Quiet Talks with World Winners
by
S. D. Gordon
Part 4 out of 4
given to a beggar in contrast with the two million dollars tied up for
himself in the house that burned. Two millions stored up in a home, while
many millions of men have lived and died in ignorance of the light and
peace that comes with Jesus! Yet this man calls Jesus his Master, and
sincerely, I have no doubt. And his Master said the one great thing was to
tell all men of His love and death.
By no extension of the meaning of that word "need" could he be said to
need a two-million-dollar home for himself and family. And there are other
millions under the same man's control. It looks very much as if this good
man had missed the meaning of Jesus' words. The criticism, however, must
be first upon the Church and its leaders, with whose general trend of
teaching this man is in accord. According to the Master's teaching, most
of the money in his house, and stored up in other ways of the sort for
himself, is being lost. Far more serious, the opportunity of investment in
men is being lost. That money will be all loss to him when he reaches the
line of departure over into the next sphere of life.
It is very difficult to use such an illustration from life. There is
danger that the words will sound critical in a bad or unkind sense. I
earnestly pray to be kept from that. You will know that I am talking to
myself first of all; and speaking of this only to help. The bother is that
this man is not an exception. Rather he represents the habit and standard
of his generation.
I recall another Christian man as I speak, of large wealth, by inheritance
and by dint of business keenness. His face showed plainly his fine
Christian character. He gave liberally in many directions, sometimes very
large sums. But he lived in a home whose value ran close to a half-million
of dollars. When he died, full of years and honors, he left many millions
to a son who does not inherit his father's generous hand with his wealth.
Of course, the son didn't need the vast wealth.
And I wondered, silently, within my heart, how things looked to that man,
as he slipped out of life up into the Master's presence, and looked down
on the earth through the eyes of the One whose teaching we have been
talking about. He could see China and India and Africa then as plainly as
America.
How did the lost opportunity of laying up his treasure in the lives of men
look to him then, I wondered. He was a good man. I saw him smile once, and
his face seemed to shine as an angel's. I think probably no faithful
friend had ever talked to him of the plain meaning of Jesus' words, and of
world-winning being a first obligation. He hadn't been taught it from
the pulpit. And he hadn't thought into it himself.
Money Talks.
Many are losing a great opportunity of silently preaching Jesus to their
fellows by their habit of giving. Two men were discussing the evidences of
the Christian religion. The one was a Christian; the other not, and
inclined to be sceptical. Arguments were freely exchanged. At last the
sceptic, who was a blunt, out-spoken man, said frankly, to his friend and
neighbor: "I think we might as well drop this matter. For I don't believe
a word you say. And, more than that, I am quite satisfied in my own mind
that you do not really believe it yourself. For to my certain knowledge
you have not given, the last twenty years, as much for the spread of
Christianity, such as the building of churches and foreign and domestic
missions, as your last Durham cow cost. Why, sir, if I believed what you
say you believe I'd make the church my rule for giving, my farm the
exception."
That Christian man's life was contradicting every word he uttered to his
neighbor. Money talks. His was talking very loudly to his sceptical
neighbor. His neighbor was unusually frank in saying out what thousands
are thinking. He had lost a great opportunity of winning his friend.
Debts.
In a simple little sentence Paul reveals how thoroughly he had grasped
Jesus' meaning. He said, "I am debtor both to Greeks and
barbarians"--to all men.[34] Now that word, "debtor," commonly means two
things: that you have received something of value from some one, and that
therefore you owe him for what he gave to you.
But Paul hadn't gotten anything special from the men of whom he is
speaking. His birth and training and whatever else he had were Jewish. And
the Jews were a minority in the world. He was not under the debtor
obligation of having gotten something from the men he is speaking of.
In his use of that word, "debtor" means three things: first, something
received from God, and that something everything; then something owing to
God; and then that something payable to man. He counted himself in debt
to all men on Jesus' account. And so are we. How much owest thou to thy
Lord? That's how much you are to pay to men on your Lord's account.
We are not even our own, much less our goods. We were bought up when we
were bankrupt A great price was paid for us, even the life-blood of Jesus.
