NOT a very likely place in which to find much happiness, is probably one’s first feeling on reading this title; but the following story is all true, and is written in the earnest hope that it may lead some, who know not the peace and joy that no circumstances can take away, to the personal knowledge of the only One who is both able and willing to give them to all who come to Him.
It was a fine day in the early autumn, and the brightness, that the sunlight brings, contrasted strongly and sadly with the scene that came before a lady, on entering one of the sick wards of the Sydenham Workhouse. The occupant of each bed there knew what pain and sorrow meant, and often, too, without a relation or friend to speak a word to them.
Going round the ward, the lady came to a man who willingly accepted a little book she offered, and, thanking her for it, seemed glad to enter into conversation. He observed that his circumstances were not very cheering, but he hoped things would soon be better. He had come into the workhouse because he was too ill to bear the noise of the lodgers in his mother’s cottage. He added that he found the time pass very slowly, and hoped soon to be well enough to go out, and get to work again.
Whilst he was speaking, the lady looked at the card over his bed, on which she read his name, Henry Martyn, and the disease from which he was suffering. She knew that, in course of time, this meant that death, not life, was what awaited the poor man before her. She silently asked God to enable her to speak to him about his soul.
After a little more conversation, she asked if he was fond of reading.
Henry Martyn replied, “Yes, I am rather, but I get tired of too much of it.”
“I suppose then you have a good deal of time for thinking just now?” inquired his visitor; “more than you care for, I expect.”
“Yes, miss,” he answered with a smile, “I have decidedly.”
“Tell me, did you ever think how many sins are enough to shut you out of heaven forever?”
Clearly he had not, for, after a pause, he said slowly, “No, I have not before, but I suppose one sin would shut us out, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it certainly would,” answered the lady, “for God tells us there shall in no wise enter anything that defileth. And can you not remember more sins than one that you have committed in your past life?”
“Oh! yes, miss,” was the answer. “I haven’t done anyone any particular harm, but I could not say I have not often sinned.” “Well,” said the lady, “if death should come to you, would you like to die as you are?”
“No, I should not,” answered Henry Martyn thoughtfully.
“Then,” replied his visitor slowly, “since death may come to you, do you think it is wise to go on living in a way that you would not like death to find you?”
“I don’t think it is,” he said, “but I never thought at all about these things before. No one ever spoke to me like this, and I don’t understand it.”
His visitor sought to explain to him God’s remedy for sin, the gift of His own Son, who was “wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and with His stripes we are healed.” (Isa. 53:55But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed. (Isaiah 53:5)). She then left, promising to come again soon.
On her next visit to Henry, after inquiring about his health, the lady asked him, “Have you thought any more over what we were speaking about last week?”
“Yes,” he replied, “that I have, and I should like to know that my sins were gone, but I don’t seem to see how I can—I am no scholar, and don’t understand these things, but, perhaps, you can explain it to me?”
“Let me read to you what God says about it,” she answered, “for I might tell you one thing and some one else another; but if we have God’s word for it, there can be no doubt or mistake.” She then read Luke 15, and explained how the lost, helpless sinner is welcomed home, if he only come as a sinner, seeking the forgiveness the Father is so ready to bestow.
“How can I be sure God will have me?” he asked.
“Because the Lord Jesus says, ‘Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out,’” the lady replied. Then, seeing the anxious, puzzled look in the poor man’s face, she added, “You know what coming and asking for what you really want, means in earthly things? The little children teach us this; when they want anything that we can give them, they come and ask us for it. Won’t you promise me that you will not go to sleep tonight before you have come to God as simply as a little child, and have settled this matter?”
After a moment’s pause, he answered, “I will.”
“Goodbye. Remember He has promised, if you come to Him, He will in no wise cast you out.”
In a day or two the lady again stood by Martyn’s bed, and in answer to her question, “How are you feeling today?” he said, eagerly, “Oh! so much better, but it is not the doctor’s medicine that has done me good, it is because I am so very happy. I did come to the Lord Jesus that night, and asked Him to wash away my sins, and He did not send me away. Now I am not afraid to die.”
The bright, peaceful look in his face told, even more plainly than his words, that the anxiety of soul had quite passed away.
Dear reader, if you were placed as Henry Martyn was, could you truthfully say, “I am not afraid to die?” If not, ask yourself the question that was put to him, “Is it wise to go on living in a way that you would not like death to find you?” Remember, God says, “After death the judgment,” which means that if you die as you are, you will have to stand before Him, at the Great White Throne, an unsaved sinner, and be judged according to your works (Rev. 20:1212And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened: and another book was opened, which is the book of life: and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works. (Revelation 20:12)).
Henry Martyn did not get well, as he fancied he would, though he lingered on some little time, gradually getting weaker in body, but not losing his joy in Christ—far from it.
One afternoon he said most brightly to the lady, who had been reading to him about the Lord Jesus Christ, “God bless you for all you have told me about Him; when I saw you first I said the time went by very slowly, but now I am so happy I hardly know how time passes, it goes so quickly. Though I am only in the workhouse I could not be happier than I am, and soon I shall be with my Saviour forever.”
And so he was. About a week before Christmas, 1887, his spirit passed peacefully away from that workhouse ward, to be forever with the Lord who loved him, and had washed him from his sins in His own blood.