There is a generation of Christians in this age who grieve me to the heart. They make my blood run cold. I cannot understand them. For anything that man’s eye can see, they make no progress. They never seem to get on. Years roll on, and they are just the same — the same besetting sins, the same infirmities of disposition, the same weakness in trial, the same chilliness of heart, the same apathy, the same faint resemblance to Christ; but no new knowledge, no increased interest in the kingdom, no freshness, no new strength, no new fruits, as if they grew. Are they not forgetting that growth is the proof of life — that even the tree grows, and the snail and the sloth move? Are they not forgetting how awfully far a man may go, and yet not be a true Christian? He may be like a wax figure, the very image of a believer, and yet not have within him the breath of God — he may have a name to live, and be dead after all.