And our Owner bids us pay up by paying out. We are badly and blessedly
in debt; badly, for we can never square the account; blessedly, because we
can be constantly paying on account, out to men in Jesus' name.
"Over against the Treasury this day
The Master silent sits; whilst, unaware
Of that Celestial Presence still and fair,
The people pass or pause upon their way.
And some go laden with His treasures sweet,
And dressed in costly robes of His device
To cover hearts of stone and souls of ice,
Which bear no token to the Master's feet.
And some pass, gaily singing, to and fro,
And cast a careless gift before His face,
Amongst the treasures of the holy place,
But kneel to crave no blessing ere they go.
And some are travel-worn, their eyes are dim,
They touch His shining vesture as they pass,
But see not--even darkly through a glass--
How sweet might be their trembling gifts to Him.
And still the hours roll on; serene and fair
The Master keeps his watch, but who can tell
The thoughts that in His tender spirit swell,
As one by one we pass him unaware?
For this is He who, on one awful day,
Cast down for us a price so vast and dread,
That He was left for our sakes bare and dead,
Having given Himself our mighty debt to pay!
Oh, shall unworthy gifts once more be thrown
Into His treasury--by whose death we live?
Or shall we now embrace His cross, and give
Ourselves, and all we have, to him alone?"
Is not that the meaning of Paul's "Owe no man anything, save to love one
another."[35] We owe a debt of love to all men on Jesus' account. We can
be paying on it continually, and yet never get a receipt in full that
discharges the debt. But then we get other things in full--peace, and joy,
and a life overflowing in fulness.
With an honorable business man a debt is a first obligation. His
personal expenditures and his home schedule are shaped by his debt. The
extras that he would feel quite free in allowing himself and his home are
not allowed until the debt is cleared. The debt controls his spendings
until it is paid off in full. That's reckoned a matter of honor.
Rusty Money.
James, the first bishop of Jerusalem, had caught the Lord's very language
as well as His thought. He says, "Your gold and silver are rusted, and
their rust shall be for a testimony against you."[36] It would seem as
though there were quite a bit of rusty money entered in Christian names
and controlled by Christian people. It is lying in vaults, and lands, and
savings-societies, and old stockings, gathering rust.
It is in sore need. It needs friction, the friction of use. Without that
its real, rare value will be completely lost. It is furnishing food for
moths when it was meant to be furnishing food for men, bread of wheat and
bread of life. There'll be many a striking scene when some men come up
into the Master's presence with loaded purses, "caught with the goods,"
while millions of their brothers are living such pitiable lives because of
their ignorance of Jesus.
But there are men who do understand. And their number is increasing. There
are those who understand the Master's basis for conducting their
business matters. That basis is shrewd, faithful management of the
business itself as good stewards of God; full, proper provision for home
and loved ones--simple, but ample and intelligent; and then all the rest
out in active service for men in Jesus' name. If that basis were more
largely understood and accepted, what wondrous changes would come; changes
out in the world, and changes in the home, and changes in the home church.
Many men are supporting their own representatives in the foreign field.
Many a church now sustains its own missionary or missionaries. The ideal
toward which the Church might well aim is that every family should have
its own missionary. The real unit of life is the family. The children
would then grow up with the world-vision dearly and deeply marked. There
are thousands of families in circumstances that are reckoned moderate that
could support a missionary by planning. But the relationship should be
carefully kept one of warm sympathy and prayer, as well as one of money.
The reflex blessing upon the home would be immeasurable in its sweetness
and extent.
Are We True To Our Friend's Trust?
Jesus admits us into the inner circle of friendship. He gives us the one
rarest token of friendship, that is, a task to do for our Friend's sake.
He asks us to go out to all men, and tell them about His love and
sacrifice for them. And He asks that everything we have be held and used
for this sacred friendship trust. Are we being true to our Friend's
trust? Is there more stored away for ourselves than is being sent out on
His errand? Is there any discoloration on our gold? Anything that looks
like rust, a dull-red color--ah, it looks strangely like the color--the
stain--of blood.
Is Judas so lonely, after all? He coupled a token of friendship with a
betrayal of his Friend's trust. In his heart he meant far less than the
act actually involved. Is he so much alone?
