THE other day a well-known Christian worker in Glasgow was making a business call in that city. In the course of conversation he had occasion to mention his name. Scarcely was it uttered when a strapping, well-dressed fellow burst out of an adjoining room, and, rushing up, gripped him warmly by both hands. “Are you the man who used to have Gospel meetings in Glasgow long ago?” “Yes, I am the very same man,” he said. “Well, I was one of your Bible class more than 30 years ago, and I can’t tell how glad I am to shake your hand again,” and then he related his thrilling story. For some years he had been a regular attendant at the Bible class, and was much impressed by the earnest words he heard. Circumstances made it necessary for him to leave Glasgow, and he ultimately became a sailor.
Cut off, as he was all too soon, from the good influences with which he I had been surrounded in his native city, he gradually drifted into sin, and for years lived a wild, reckless, godless life. He wandered all over the world, apparently with the one aim of getting as much pleasure as he could. Sometimes, after his wild excesses, memories of bygone days and better things would stir him, but they had no sooner asserted themselves than he tried to stifle them. After many years of wandering in almost every part of the globe, his vessel was rounding Cape Horn.
Again and again they were beaten back by adverse winds and stormy weather: then in the attempt to round the Horn once more the vessel ran into a frightful hurricane.
Sails were blown to ribbons: decks were swept by the cruel seas, and one by one the masts went over the side, the tangled rigging causing indescribable confusion.
They managed to cut away the wreckage, and tried to save the ship, but all in vain—she was dashed to pieces on a small island off that cruel coast.
“She struck where the white and fleecy waves”;
Looked soft as carded wool:
But the cruel rocks they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull
By a miracle he reached the shore alive, being cast up high on the beach by a huge wave. He dragged himself into a place of safety, and sank exhausted. He did not think there was the least chance of his ever seeing his friends again. He gave himself up for lost, and sitting down with his head on his hands, all his past life came before him like a panorama—all the ups and downs, all the hopes and fears, all the sin and wickedness. It made a dark, a terribly dark picture, but there was just one bright spot that stood out sharp and clear on the black background, and that was a story that had been told him, as a lad, in the Bible class years and years ago. And that story was of Jesus and His power to save.
It is a far cry from the wild bleak coast of Patagonia to Glasgow, about ten thousand miles, but he peered wistfully over the heaving waste of foam, and tried to picture the old scenes which seemed to speak of hope yet.
“I sigh for Scotia’s shore,
And I gaze across the sea:
But I canna get a blink
O’ my ain countrie.”
Old memories were stirred, and long-forgotten scenes came back with startling vividness.
Yes, he remembered it all now, all about the simple story of salvation by faith.
Ah! how he had neglected the blessed Saviour all these weary years! If he had only just stuck to the old paths, how different his life would have been—how different! But that was all past now: the golden opportunities had flitted away, and were lost forever “like the snowflakes on the river,” and here he was at last at the end of the tether, without God and without hope.
But then, like a flash, he remembered that he had been told that Jesus Christ could save “even to the uttermost”: no matter how vile, no matter how much he had wandered in the far country, the Good Shepherd would seek the lost one until he found him and brought him back to the fold: and kneeling on the beach surrounded by the barren rocks, and amidst the roar of the tempest, he asked God to blot out the dark past and forgive him for the sake of the Good Shepherd who had sought and found him. And praise God He did it, and the poor castaway rose from his knees “a new man in Christ Jesus.” And far away above the stormy sea and the lowering clouds, far away beyond the sky and the stars, up in the Glory Land, the Angel choir burst into a glad sweet song of exultation, and the burden of their refrain told that another poor wanderer had passed from death unto life. The sowing and the reaping had been separated far by time and place, but the golden grain had been garnered and won for Jesus Christ!
With the newly found joy that filled the heart of the poor shipwrecked sailor came an intense longing that his life should be spared so that he might, in some little way at least, serve the Saviour who had been so long-suffering through all his years of waywardness,
And by a wonderful providence he was rescued from his perilous position. When all chance of deliverance seemed to have gone, and he strained his eyes in the wild hope of rescue, a tiny speck appeared on the horizon. Larger and larger it grew until it resolved itself into a ship. By signals the vessel was brought to the lonely rock, and the poor castaway taken off and conveyed to North America. There he lived a consistent Christian life for many years, and ultimately returned to his native city, in which he now occupies a good position.
Yes, it is true: He does save to the uttermost. Perhaps, like the poor shipwrecked sailor, you have been wandering on the bleak mountains of sin, but the Good Shepherd has never forgotten you, and He longs, oh, so earnestly, to have you back in the fold again!
Perhaps you thought He had forgotten all about you, and that He had given you up long ago as a bad job: but there has never been a moment during all these weary years of waywardness the blessed Saviour has not thought of you, and He has been looking so long and patiently, and His feet are all bleeding with the stony paths along which He has followed you on your wanderings. Won’t you let Him take you back to the fold? Just tell Him of the burden of sin that presses on your heart and in simple, trusting faith ask Him to wash all the guilt away, and, like the poor castaway on the shores of Patagonia, your heart will be filled to overflowing with His pardon and peace.
“Think, O my soul, how patiently He sought thee,
Far, far away upon the mountains steep:
Then in His arms how tenderly He brought thee
Home to His old a weary, wandering sheep.
“Tell how alone the path of death He trod,
Tell how He lives thine advocate with God;
Lift up thy voice while heaven’s triumphant throng
Swell at His feet the everlasting song.”
J. H. A.