How sweet to be the lamb that Christ has bought,
To know the tender Shepherd’s love and care;
Oh, might I never have another thought
Than following the Shepherd everywhere!
The world can never give a joy so deep
As that which Christ, the Shepherd, gives His sheep.
He leads them in the meadows green and cool,
Where waters still and clear are flowing by—
Their cup of joy is ever, ever full,
The living streams are never, never dry;
And for the lambs there is no sweeter rest
Than lying on the loving Shepherd’s breast.
And He will keep the lambs in safety there,
Through every danger and through every fear;
The wolf can never pluck them from His care,
For He has power, and they to Him are dear:
Forever and forever He will keep
The little lamb, the weak and helpless sheep.
Then, if I would be happy evermore,
My place must be amidst the flock of God,
Who follow where the Shepherd goes before;
No more along the broad and sultry road,
But through green fields where all is fresh and sweet,
The tree of life a shadow from the heat.
And all the blessed way He leads me here
Is nothing to the glory yet to come,
When we, through millions of happy years,
Shall praise the Lamb within our Father’s home;
And there we first shall fully, clearly see
How blest it is the lamb of Christ to be!
Her temper, which was naturally irritable, owing to her excessive nervousness, was a source of great trouble to her, and would often cause her to mourn deeply. On one occasion, having overheard her speak in a petulant tone to her little sister, who had displeased her, I waited an opportunity, and, calling her to me, asked her in a solemn manner if she thought Jesus ever spoke unkindly when He was upon earth. I then endeavored to show her the sinfulness of giving way to temper, the great need we have to look to Jesus for strength to guard against it, and also for grace to follow His example, who was meek and lowly in heart. She burst into tears, but did not utter a word; but in a few moments I missed her, and found she had gone to her room. She soon returned with a happy countenance, and, stealing to my side, looked up into my face, saying, “I have asked Jesus to forgive me for being so naughty, and I know He will, and I will try never to speak cross again.” She then threw her arms round the little one’s neck, and kissed her very affectionately.
One beautiful and striking feature in her character was her strict truthfulness. Never did I find her out in a lie, indeed she utterly abhorred lying, and I fully believe it was, in her sight, the worst of crimes. One morning, while engaged in dressing the two children, a circumstance occurred which greatly pained dear Florry. I missed some lozenges which I had laid upon the drawers the evening previous, and, on making inquiry, both children denied having touched them. I was fully satisfied at once that Florry knew nothing about them, but rather suspected the little one; and upon taking the latter upon my knee, and talking very seriously with her, she confessed that she had eaten them. I then left the room, closed the door, and remained outside, anxious to hear what the little ones would say. I had no sooner gone than Florry threw herself on her knees, and entreated the Lord that He would forgive her little sister, show her the sinfulness of lying, wash away her sins, and make her a good girl. I stepped into the room and saw her clasp the little one to her, begging her with tears never to tell another story, but to love Jesus, and to try to be a good girl. Poor Blanche seemed much affected by her sister’s manner, and wept as though her little heart would break; and I trust her sister’s solemn and earnest entreaties were not utterly lost upon her, for since that time I have never known her to utter a falsehood.
When Florry was eight years of age, it pleased the Lord to give her another sister, with whom she was highly delighted; and on the second or third day after its birth the children were sent for to their home. I accompanied them, and, on arriving at the house, found the mother very ill; when Florry burst into an agony of tears, crying out, “Oh, my poor mother will die! What shall I do?” It was some time before she could be pacified; indeed, she cried all the way back to school that evening, and the first thing she did when she got in was to rush into her bedroom, fall on her knees, and beseech the Lord to spare her dear mother, She prayed also for the dear babe, that, if spared to grow up, it might become a follower of Jesus. She afterward seemed much comforted, and calmly laid herself down to rest.
I was particularly struck with the seriousness of her manner when at prayer, and when Jesus was the subject of conversation; for though, in her hours of play, she was uncommonly lively, and her merry, joyous laugh would ring above that of her playmates, yet, when sitting or walking with me, her mind would instantly revert to heavenly things, and she would ask me to tell her something more about heaven and Jesus. I never knew her grow weary of listening, but the more she heard, the more she wished to hear.
