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There was a mediaeval dungeon of singular construction. When the prisoner first entered it, it seemed very bright and pleasant. It had a cheerful appearance. But in three or four days he saw that the walls, which were of iron, were slowly contracting. On oiled hinges and in silent grooves the metal plates were ever drawing nearer and nearer to each other. By and by he could hardly breathe. Then the place was too small for him to lie down in it. Next day there was only room for him to stand. Now he put his hands frantically against the iron walls to keep them from crushing him. But all in vain. The walls silently and remorselessly closed upon him.
Your years are the walls of just such a prison. They are bright and beautiful to you. But each day the prison is contracting, its wall are narrowing around you. Every hour that passes with its opportunity give you one chance less to gain eternal life. With every pulse beat the iron walls draw closer and closer around your soul.
Every voice of mercy, every striving of the Spirit, is an angel at the gate of your narrowing prison, come to open the door that you may escape. The only refuge from this prison is Christ. Without Christ life means nothing but illusion and disappointment, ending in darkness and death. Christ is the door into liberty, into blessedness, into joy, into al that is noble and divine.