fall on the field, better lose life than honour;" but when
sinners, dropping the weapons of rebellion, yield themselves up to
God, honour is not lost, but won, in a crown that fadeth not away.
Brave men have said, "Better fight to the last, die with our swords in
our hands, than become captives to pine away a weary, ignoble life
within the walls of a prison;" but when the sinner gives himself up to
God, he goes not to exile but home; not to chains and a dungeon, but
to glorious freedom, a palace, and a throne. God asks you to give up
your sins that they, not you, may be slain. It is of them, not of you,
He says, "But those mine enemies which would not that I should reign
over them, bring hither, and slay them before me!"

In these circumstances, oh for the wisdom of her who showed herself on
the city walls in the thick of the assault, crying to Joab, "Hear,
hear, come near hither, I pray you, that I may speak with thee!" A
woman's figure there, her voice sounding above the thunder of the
captains and the shouting, suspends the attack. Assailants and
assailed alike rest on their arms; and as one marked as a leader by
his plume and bearing, covered with the dust and blood of battle,
steps forward, she bends over the battlements to ask, "Art thou Joab?"
"I am he," is the reply. "Then hear the words of thy handmaid," she
cries; "I am one of them that are peaceable and faithful in Israel:
thou seekest to destroy a city and a mother in Israel!" He solemnly
repudiates the charge. "Far be it from me," he answers, "that I should
swallow up and destroy. The matter is not so: but a man of Mount
Ephraim, Sheba, the son of Bichri, hath lifted up his hand against
the king, against David: deliver him only, and I will depart from the
city." She accepts the terms; and saying "Behold, his head shall be
thrown to thee over the wall"--vanishes. Prompt in action as wise in
counsel, she goes to the people, deals with them, sways the multitude
to her will; and ere the last hour of the brief truce has closed, a
bloody head goes bounding over the wall. It rolls like a ball to the
feet of Joab; and in its grim and ghastly features they recognise the
face of the son of Bichri. So Joab blows the trumpet, and the host
retires from the walls, every man to his own tent. So let men deal
with their sins. Let them die with the son of Bichri: they have
"lifted up their hand against the King." Why should we spare them, and
lose our souls? By His precious