"The latest years shall tremble hearing this
And burn for human shame unto the end,
That one of us betrayed the tryst his Friend
Would keep with God. A sign that none might miss
He named--the pledge of love. The soul's abyss,
Christ saw, the heart of night, the purse, the end;
Knew all, a Man, and knowing stui could bend
With soul unpoisoned to receive the kiss.
Before the multitude have I kist Thee
Fresh come from my blood-barter--thou but come
From intercession for all souls--and me.
And, mocking Love Divine, amazed and dumb,
I learn Love's deathlessness, and trembling press
The lips that kiss away my faithlessness."[37]
Sacrifice
One Hank Over For the Candle.
Sin's Healing Shadow.
The Underground Way into Life.
A Rare Harvest.
The Fellowship of Scars.
"Won't You Save Me?"
Sacrifice
One Hank Over For the Candle.
The light of a common candle in the window of a little cottage near the
coast shone far out over the sea. It was up north of Scotland, in one of
the Orkney Islands. Near the window sat a frail, gray-haired woman with
cheery, thoughtful face. She was busy working at her spinning-wheel, and
watching the candle, turning now and again to trim it. All night long she
sat at the spinning-wheel and watching the candle. Fishermen out on the
water, heading for home, knew that light could be counted on, and came
safely in, past all the dangers of their coast.
For more than fifty years that woman tended her little lighthouse. When
she was a young girl there had been a wild storm, and her father, out in
his fisherman's boat, lost his life. There were no shore-lights. His boat
had struck a huge, dangerous rock called Lonely Rock, and been wrecked.
The father's body was found in the morning washed up on the shore. She
watched by her father's body, as was the habit of her people, until it was
laid away. Then she laid down on her bed and slept the day through. When
night came she rose, lit a candle, put it in the window, drew up her
spinning-wheel, and began her night vigil for the unknown out at sea.
All night long, and all her life long, her vigil of love and light
continued. From youth to old age, through winter and summer, storm and
calm, fog and clear, that humble lighthouse beacon failed not. Each night
she spun so many hanks of yarn for her daily bread, and one hank over for
the candle. She turned night into day, reversing the whole habit of her
life, and holding every other thing subject to her self-imposed task of
love. And through the years many a fisherman out at sea, and many an
anxious woman watching by hearth and crib, sent up heart-felt thanks to
God for that little, steady light. And many a life was saved, of which no
record could be kept.
That tells the whole story of sacrifice. A need, nobody to meet it; the
need passing into an emergency; and that into the tragedy of an unmet
emergency; a heart sore torn to bleeding by the tragedy thrust bitterly
home; then sacrifice, lifelong, that others might be saved where her loved
one was lost, and still others spared what she herself suffered. And that
story has been repeated with endless variations, and is being repeated, in
every land, on every mission-field, home and foreign, and in almost every
home of all the world.
Sin's Healing Shadow.
Sacrifice has come to be a law of life. Wherever there is sin there will
be a call for sacrifice. For sin makes need, and need intensifies into
emergency. And need and emergency mean sacrifice thrust upon some one in
peril. And they call for sacrifice, volunteered by some one, who would
save the man in peril. And wherever there are true men and women, as well
as need, there will be sacrifice.
And sin is everywhere. Even nature is full of evidence of a bad break in
all of its processes. The finger-marks of decay and death are below and
above and all around in all its domain. That is sin's unmistakable
ear-mark. Man's mental powers, and his loss of a full knowledge of his
powers, tell the same story. And so there is need. Everywhere you turn
need's pathetic face, drawn and white, looks piteously into yours,
pleading mutely for help.
And so there is sacrifice. Sacrifice is sin's healing shadow. It follows
sin at every turn, binding up its wounds, pouring in the oil and wine of
its own life, and taking the hurt victims into its own warm heart. Nothing
worth while has ever been done without sacrifice. Every good thing done
cost somebody his life. The life was given out with a wrench under some
sharp tug. Or it was given in the slower, more painful, more taxing way of
being lingeringly given out through years of steadfast doing or enduring.
Every man who has done something worth while for others has spilled some
of his life-blood into it. His work and name may have become known. Or he
may belong to the larger number of blessed faithfuls whose names are
unknown here, but treasured faithfully above. Either way, the tinging red
of his life is upon the thing he did. The nations that are freest cost
most in the making, in the lives of men. Every church, and every mission
station, has had to use red mortar as its walls went up.
