A FIERCE battle had been fought, and on the plain the slain and Wounded lay. Moving amid the scenes of suffering and death, there were those who searched the field and bore to the rear the helpless in whom life still lingered.
So it happened that when Cyril Duncan awoke to consciousness, he found himself lying on a narrow hospital bed, badly wounded.
The hospital was very quiet, save for the soft footfall of the nurses, and an occasional sigh or groan from some sufferer. The lamps burned dimly. The night was still. Suddenly a voice, low and intensely thrilling, sounded in his ear: “He loved me, and gave Himself for me.” Cyril Duncan started, and turned on his pillow. Oh, how his head ached when he moved it! His temples throbbed, his tongue was fevered, and his wounds pained him greatly. Presently he heard the voice again, this time singing softly:
“Jehovah lifted up His rod;
O Christ, it fell on Thee!
Thou wast forsaken of Thy God;
No distance now for me:
Thy blood beneath that rod has flowed:
Thy bruising healeth me.”
These words came from the lips of a young boy who lay on the bed next to his own. “Drummer Jack,” as all the regiment affectionately called him, was a gentle, fair-haired boy, about fourteen, with a sweet lovable disposition. He was a great favorite with all, partly owing to the almost heroic bravery he had shown on the field on more than one occasion.
The last line of the verse rang in Cyril’s ears. “What did the words mean?” he asked himself. “Had the Son of God really taken the terrible load of sin on His shoulders, and borne the punishment instead of the sinner?”
His heart grew strangely heavy as the past years rose in review before his fevered vision. Why, oh, why did they come like birds foreshadowing evil to disturb him now? Perhaps he was going to die? Well, he had stood face to face with death many a time, and he would meet it now — if it should come—like a man. But this feeling that somehow or another had crept over him was strangely similar to fear.
Fear of what? Could it be of God? Surely not, when all his life he had prided himself that he could do without God; had boasted that his own strength and manhood were sufficient for him; and now—now that very strength was gone, and he felt so helpless, so weak, as if his very life—aye, and something more than life, his soul, that must live forever —was drifting away into a dark and awful unknown. But his own hands had forged the chain of sin that bound him—a chain that no human hand could break.
A deep groan burst from his parched lips as he realized this, a groan that reached the ear of the boy who had so innocently aroused the unwelcome train of thought and memory.
“Are you in much pain?” asked the boy, looking round.
“Yes, Jack; but I could bear any amount of pain if only my heart and conscience were at rest. Tell me, were those words really true you sang just now?”
“Yes, Cyril, they’re true,” responded the boy, a wonderful light lighting up his countenance. “Soon very soon now,” he continued, “I shall answer to my name in the ‘roll-call’ of Heaven, and I shouldn’t be there at all, if Jesus had not died for me. But there’s room for you, too. I hope you’ll come, old chum!”
Cyril turned on his pillow, and looked long and sadly into the fair open face, so thin and white, yet so peaceful and bright.
“I can’t come, Jack,” he cried in despair. “I’m not one of the right sort. It will be the Devil’s ‘roll-call’ I shall have to answer, no other. How can I meet God when I’ve denied Him all my life? How can I stand before Him and face His righteous judgment all alone? My boy, tell me what to do!”
With an earnest inward prayer that he might have strength sufficient, “Drummer Jack” told his unhappy comrade the old, old story of that wonderful life, triumphant death, and glorious resurrection of the Saviour of sinners. And like a little child Cyril Duncan listened, received and believed his words.
The redeeming love of Christ laid its powerful grasp on his soul. Often did the voice of the brave little “message-bearer” falter and stop, for the sands of life were running low. But he made one great effort to finish his message of divine love and mercy toward him who had wandered so far into sin and unbelief. His voice was very faint and low as he whispered:
" ‘Whosoever shall call on the name of Lord shall be saved.’ Call, Cyril, call! Jesus will hear you. Answer to the roll call, ‘Here!’ "
And the Saviour of sinners heard Cyril Duncan, and as the morning light broke over the distant hills, there came to him the bright, glad dawn of eternal life.
But ere the day again faded to the darkness of night, “Drummer Jack,’ the brave young soldier of the Cross, had gone to answer to his name in the roll call of Heaven.
ML-11/11/1962