Proverb 24:33

   “Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the
       hands to sleep: so shall thy poverty come as one that
       travelleth; and thy want as an armed man.” 
              — Proverb 24:33

The worst of sluggards only ask for a little slumber; they would be
indignant if they were accused of thorough idleness. A little folding
of the hands to sleep is all they crave, and they have a crowd of
reasons to show that this indulgence is a very proper one. Yet by these
littles the day ebbs out, and the time for labour is all gone, and the
field is grown over with thorns. It is by little procrastinations that
men ruin their souls. They have no intention to delay for years-a few
months will bring the more convenient season-to-morrow if you will,
they will attend to serious things; but the present hour is so occupied
and altogether so unsuitable, that they beg to be excused. Like sands
from an hour-glass, time passes, life is wasted by driblets, and
seasons of grace lost by little slumbers. Oh, to be wise, to catch the
flying hour, to use the moments on the wing! May the Lord teach us this
sacred wisdom, for otherwise a poverty of the worst sort awaits us,
eternal poverty which shall want even a drop of water, and beg for it
in vain. Like a traveller steadily pursuing his journey, poverty
overtakes the slothful, and ruin overthrows the undecided: each hour
brings the dreaded pursuer nearer; he pauses not by the way, for he is
on his master’s business and must not tarry. As an armed man enters
with authority and power, so shall want come to the idle, and death to
the impenitent, and there will be no escape. O that men were wise
be-times, and would seek diligently unto the Lord Jesus, or ere the
solemn day shall dawn when it will be too late to plough and to sow,
too late to repent and believe. In harvest, it is vain to lament that
the seed time was neglected. As yet, faith and holy decision are
timely. May we obtain them this night.

On this day...

(Visited 1 times, 1 visits today)
  1. Like sands from an hour-glass, time passes, life is wasted by driblets, and seasons of grace lost by little slumbers

Leave a Comment

%d bloggers like this: