that wrath upon thy head, thou canst do nothing to avert it. If, on the other hand, He chooses to save thee, He is able to save thee to the very utter-most. But thou liest as much in His hand as the summer’s moth beneath thine own finger. He is the God whom thou art grieving every day. Doth it not make thee tremble to think that thy eternal destiny now hangs upon the will of Him whom thou hast angered and incensed? Dost not this make thy knees knock together, and thy blood curdle? If it does so,