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Till the Candle Finally Flickered

March 12, 2011

On the last evening of his life George Whitefield started to mount the stairs of the Presbyterian manse at Newbury port, Massachusetts. Though but fifty-five, he was tired and weak, utterly worn out from his lifetime of evangelistic labors, and for days he had been so infirm that he ought not to have left his bed.

But as he ascended the stairs people came pressing in at the door, begging to hear the Gospel from hi slips once more. In response he paused on the landing and began to preach. There he stood, candle, in hand, and so sure was his zeal that he spoke on, heedless of the passing of time, till the candle finally flickered, burned itself out in it socket and died away.

That candle was strikingly representative of Whitefield’s life –  a life that in its holy burning had long given forth brilliant light and constant heat, but burned its last that night.

Arnold Dallimore, George Whitefield, 37 as cited by R. Kent Hughes, 1001 Great Stories and Quotes

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