Every bit of advance ground gained for liberty and truth has been stained
with the life-blood of the advance-guard. You can depend upon it that
whatever you are to do that will really help must have a bit of your own
self, your very life in it. Immortality of action comes only by the
infusion of human blood.
Sacrifice attends us faithfully from the cradle to the body's last
resting-place. The giving of one's self for others begins with the
beginning of life, and never ends till life ends. Each of us comes into
life through the sacrifice of the mother who bore us. That love-service of
hers would not have been a sacrifice, but only a joy, had sin's cramping,
restricting atmosphere not been breathed into all life. Now, with much
pain, and great danger, and sometimes at the cost of life, it becomes a
sacrifice. Yet it is a sacrifice of great sweet joy to her.
And that same spirit of sacrifice attends our baby years, and childhood
experiences, and school-days, and times of sickness, and our matured
years. The more faithfully those who make up your life-circle yield to the
law of sacrifice, and give of themselves out to you, the finer and
stronger you grow to be, and the sweeter life becomes to you. And every
selfish shirking and shrinking back by some one impoverishes your life by
so much.
A hush of awe comes over one's spirit as we recall that even for the Son
of God there was no exception to this law, as He took His place down among
human conditions. It was by His own blood that He saved men, and saves
men. It was the spilling out of His own life that brings such blessed
newness of life to us. His was a living sacrifice through all the years,
and then greatest when that life, so long being given, was given clean
out.
That sacrifice of His stands unapproached, and can never be approached by
any other. His relation to sin was different from that of all other men.
He made a sacrifice for men in a sense that no other can. Yet, while that
is true, it is equally true that every man who follows Him will drink of
His cup of sacrifice.
But it's a cup of joy now, for His drinking drained out all the bitter
dregs. He asks us into the inner fellowship of His suffering. The work He
began isn't yet done. He asks our help. We may fill up the measure of His
sacrifice yet needed, in healing men's wounds and in throttling sin's
power.
The Underground Way Into Life.
The request of the Greek pilgrims, that last tragic week, drew out of
Jesus wondrous words about the law of sacrifice[38]. Their request made
the necessity for His coming sacrifice stand out more sharply to His
view--with edgy sharpness. The realness of that sacrifice of His stands
out very vividly in the intensity of His feelings, of which we get only
glimpses.
Listen to Him talking: 'if the grain of wheat doesn't suffer death, it
lives; but it lives alone. But through death it may live in the midst of a
harvest of golden grains. The man who turns away from the appeal of need
will live a lonely life, both here and in the longer life. (Is there
anything more pathetic and pitiable than selfish loneliness!) He who feels
the sharp tug of need, and can't resist the appeal that calls for his
life-blood, rises up through that red pathway into a blessed fellowship
with the lives that owe their life to his.'
He goes on: 'he that clingeth with strong self-love to his life will find
it slipping, slipping insistently out of his fingers, leaving a dry husk
of a shell in his tenacious clutch. But he who in the stress of the
world's emergency of need, and in the thick of the subtlest temptations to
put the self-life first, treats that life as a hated enemy, to be opposed
and fought, as he gives himself freely out to heal the world's hurt, he
will find all the sweets and fragrance of life coming to him. Their
unspeakable refreshment will ever increase, and never leave.'
Then follow the words that go so deep: 'if any man would serve Me, let
him come along, putting his feet into my prints. Let him come through a
long Nazareth life of common toil in home and shop, then along the crowded
path of glad service for others, responding to every call of need. Let him
come down into the shadowed olive-grove beyond Kidron's waters, up the bit
of a hill outside a city wall, and deep down into the earth-soil of men's
needs.
'And where I am there I will surely have that faithful follower of Mine up
close by my side. He shall find himself rising up out of the common
earth-life into a new life of strangely strong drawing power. And, while
he will be all wrapped up in love's service, My Father will give special
touches of His own hand upon his person, and upon his service.'