She once asked me if I thought there were as many rich people who went to heaven as poor ones. “Why, my dear,” I said, “what makes you ask that question?” “Because,” she replied, “I should think rich people think so much about what they’ve got that they have no room for Jesus.” I then read to her the 19th of Matthew. “Oh,” she said, when I had finished, “I do hope my mother will never be rich.” Ever afterward, when she saw a poor creature in the streets, or begging at the door, she would say, “I wonder if he or she loves Jesus; I hope they do, because then they won’t mind being so poor.”
Her anxiety for the conversion of souls, particularly those near and dear to her, was very great. “Oh,” she said to me one day, “how delighted I shall be when baby grows up! I shall have a Sunday school, and dear little Blanche and baby will be my scholars, and I can talk to them about Jesus. Oh, won’t that be nice” The Sunday school was one of her highest delights, and she would forego any pleasure rather than absent herself; and, indeed, her questions, answers, and remarks on what had been read were most astonishing. Truly this dear child was taught of the Spirit. Whenever she was invited out to spend the day on a Sunday (which was very frequently the case), she would say, “I cannot come until the afternoon, as I do not like to miss school for anything;” and it was very rarely she could be persuaded to do so.
It was truly blessed to witness the anxiety she manifested lest she should be tempted to do anything that was displeasing to the Lord. One evening, on returning from a visit to her parents, I found she had been weeping; but it was some time before I could ascertain the cause of her grief. At length she again burst into tears, telling me that she had been asked to attend some place of amusement which she feared was a sinful place, but that she had refused. We then fell on our knees and gave God thanks for thus graciously preserving this young and tender disciple from the snares and temptations which surrounded her.
Whenever she heard of the death of any individual, her first inquiry was, “Did he love Jesus?” and if answered in the affirmative, would exclaim, “Oh, I am so glad I then he is with Him now.”
I well recollect once—on returning home, after witnessing the death of a dear youth whom Florry knew well—I went up to her bedside, but she appeared to be sleeping soundly. I said softly, “Florry, dear His gone.” She immediately raised herself in bed; and with a look of great earnestness inquired if he was saved; and when told that he died trusting in Jesus, she exclaimed, “Oh, I should like to be with him!” On the day of the funeral of this dear youth, I took her with me to see him interred, and never shall I forget the effect produced upon her mind. She wept aloud during the whole of the ceremony, and continued to do so for some time; but at length, when somewhat calmed, she looked up into my face, and said with the deepest solemnity, “I wonder who will be the next.” Ah! little did I think that my next visit to that graveyard would be to witness the last remains of my precious charge committed to the tomb. Oh, how wisely has the gracious God veiled our eyes, that we may not penetrate through the mists and gloom of an unseen future! That same evening, when alone with me, she said, “Oh, I am so glad you took me with you this afternoon, I did so like to be there, and I could understand nearly all that was said. Will you always take me with you when you go to see a funeral?” I promised I would do so, all being well; and I fulfilled my promise, for her body was there with me when I next visited that cemetery, though the happy soul had fled.
We had some texts of scripture printed in large type and hung near her bedstead; and she would never leave her bed in the morning, or go to rest at night, without reading them several times over; and would sit up in her bed with her arm drawn lovingly round her little sister, and try to teach her to say them; telling her, at the same time, how very pretty they were, and they were all about Jesus. I used often to think that what a blessing this dear child might prove to others when she grew up, especially to her parents and sisters; but God’s “ways are not our ways, and His thoughts are not our thoughts.” He had a better thing in store for this precious lamb. His message to her was, “Come up hither, thy Father hath need of thee.”
