Your spiritual tree should be covered with luxurious green. Fruit should hang from every branch. You roots should be fed directly because you abide beside the river. In season, out of season, you are a tree planted by the waters. A tree that grew out of corruption which you threw of daily by means of the cross until you rendered it all but harmless. The old corrupt tree lies formless on the ground. You, dear saint, no matter how old you are, stand tall and strong in the Kingdom of God. In the Kingdom you can run and not grew weary, you can walk and not faint and you can rise up with wings as eagles. Rise up today saints, you who have waited upon the Lord.