In one of his exquisitely quiet talks, Henry Drummond used to tell the
story of a famous statue in the Fine Arts Gallery of Paris. It was the
work of a great genius, who, like many a genius, was very poor, and lived
in a garret which served as both studio and sleeping-room.
One midnight, when the statue was just finished, a sudden frost fell upon
Paris. The sculptor lay awake in his fireless garret, and thought of the
still moist clay, thought how the moisture in the pores would freeze, and
the dream of his life would be destroyed in a night. So the old man rose
from his cot, and wrapped his bed-clothes reverently about the statue, and
lay down to his sleep.
In the morning the neighbors found[B] him lying dead. His life had gone
out into his work. It was saved. He was gone. But he still lived in it,
and still lives in it. He saved not his life, and he found a new life in
the world of his art. He that saveth his life shall surely lose it. He
that gladly giveth his life up for the Master's sake, and for men's sake,
will find a wholly new life coming to him.
A Rare Harvest.
There is a strange winsomeness about sacrifice, peculiar to itself, and
peculiarly strong in its drawing power. Everywhere men acknowledge the
peculiar fascination for them of the man who is not only wholly unselfish,
but who utterly forgets himself in doing for others. The feeling is very
common that the man in public life is chiefly concerned with what he can
get out of it for himself. And when, now and then, the conviction seizes
the crowd that some public man is not of that sort at all, but is devoting
himself unselfishly and unsparingly to their interest, their admiration
and love for him amounts to a worship and enthusiasm that knows no stint.
There's a something in unselfish sacrifice in their behalf that draws the
crowd peculiarly and tremendously. Jesus said that if He were lifted up He
would draw men. And He has. He was lifted up as none other, and He has
been drawing men ever since as none other ever has or can. Quite apart
from other truths involved, that sacrifice of His had in itself the
tremendous drawing power of all unselfish action.
And sacrifice brews a subtle fragrance of its own that clings to the
person as the soft sweet odor of wild roses. No one is ever conscious that
there is any such fragrance going out to others. He knows the inner sweets
that none know but they who give sacrifice brewing room within themselves.
Such folks don't stop to think about themselves, except to be thinking of
helping and not hindering.
The very winsomeness of the sacrifice spirit has led men to the seeking of
sacrifice. It seems strange to us that earnest men in other generations
have sought by self-inflicted suffering to attain to the power that goes
with sacrifice. And even yet some morbid people may be found following in
their steps.
Don't they know that out in common daily life the knife of sacrifice is
held across the path constantly, sharp edge out, barring the way? And no
one can go faithfully his common round, with flag at masthead, and needs
crowding in at front and rear and sides, without meeting its cutting edge.
That edge cutting in as you push on frees out the fine fragrance. Whenever
you meet a man or woman with that fine winsomeness of spirit that can't be
analyzed, but only felt, you may know that there's been some of this sort
of sharp cutting within.
Blood is a rare fertilizer. They tell me that the bit of ground over in
Belgium called Waterloo bears each spring a crop of rare blue
forget-me-nots. That bit of ground had very unusual gardening. Ploughed
up by cannon-and gun-shot, sown deep with men's lives, "worked" never so
thoroughly by toiling, struggling feet, moistened with the gentle rain of
dying tears, and soaked with red life, it now yields its yearly harvest of
beauty. All life's a Waterloo and can be made to yield a rich growth of
fragrant flowers.
The Fellowship of Scars.
And there's yet more of this winsomeness. There's a spirit power that goes
out of sacrifice. It reaches far beyond the limited personal circle, out
to the ends of the earth. It can't be analyzed, nor defined, nor
described, but it can be felt. We don't know much about the law of spirit
currents. But we know the spirit currents themselves, for every one is
affected by them and every one is sending them out of himself.
You pick up a book, and suddenly find there's a something in it that takes
hold of you irresistibly. A flame seems to burn in it, and then in you.
Invisible fingers seem to reach out of the page and play freely up and
down the key-board of your heart. Why is it? I don't know much about it.
It's an elusive thing. But I can tell you my conviction, that grows
stronger daily.
There's a life back of that book; there is sacrifice in that life of the
keen, cutting sort; and Jesus is in that life, too, giving it His personal
flavor. The life back of the book has come into the book. It's that life
you are feeling as you read. Spirit power knows nothing about distance.
