Cut it down; my patience is worn out, I shall wait on this fig-tree
no longer.
And now he begins to shake the fig-tree with his threatenings: Fetch
out the axe. Now the axe is death; death therefore is called for.
Death, come, smite me this fig-tree. And withal the Lord shakes this
sinner, and whirls him upon a sick-bed, saying, Take him, death; he
hath abused my patience and forbearance, not remembering that it
should have led him to repentance and to the fruits thereof: death,
fetch away this fig-tree to the fire, fetch this barren professor to
hell. At this, death comes with grim looks into the chamber, yea,
and hell follows with him to the bedside, and both stare this
professor in the face, yea, begin to lay hands upon him. One smites
him with pains in his body, with headache, heartache, backache,
shortness of breath, fainting qualms, trembling of joints, stopping
at the chest, and almost all the symptoms of a man past all
recovery. Now, while death is thus tormenting the body, hell is busy
with the mind and conscience, striking them with its pains, casting
sparks of fire in thither, wounding with sorrows and fears of
everlasting damnation the spirit of this poor creature. And now he
begins to bethink himself, and to cry to God for mercy: Lord, spare
me; Lord, spare me.
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