When dear Florry first came under my care, it was the full intention of her parents, who were publicans, to keep her at school for several years; but owing to some serious losses in business, she was sent for to come home just as she had reached the age of nine years. It was some time before I could summon courage enough to convey the sad news to her, fearing the consequences of such intelligence; for I well knew what a terrible blow it would be to the poor child. Many, many times had she expressed her wish that, if it was the Lord’s will, He would take her to Himself before the time for her removal had arrived. But He, who doeth all things well, had ordered it far otherwise. Words would fail to describe the parting scene. Indeed, I cannot dwell upon it without feelings of the deepest grief. Suffice it to say that, for some time, both teacher and child were almost overwhelmed with sorrow. Dear Florry clasped me round the neck in agony, as though it was her last embrace, and entreated me with tears to pray for her. “Oh, dear!” she cried, “what shall I do without someone to talk to me! oh, what will become of me!” We fell on our knees and poured out our griefs and sorrows before that God who alone is able to give relief, whose ear is ever open to the cry of the distressed, beseeching Him to preserve this loved one from the snares and temptations of a sinful world. When we rose from our knees she appeared much comforted; and on my asking her whether she thought she should forget Jesus, she smiled sweetly through her tears, and replied, “I am not afraid now, I know He will keep me.” She then asked me if I thought the Lord was sending her home to make her a blessing to others; and on my telling her I trusted such was indeed the case she seemed perfectly submissive.
It was with great difficulty that I packed up her clothes, and the dear child wept much the whole of the time. I accompanied her home; then bidding her look to Jesus, and tell Him all her troubles, I left her. Oh, how deeply did I sympathize with the dear child! Surely nothing but the grace of God could have supported me under the trial, nothing but the sweet and comforting assurance that His grace was sufficient for all circumstances. To leave that dear little one in the very midst of sin and blasphemy, surrounded by a godless world, oh, what but the mighty power of God could have upheld me in such an hour! It was not many days before she was again at school, telling me that she could not stay away. I took her with me to visit a friend in the country, and during our walk we had sweet conversation together. She walked very silently for some time, and appeared much cast down; till at length she said in a sorrowful tone, “I used to wonder what you meant when I heard you call this world a wilderness, for I always felt so happy; but I have found out that it is a wilderness, for I am so very unhappy. I cry myself to sleep almost every night, though I try not to let mother see, because it would trouble her; and I know she can’t help it. She never liked a public house: she says they are such naughty places. Oh, how I long for Jesus to take me home!”
I lifted up my heart to the Lord, and committed the dear one to His care, entreating Him to remove her from the evil, if He saw fit; but to give me grace to say from my heart, “Thy will, O God, not mine, be done.” A few days after this interview, I learned from her mother that she had been talking very seriously to the servant girl. It appeared that this girl had been saying or doing something that had grieved dear Florry, she knowing it to be very sinful; and that she had told her she would not go to heaven. Upon this the girl sharply replied, “I shall get to heaven as well as you; I never did such and such things.” “But,” said the child, “we have all sinned;” upon which the girl again made answer something to this effect: “If I attend a place of worship, read my Bible, and say my prayers every day, I shall stand as good a chance as any of you.”
Dear Florry looked deeply concerned, while she answered meekly, “There is but one way to get to heaven, and that is by believing in Jesus Christ.” The girl made no reply; but who knows but that that little word may be brought home to her at some future time? Surely, “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings Thou hast perfected praise.”
Weeks passed on, and I became much concerned about poor little Florry. Her merry, happy countenance gradually changed, and she began to look exceedingly sorrowful; and all her desire seemed to be to return to school as a boarder. On one occasion, being visited by some of her schoolfellows, she told them she would rather come back to school than have all the fine things in the world. During the sultry summer months of 1867 she would walk a distance of two miles every Sunday afternoon, to spend an hour with me. We met at a certain time and place, and never was she either absent or behind the time, so precious were the opportunities to her. Often would her little sister beg her to stay, as mother had something nice for them in the cupboard; but nothing could induce her to do so. But ah, I plainly saw that this dear one was not long for this world. No pen can describe my feelings as I gazed on that lovely countenance, now growing careworn and sad. It seemed almost more than I could bear. I wrestled day and night with the Lord on her behalf, until faith seemed to say, “Stand still and see the salvation of God.”
One Sunday afternoon, about three weeks before she was taken ill, we were sitting together alone, and she was telling me that she had been to the doctor, and that he had sounded her chesty adding— “I know why they sound people; they can tell whether they are likely to live long or not.” “Well, darling,” I said, “and suppose he had told you that you had only a few weeks to live, how would you feel about it?” The tears started into her eyes as she exclaimed with deep emotion, “Oh, I should cry for joy!” so entirely had all fear of death been removed from her mind.