The king was shaken and went up to the chamber over the gate and wept. And as he walked, he cried out, “O my son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!”The king was much moved, and went up to the room over the gate and wept. As he went, he said, “My son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! I wish I had died instead of you, Absalom, my son, my son!”And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!
3 sermons cite this verse
beloved Son! Perhaps you have a willful, wayward boy—one who costs you much, but brings you little comfort—yet, would you like to lose him? If you saw him in his coffin tomorrow, would you not cry over him as David cried over his son, "O my son, Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! Would God I had died for you, O Absalom, my son, my son"? Vile he may be, and a disgrace to your name, yet he is still your child and you could not bear to give him up. But what shall I say of the child who, from his youth up, has been obedient to you? Who, having grown up to manhood, has become your friend as well as your offspring? Who has been with you in every holy enterprise and has proved himself to be worthy of his father's love and esteem? Could you give him up? Mother, you know how dear is your first-born son to you. Of all griefs that tear a mother's heart, perhaps the greatest is to lose her first-born. Even if he is only in his infancy, it is a wound from which the mother's tender heart does not soon recover. But to lose that son in manhood. To see the hale strong man suddenly cut down—this is no small sorrow—and many, under such trying circumstances, have found it no easy task to say, "The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." To lose one's child even for some object which is nearest and dearest to our heart, is pain and grief, indeed. Then what must it have cost God to give up His Son to die for His people? What must God's love to His only-begotten Son be? We can only speak of God after the manner of men, for we know not how otherwise to speak of Him and, inasmuch, as God is infinitely greater than we are, His love is infinitely greater than ours! We can only love to the finite degree of which humanity is capable, but God loves beyond all degree. The heart of God is filled with fathomless oceans of eternal affection—and this affection has always been fixed upon His Son! Christ is infinitely more dear to God than your son can ever be to you because of the greatness of the heart of the Father who loves His Son who has always been with Him, and ever His delight, who has never offended Him, who takes His share in all the Father's plans and who said of old, and says it always, "I delight to do Your will, O My God." …
When our wicked friends die, if we are righteous, we must remember that we shall never meet them again. We may behold them, but it will be a hideous sight. We may see them as Lazarus saw the rich man in Hell. We may behold them with the great gulf fixed between us—but remember that the last shake of the hand with an ungodly relative is an everlasting farewell! That last whisper of sympathy on the dying bed is indeed final—we shall never address them with another soft word of comfort, never again shall we call them friends—we are parted then, forever. Death, like some mighty earthquake, shakes two hearts apart which seemed to be indissolubly united—and a great gulf of fire and wrath shall separate them. One in Heaven and the other in Hell—they shall never meet again—there is no hope of it. Some of you we could not bear to lose, yet, if you fall asleep, we shall with holy assurance consign you to your grave and say, "Lord, we thank You that it has pleased You to take to Yourself our beloved Brother." Yet, alas, there are many here—oh, we pray God that they may not die, for we know we should never see them again in peace, and joy, and happiness! There are some of you, now within the reach of my voice—judge you of whom I speak—concerning whom, if you were now to depart, we might say, as David did, "O my son, my son, Absalom! Would God I had died for you, O Absalom, Absalom, my son, my son!" If you were now to depart, we might indeed take up a very bitter cry. We might ask the owl and the bittern, with their dismal hoots, to assist our lamentations. We would have need to weep for you, not because your bodies were dead, but because your souls were cast away into unutterable torment! O Sirs, if some of you were to die, it would be your mother's grief, for she would bitterly reflect that you were gnashing your teeth in fell despair! She would recollect that you were beyond the reach of prayer, cast away from all hope and from all refuge—that she could never see you again—her destiny to be forever with her Lord in Heaven, but your doom to be forever shut out! …
We have to mourn bitterly when we have fallen upon times of strong temptation and, alas, of surprising sin. We grieve to confess the fact, but it is sadly true that faults have overtaken us. Who among God's chosen sheep has not gone astray? In consequence of such sin we have had to return to the sackcloth and the ashes—and our heart has sunk within us. By reason of our old nature we have transgressed like David and then, by reason of our new nature, we have wept like David and mourned our broken bones. If a foul spot has defiled our garments, we have been led by the Holy Spirit to go at once to Jesus and, while He has washed it out with His blood, we have lamented our offense. Whenever Believers permit the fires of sin to burn, they are made, before long, to cast the ashes of repentance upon their heads and shrink into the dust. Beloved Friends, we have also covered our heads with ashes on account of the sins of others. Parents have been compelled to sorrow very grievously for their sons and daughters. The wail of David is no unusual sound. "O Absalom, my son, my son! Would God I had died for you, O Absalom, my son, my son!" Many a woman sits in ashes half her life because of her ungodly husband who makes her life bitter to her. Many a loving sister pines inwardly because of a profligate brother who persists in ruining himself. The crimes of the world are the burdens of the saints. We cannot make the ungodly mourn for their guilt, but we can and do deeply mourn over their insensibility. How can we bear to see our fellow men choosing everlasting destruction, rejecting their own mercies and plunging themselves into eternal misery? If Hagar said, "Let me not see the death of the child," and if the Prophet's eyes ran with ceaseless tears over the slain of his people, shall not we mourn in dust and ashes the willful soul-suicide of our neighbors who perish before our very eyes with mercy at their doors? …