He was very ill. His voice was almost gone, and he
spoke with great difficulty. He told me he wished me, when he was gone,
to preach his funeral sermon, and write his epitaph, and take charge of
a manuscript containing the story of his life. I told him I would do so.
He then spoke of his trust in God, his love of Christ, and his hopes of
a blessed immortality, while tears of joy stood glistening in his eyes.
He then referred to some matters that had tried him sadly, but added: "I
have cast my care on God." He tried to speak of his feelings towards me,
but said: "Those papers (referring to the story of his life) will tell
you all." At last he said: "Pray with me, Joseph." I had not prayed with
any one for many years, but I said at once: "I will, Sammy;" and I fell
on my knees, and prayed by his side. He then, weak as he was, prayed
earnestly for me, and for my wife and family.
He died a few weeks after. I preached his funeral sermon on the
following Sunday, in May, 1863, in a field near the house in which he
had lived and died, from the text: "Let me die the death of the
righteous, and let my last end be like his." There was an immense
congregation, consisting of people of all denominations, both infidel
and Christian, from every part of the surrounding district.
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