WHEN the floodgates of fury, with which the late war assailed us, were fully opened, it was my happy privilege along with other loved friends, to visit the world-renowned Netley Hospital.
Every ward in this colossal edifice was filled with wounded and fevered men—in fact, the demand was so great that outside huts had to be erected to supply the need of sick and dying.
I would like to call the attention of my reader to one ward we were allowed to enter. A wonderful silence seemed to be almost felt. Beds in beautiful order, but in them lay the sunken frames of fevered men; the deadly enteric was doing its work.
Reader, pause. These men had been under the deadly fire of shot and shell. Brought, we may say, from the cannon’s mouth, from the clash, flash, and fire of the battlefield to the solemn deathlike silence of a hospital ward. God had done it. Why had not the bullets bit these men? Only because God wished them once more to hear of His beloved Son.
Opposite the door lay a bed which was surrounded by a red screen. Ah you say, why was this? Why? Because, dear friend, another visitor was expected that afternoon, so hot and beautiful, a visitor with icy finger—Death. Unwelcome but expected. As I approached the next patient, I saw a priest come from behind the screen. He had been to administer the last rites of the Roman creed: to slip a little bread and wine into the mouth of an unconscious dying man.
Friend, again I ask you to consider. Are you resting your immortal and God-given soul on any form or creed such as this? Do you consider that the partaking of the sacrament is going to remove your sins from the eyes of a holy God, as this priest thought. From heaven the answer comes in words bright as lightning, weighty as worlds: “Without shedding of blood is no remission.” Make no mistake; if you are on the pathway of doing for salvation, and continue on it, the rails will carry you down into the dark caverns of hell forever.
Come to another bed. Here we see a man once tall and strong, now weak and prostrate. Gently kneeling so that we might speak without disturbing the solemn silence which prevailed, he whispers in my ear that he was out in the trenches for nights, and caught a chill which brought on a fever. I asked whether God had spoken to him when in the trenches. “Yes,” said he, “I was troubled about my sins then, but when we were out of danger it wore off, and now the anxiety was gone.”
Are you, reader, in the same bed spiritually as this man? Were you once troubled about your sins?
Did you feel as if you would like to be saved when you sat on the rear form when that earnest preacher spoke so of the coming judgment?
Were you once anxious to know the way of escape which some you knew had found?
You heard the gospel on Whit-Sunday, and you were in the theater on Whit-Monday night, trying to stifle your conscience.
Be not like this soldier. He drowned his anxiety, stifled the voice within, and now they were gone, perhaps forever.
One more bed I will ask you to come to on the right-hand side of the door. A young fellow? Yes. Pale? Yes, but in you hazel eyes is a look of happiness. The luster of heaven is there.
“Well, you seem very happy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose you have found the One who alone can make happy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How was it you were saved?”
“Oh, it’s about eight weeks ago now. I was coming home sick from India, and we stopped at Malta. Feeling a little better, I went on shore. Going into a little mission there, I heard of the Saviour Jesus, how He had died for me, and trusting in Him, I found peace to my soul.”
“You are in no doubt, it seems,” said I.
“I’ve had no doubt since I believed Him.”
A few more words followed, and I gave him a “Safety, Certainty, and Enjoyment” to read.
What a vast difference to the other two! Here was a man, though young, rejoicing in Christ. I never saw either of these men again, but the happy face of that youth comes before me as a hallmark as to the reality of what he said. Will you meet him in heaven, reader? Are you going to come to Jesus? John Calvin, Martin Luther, Wesley, Whitefield, all came to Jesus early, and found in Him a Saviour.
My reader, are you anxious to be saved. Then look to Calvary where Jesus bled and died for thee.
Look from Calvary to Glory, and there see a living Man on God’s throne. Calvary is where the work was done, Glory is where the Person sits who did it.
Now, which bed are you on—the bed of works, the bed of indifference, or the bed of peace, rest, and joy?
F. J. F.