The man who yields to sacrifice has a world-field, and is touching his
field in a sense far greater than he ever knows.
And there is still more. The Master knows our sacrifices. He keenly notes
the spirit that would give all, even as He did. He can breathe most of His
own spirit into such a life. For it is most open to Him. He can do most
through that spirit, for it comes nearest to His own. His own winsomeness
breathes out of that life constantly.
There's a simple little tale that comes dressed in very homely garb. The
story has in it a bit of that that makes the heart burn. It has all the
marks of real life. It runs thus:
"In one poor room, that was all their home,
A mother lay on her bed,
Her seven children around her;
And, calling the eldest, she said:
'I'm going to leave you, Mary;
You're nearly fourteen, you know;
And now you must be a good girl, dear,
And make me easy to go.
'You can't depend much on father;
But just be patient, my child,
And keep the children out of his way
Whenever he comes home wild.
'And keep the house as well as you can;
And, little daughter, think
He didn't use to be so;
Remember, it's all the drink.'
The weeping daughter promised
Always to do her best;
And, closing her eyes over weary life,
The mother entered her rest.
And Mary kept her promise
As faithfully as she might.
She cooked, and washed, and mended,
And kept things tidy and bright.
And when the father came home drunk,
The children were sent to bed,
And Mary waited alone, and took
The beatings in their stead.
And the little chubby fingers lost
Their childish softness and grace,
And toughened and chapped and calloused,
And the rosy, childish face.
Grew thin and haggard and anxious,
Careworn, tired, and old,
As on those slender shoulders
The burdens of life were rolled.
So, when the heated season
Burned pitiless overhead,
And up from the filth of the noisome street
The fatal fever spread,
And work and want and drunken blows
Had weakened the tender frame,
Into the squalid room once more
The restful shadow came.
And Mary sent for the playmate
Who lived just over the way,
And said, 'The charity Doctor,
Has been here, Katie, to-day.
'He says I'll never be better--
The fever has been so bad;
And if it wasn't for one thing,
I'm sure I'd just be glad.
'It isn't about the children;
I've kept my promise good,
And mother will know I stayed with them
As long as ever I could.
'But you know how it has been, Katie;
I've had so much to do,
I couldn't mind the children
And go to the preaching, too.
'And I've been so tired-like at night,
I couldn't think to pray,
And now, when I see the Lord Jesus,
What ever am I to say?'
And Katie, the little comforter,
Her help to the problem brought;
And into her heart, made wise by love,
The Spirit sent this thought:
'I wouldn't say a word, dear,
For sure He understands;
I wouldn't say ever a word at all;
But, Mary, just show Him your hands!'"
Jesus knows every scar of sacrifice you bear, and loves it. For it tells
Him your love. He knows the meaning of scars, because of His own. The
marks of sacrifice cement our fellowship with Him. The nearer we come to
fellowship with Him in the daily touch and spirit the more freely can He
reach out His own great winsomeness through us, out to His dear world.
"Won't You Save Me?"
To outsiders, who don't know about the thing, that word "sacrifice" has an
ugly sound. It drives them away. But to the insiders, who have come in by
the Jesus-door, there is a joyousness of the bubbling-out, singing sort,
that makes the word "sacrifice," and the thing itself, clean forgot even
while remembered. It is remembered as a distinct real thing, but it is
pushed away from the centre of your consciousness by this song that
insists on singing its music into the ears of your heart.
I said a while ago in these talks that it would be an easy thing for the
whole Church, or even half of the Church, to take Jesus fully out to all
the world. But may I tell you now plainly that it won't be an easy thing?
Somebody will have to sacrifice if the thing's to be done. And that
somebody will be you, if you go along where the Master calls. If you
count on the Church doing it, or on anybody else doing it, you may be
sure of one thing: some part of what needs doing won't be done.
But if you and I will reckon that this thing belongs to us, as if there
were nobody else to do it, and push on;--well, there'll be sacrifice of
the real sort and, too, there'll be all of sacrifice's peculiar
winsomeness going out to draw men. And there will be men changed where you
live, and out where you will never go personally.
And there will be a great joy in your heart, but with the greater joy
breaking out in the Morning, when the King comes to His own.
"I hear the sob of the parted,
The wail of the broken-hearted,
The sigh for the loved departed,
In the surging roar of the town.
And it's, oh, for the joy of the Morning!
The light and song of the Morning!
There'll be joy in the Christmas Morning
When the King comes to His own!
"Now let our hearts be true, brothers,
To suffer and to do, brothers;
There'll be a song for you, brothers,
When the battle's fought and won.
It won't seem long in the Morning,
In the light and song of the Morning
There'll be joy in the Christmas Morning
When the King comes to His own!
"Arise, and be of good cheer, brothers;
The day will soon be here, brothers;
The victory is near, brothers;
And the sound of the glad 'Well done!'
There'll be no sad heart in the Morning
No tear will start in the Morning;
There'll be joy in the Christmas Morning
When the King comes to His own!
"We're in for the winning side, brothers,
Bound to the Lord who died, brothers,
We shall see Him glorified, brothers,
And the Lamb shall wear the crown.
What of the cold world's scorning?
There'll be joy enough in the Morning
There'll be joy in the Christmas Morning,
When the King comes to His own!"
Years ago a steamer out on Lake Erie caught fire, and headed at once for
the nearest land. All was wild confusion, as men and women struggled for
means of escape. In the crowd was a returning California gold-miner. He
fastened the belt containing his gold securely about his waist and was
preparing to try to swim ashore. Just then a little sweet-faced girl in
the crowd touched his hand, and looked up beseechingly into his face, and
said, "Won't you please save me? I have no papa here to save me. Won't
you, please?"
What would he do? He gave the belt of gold, that meant such a hard
struggle, one swift glance. But that soft child-touch on his hand, and
that face and voice strangely affected him. He couldn't save both;--which?
The quick-as-flash thoughts came all in a heap. Then he dropped the gold,
and took the child, made the plunge, and by and by reached land, utterly
exhausted, and lay unconscious. As his eyes opened the child he had saved
was standing over him with the tears of gratitude flooding her eyes. And a
human life never seemed quite so precious. He had lost his gold, and his
years of toil, but he had saved a life, and in saving it had found a new
life springing up within himself.
As we close our talk together will you listen very softly. Listen: out of
the distance comes a murmur of voices, like a low, long heart-cry. It
comes from near-by, where you live. It comes most from far-away lands. Its
words are pathetically distinct: "Will you save me? I have no one to
save me. Won't you?" And we can do it. But the gold and the life must
go. Shall we do it, hand in hand with Jesus, the only Saviour? Shall we
not do it?
Footnotes
[1] Acts 13:18, American Revision.
[2] John 3:17.
[3] Matthew 13:38.
[4] John 12:20-33.
[5] Matthew 24:14.
[6] Revelation 20:7-8.
[7] Matthew 24:14.
[8] Acts 15:13-18.
[9] Matthew 13:38.
[10] Christina Rossetti, in The Outlook, slightly altered.
[11] Matthew 25 40, 45.
[12] Revelation 2:5
[13] Matthew 24 14.
[14] Revelation 1:5, 6.
[15] Revelation 4:8.
[16] Revelation 4:9-11.
[17] Revelation 5:11-12.
[18] Revelation 7:9-12.
[19] Revelation 14:1-5
[20] Revelation 15:2-4
[21] Revelation 19:1-8.
[22] Thessalonians 1:8. II Corinthians 1:1 l.c.
[23] Romans 1:8.
[24] John, chapters 14-16.
[25] John 20:19-23.
[26] Susan Coolidge.
[27] John 7:38.
[28] Revelation 8:3-5.
[29] Frances Ridley Havergal.
[30] Matthew 6:19-21
[31] Luke 12:33,34
[32] Matthew 19:16-29. Mark 10:17-31. Luke 18:18-30
[33] Luke 12:13-21.
[34] Romans 1:14
[35] Romans 13:8
[36] James 5:2, 3
[37] Arthur Peirce Vaughn
[38] John 12:24-26.
Transcriber's Notes
[A] The original chapter contents listing erroneously transposed "A Crisis
of Neglect and Success" and "A Westernized Heathenism".
[B] Original text read "fond" for "found".
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